#unable to feel anything against the wind / i know it is spring.

[tojisun]

simon (ghost) riley x fem bimbo!reader

!! smut - minors dni; cunnilingus; genital piercing (christina piercing); hinted age gap (30s v 20s); simon’s pov

: this is based on oddy’s brainworm of bimbo!reader getting a christina piercing while simon’s away for a 9-10 month mission as a surprise for when he comes home teehee <33 // bimbo!reader mlist

simon tries to swallow any remaining spit he has just to quench the building thirst in him, but it is understandably futile. he is left walking behind you with a spring in his step, pretences having flown into the wind the moment you barrelled towards him as soon as he got home.

it is a usual dance at this point: you, jumping into his arms all excitable, and him, planting his feet to catch you with ease. simon knows he’ll never tire of this routine, one that never fails to fill him up with over pouring affection that he carries for you.

“i have a surprise for you,” you whispered to him, your voice so small in your hushed giddiness.

you stared at him with sultry eyes, your bottom lip captured between your pearly teeth. simon felt his mouth go bone-dry, his chest stuttering and his fucking chub kicking up underneath his jeans because he knows that look.

dear gods, he knows that look.

the last time you surprised him with anything after his months-long mission, it left simon marking your thighs up with kisses and hickeys and bite marks, the ridges of his teeth so prominent on that single point that stood out in the expanse of your dewy skin – his callsign, ghost, inked on your inner thigh, somewhere close to the juncture of your legs and your pelvis.

so you can’t blame simon for being too interested and going all breathless in anticipation as you led him back to your room.

he’s fumbling for his steps as you two step inside – white walls and strawberry cow print sheets – where you proceeded to sit him down on your vanity before taking a few steps away from him.

“okay so,” you begin, swaying slightly, looking deceptively shy. “i really hope you’d like it.”

simon’s gaze shifts, desire warming to make room for the softness he feels. he shoots you a small smile. “y’know y’can give me a paper cup for your surprise and i’d still love it.”

“of course,” you giggle, rubbing your palms on your sides. “‘s just that i thought of you when i got it so, you know.”

simon’s throat constricts, his pulse quickening at your words – you thought of him when you got it. oh. oh fuck.

“i-” his voice cracks and simon ducks his head down in his embarrassment, clearing his throat quickly so that this moment may pass soon because he can feel himself bursting at the seams.

“thank you, sweets,” he finally utters, rubbing his palm along his face in hopes of abating the blush warming his cheeks.

you beam at him, all pretty and happy, before you begin to slide your skirt off.

jesus.

“oh,” he rasps out, a strained gasp spilling into the air. simon has to clench his fists on top of his thighs to restrain himself, feeling so faint at getting a flash of your pretty legs, his eyes trailing from your floral lace socks before climbing up to get a view of your pretty little lingerie.

his tongue feels heavy sitting in his mouth as he catalogues the little thing – sheer, red, and dainty. it’s not hiding anything, showcasing slivers of flesh that simon wants to sink his teeth into.

it’s not hiding anything so he wonders why it took him a while to notice it. there, nestled just above your clit, are two little diamond studs.

“are those-” his voice sounds strained even to his own ears, the words having been punched out from him as his lungs work over time.

“yeah,” you say with a quiet chuckle and simon briefly wonders how you must look right now but he can’t lift his head to look at you, unable to rip his eyes away from the twinkling diamonds on your body. one of your hands slide from your hips towards your pubic area, acrylics making soft scratching sounds against your sheer panties.

the gems on your nails matches your new piercing – christina, simon’s mind supplies right away – and he just about whimpers.

finally, simon’s eyes flit to your own, and he doesn’t know what he must look like because the brief shyness on your face melts away and desire begins to burn from your eyes. the tension is building between you two, settling in like a dense fog, and simon waits for a heartbeat and another before he’s lunging towards you.

hands tangle against each other in mutual desperation, blindly tearing apparel from each other’s bodies with nothing but twin ragged breaths to fill up the space. simon throws you to the bed, his chest heaving as he stands by the foot of it to gaze down at you, eyes full of palpable hunger as they rove over your presented body.

“mine,” simon rumbles. “all mine.”

he covers your smaller body with his bulk, trembling hands greedy as they press and pull and squeeze at your flesh. your tiny mewls fuel him as he bends down to hover his lips over your pussy. your beautiful, pierced pussy.

“simmy,” you hiccup, your voice a soft little thing. “please, no teasing.”

of course, he wants to say because simon is sure that he doesn’t even have it in himself to prolong it anymore. not when he’s missed you by a lot, having been away for one of his longest missions. and especially not after the gift you have for him.

simon’s silence ripples, promising, and he knows he doesn’t have to say any more.

he kisses your cunt with his lips, nuzzling just soon after. you gasp out from somewhere on top of him, your hands gathering the short strands of his hair in your fist, and tugging when simon doesn’t do anything more than ghost kisses.

simon presses another one as an apology before planting his hands on your thighs and pushing your legs open, presenting your already-wet cunt to him. briefly, he remembers your older gift, and simon shifts, nuzzling your inner thigh instead, nipping at your inked skin.

simon is not a narcissistic man but there is something so good at seeing you carrying his callsign, as though he’s branded you. claimed. marked.

you giggle at the touch, fists loosening just a bit, your legs losing their tension at the ticklish feeling. simon puffs out a huffed laughter, enjoying the moment, taking it all in, then he is moving.

because there is something else he wants in his mouth. something else he wants to explore.

the first drag of his tongue along your clit and up until the first stud of your piercing has you squealing, your small feet digging into the planes of his back. it pushes him even closer to your cunt, something that simon eagerly takes advantage of as he begins to eat you out with earnest.

the cool press of the barbell on his tongue is a new experience, one that he is beginning to love as he continues to lap his tongue along your folds. simon flicks his tongue over the piercing, careful not to truly tug it, before he’s moving on to suck on your clit, rolling the little thing on his tongue.

you choke on a moan, hips lifting off the bed as you thrash, and simon has to press down on your belly to subdue you. you squeak when you are pinned, fists leaving simon’s hair to claw at the sheets instead. simon kisses your clit once more as an apology, before lapping at your hole, pushing his tongue in to mimic shallow thrusts.

“si-!”

your moan sounds guttural, bouncing off of the walls as simon continues to fuck you with his tongue. your slick pools in his mouth and he doesn’t even recognize the answering growl that rumbles from the base of his throat – deep and primal.

his thick hands grip at your thighs, tugging you in a new position, forcing your back to arch as simon continues to make a mess of your pussy.

pretty, pretty pussy.

“s’mine,” simon growls the moment he pulls his tongue out to suck on your folds.

he lightly nips at your clit, and a choked sob falls from what he knows would be your bruised lips. you do tend to bite on them when drunk in your pleasure, nibbling until they are throbbing and plump, looking so kiss-swollen.

fuck. he wants to kiss you there too.

simon gives your clit one more suck before he lifts his head up, the warm air on your room hitting his damp face. he sees the way your chest is heaving before flitting his eyes over your hands to see them tremblingly fisting at your sheets. your head is tipped up, mouth open as you shakily gasp out your breaths.

“sweet girl?” he asks, wanting to see you.

you move slowly, sluggishly, and simon can’t fault you for your reaction as he can still feel your legs shaking. teary eyes turn to him and simon couldn’t help but coo, letting go of your legs to climb towards you.

you track his movement, still hitching in breath, until he’s finally hovering over you. simon presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling, and rumbling a deep hum when your arms hook onto his shoulders for a loose hug.

“hi,” you say with a giggle after the silence settles. simon huffs a fond laugh, shifting so his lips trail soft kisses along your cheeks.

“hi,” simon replies, his lips moving lower, teasing touches from the cut of your jaw to the column of your throat. he settles there, burrowing with a deep breath, hot desire waning for something softer. for something slower.

“…y’like it?” you ask, sounding so conscious as though simon didn’t lose himself when eating you out, leaving his dick to throb painfully underneath his boxers.

“oh, princess,” he says with a breathy chuckle. he shifts again to see you. “i fuckin’ loved it.”

your eyes crinkle when you smile, and simon wonders if his lungs are even working with the way his breath constricts.

fuck, reality is settling – he’s truly missed you.

“thank you for such a darlin’ gift, baby,” simon murmurs, his lips hovering over yours.

you hum, already deaf to his words as you turned your focus to the ghosting touch of his lips instead. you tip your head up, whining when even that doesn’t make them meet.

aww, simon coos in his head. sweets wants a kiss.

so he finally gives it, his head angled to kiss you deeper. harder. teeth clack against each other before warm tongues tangle, and simon wonders if you can taste yourself on him. if you can taste the way he made you feel good.

your nails scratch his back, and he knows shallow welts will be there when he checks tomorrow. but for now, simon loses himself to the messy kiss – nipping your lips and, later, lapping at your folds.

because he’s not done with you yet. he needs to eat you out more. needs to see the way your pretty, jewelled pussy takes his tongue the same way you do with his cock.

oh, how you spoil him.

i teeheed too much while writing this but then i got drunk so it kinda splintered away from what i envisioned 😭

tagging: @oddityinthesky @ghostsbimbo @kenz-ee @yannauauau @yaebaal @ivymarquis @liwooa @loonalockley @kariiiel

[kana-daydreams]

ms. delinquent || sakura | humour | 0.8k

°*:･ᰔeveryone, but sakura, knows you're a girl.

tags: cross-dresser!f!reader. tall!f!reader. gender stereotyping. mild swearing.

wbrk masterlist

The soles of your well-worn black sneakers skid back to a screeching stop; your gakuran, coloured the same and thrown casually over your shoulders, billowing behind you like a cape against rushing wind.  

Further to your left, a chorus of male voices erupts. They bellow your name in exuberant cheer when you manage to dodge, with practised ease, the strong arm that intentionally hurtles a fist towards your face; while others egg on your split-tone haired opponent and junior who continues to throw punch after punch at you across the courtyard of your school— the infamous Furin High. 

“Going soft, already? Don't tell me yer thinkin' about backing out.” Sakura teases with a wide grin when you gather some distance between you both. “Thought you were the second-years’ Top Dog?!” he adds, his predatory grin growing further before he starts sprinting in your direction, lunging at you with a raised fist.

Just like you, Sakura was determined. Determined to find out who was the strongest between you two.

Determined to be the strongest.

He’d posed the challenge of a duel after he witnessed yesterday with his own eyes, you practically eliminate an entire squadron of guys twice your size without a single scratch marking your surprisingly flawless skin. And kept on pestering you the entire day like a petulant child that didn’t get their way, until they did.

Well...it wasn't as if you weren't itching for a fight with the emotionally reactive teen who’d defeated Shishitoren’s second-in-command.

So why not indulge him?

You scoff. "Who said anything about backing out?” Your body twists to the side, evading his punch and you slip behind him, your hand catching a hold of both his wrists. You pin them firmly against his back, then lean down slightly, lips inches away from his right ear. “Huh? Kitty cat.” You drawl and Sakura’s body involuntarily shudders at your warm breath, ticklish against his ear.

Your lips curve into an amused smile as you watch the tip of his ear colour a deep red, before he forces himself free from your grasp.

“D-Don't call me that, y-you creep?!” He springs back, arms up and fingers curled into fists, in defence. 

“Aww, but you're such an easy tease.” You coo, clutching your stomach, unable to stifle your fits of laughter. “It’s cute.”

Sakura growls at your words. “Ain’t nothin’ cute about me! If anyone’s cute, it’s you, pretty boy!” 

His words catch you off-guard, your lips forming a small ‘O’, heat warming at your cheeks. You peer down, bashful from his 'compliment'.  “You think…” You squirm, voice soft almost timid as you raise a shy gaze to look across at him. “You think, I’m cu—” A sudden force barrels into your stomach and you feel as if all the air has been knocked out your lungs.

Your face scrunches and a grunt falls from your frowning lips when you notice the smug look on Sakura's—your assailant—face, your body falling backwards from the force.

“Heh, that’s what you—”

“You asshole!”

Sakura feels a tight grip pull on his shirt, his blue and yellow eyes drawing wide. 

“If I fall—you fall!”

 And he does— directly on top of you.

His head lies buried against your stomach, his nose catching a muted floral scent, both your limbs tangled together.  

Sakura groans and his hands attempt to find purchase to pull himself up. But when they do, they cup something soft…squishy? And definitely not solid ground. 

Your breath hitches. Sakura freezes. Everything and everyone stills—silence.

Sakura feels a shock ripple through his body, and the hairs on his skin standing tall like soldiers. 

He lurches…? Scurries back, seemingly teleporting as far as he can away from you, and points a finger, wiggling it aggressively in your direction. "W-why is t-there a lump of f-fat on your chest?!"

You push yourself up on your elbows, before sitting fully upright. "Why do you think, dumbass?" You mumble, heat fanning lightly across your face.

And when it clicks—your floral scent, your plush chest masked by an oversized white shirt, and the softness of your body underneath him— Sakura’s ready to combust from all the heat burning underneath his skin.

He looks up at you. He looks down back at his deflowered hand and then up at you again, his lips refusing to cease their relentless quiver. “Y-You’re a g-girl?” He swallows thickly, the feeling of the full mound of your boob he'd attempted to use as leverage, still tingling in the palm of his hand.

You confirm his question with a single nod.

"I just...my hand was...it touched—"

"My breast?"

Sakura sucks in a breath, his face growing impossibly more red. He then clears his throat in a futile attempt to collect himself. “...But how? Are you sure you're a woman?" He arches a brow. "T-There must be a mistake. You've always seemed so...so rough. Way to aggressive and so mas—”

Sakura never gets to finish his sentence when his mismatched eyes cross, and he doubles over in pain from the powerful punch that meets him square in the stomach.

© 2024 kana-daydreams

[fayerien]

What if He's Written Mine on My Upper Thigh

Only in My Mind? — Xavier

xavier x mc, sfw, slight angst (maybe lol), queen mc pov, messy writings and grammar T_T, not proofread!, inspired by Guilty as Sin? from Taylor Swift

*featuring xavier, omw to make a series with other LI too!

Everything he did was lie. You felt drained listening to all his empty promises, yet here you are, hurting alone. You waited for him, hoping him would return into your arms. But he didn't. You were staring at your unmoving, soulless body in despair? or was it regret?

'Am I really dead?' The question pondered in your mind as you felt totally hopeless and unable to do anything.

Is this a punishment for you? You thought that you were being too greedy, hoping that he'll be yours. Is this how you're going to atone your sins?

You stared at your own dead body and started to overthink. 'Maybe if I don't have this sickness, he'll stay with me forever. Is that too much to ask for?'

You left Uluru, your little planet as a wondered soul. You found this surprisingly lively and colourful planet called Earth. It's a different side of coin from Uluru which is very calm and quite. But you felt like your soul belongs here. You couldn't quite sure why but you have some sort of connection here.

Time passes quickly as you arrived here, the sun was starting to set at the horizon. It was absolutely a breathtaking view. As night took over the sky you stumbled upon something so familiar. Forget-me-not. You thought this kind of flower only exist in your little planet. Why is it here? No. That is a field of forget-me-nots— and they're blooming. Was it already spring on Earth?

You walked through the massive field, as the flowers gently caressing, tickling your skin— it was rather calming. You stopped on your track as you noticed that you weren't physically alone there. You spotted a guy, his back was facing you— no, he wasn't just a guy. That's him. Xavier. You felt your stomach clenching at the sight of him, anger and sadness flashed over your face.

Like a moth to a flame, you slowly approached him, though he couldn't even see you in this state. You stood in front of him, trying to read his expression but he showed something you can't quite comprehend. He looked... devastated? Pained? But it was clearly a heart wrenching sight to see.

You couldn't stand seeing him like this, your hands itching to hold his. Slowly, you brushed your hands against his, it felt like you're home again. The thing is he can't see—

"My queen..?" His voice rang in your head and it made you froze. Were you being delusional or did he really said that?

He smiled, you didn't actually know what he was looking, maybe those flowers? But it was impossible for him to see you as a ghost now right..?

"Are you here, my queen? I feel like you're so close to me." He asked again and that confirmed that he knew you were there.

Your touches on his skin was like gentle wind passing through the lonely night. That alone was enough to let him know you were there. He smiled again, it was really genuine but his eyes couldn't hide the sadness behind them. And that was really breaking you.

"I'm really sorry for making you wait, my queen. I failed you. I traveled through spaces— hoping I can find the aether protocore for you. But my efforts died in vain. I'm so sorry." Those words were like a dagger piercing your heart. You wanted to scream, telling him that he shouldn't apologize, it was you who doubted him for leaving you for no reasons. It was you who should apologize, but you doubted that he'll hear you.

He smiled again and said, "I grow these flowers alone because they remind me of you." You felt your throat dried hearing his words. He grew them..all alone?

"I wished I could show them to you, my queen. This is the least I could do to show how much I longed for you, craved for you." He stopped talking, looking at the stars like he was searching for answer. "If you're here, my queen, I hope you can forgive me." Xavier stop. Your heart shattered even more.

"I won't stop loving you my queen, even if you hated me in this life. Come back to me please, my queen. I'll be waiting for you. I won't fail you again this time, even if my time is short." You stared blankly at him, what did he mean by that ?

You woke up and realized that you've been falling asleep in the class. Your head hurt after having an odd dream, but it felt too real. You glanced at your side, seeing your tablemate staring outside the window, admiring the nature maybe?

He noticed that you were looking at him and a smile formed on his face. Somehow he looks very oddly familiar, the smile, the face and the expressions. And you wondered why.

ᯓ★masterlist

tags: @astrallkiss

[breakfastteatime]

Today's Fallen Order request is Shine for @thefinaljediknight

The planet sings. Cal feels it the moment they touch down. This world is so alive, and not because there’s a Maw somewhere beneath him, waiting for its next meal. The Force gushes and froths, a rapid river ready to swallow him whole. Beyond the cockpit, the planet’s incredible plant life shimmers in the soft rain, yellows, reds, purples, oranges, pinks, humming and swaying. The Force wants to take him by the hand and lead him in a dance. He looks to Cere. Does she feel it too? If she does, she shows nothing. Is that how effectively she’s cut herself off from the Force? Cal can’t imagine not feeling this, even if the Force might pull him apart like petals on the wind.

“Cal?” Greez calls as he finalises the landing procedure. “Something wrong? You’re looking spacey.”

He shakes his head, unable to put it into words. What would he say to someone who can’t feel the Force at all? How could he explain how this planet shines? BD too. He has no sense of this.

What a terrible, inexplicable loss for them. Cal can’t bear it. He can’t.

“Hey, whoa, what – ” Greez’s confusion is silenced when Cal wraps his arms around him and hugs him tight. “You okay, kid?”

Cal feels Greez patting him on the back, offering comfort when it should be the other way around. He reaches out, pulls BD in close too. “I wish you two could feel this.”

“Uh – ”

BD gives a curious beep.

Cal can’t speak.

“This planet is very, very strong in the Force,” Cere explains for Greez’s benefit. “Cal is a little overwhelmed by it.”

“Oh,” Greez says. He returns the hug. “If this is what Cal looks like when he’s overwhelmed, I think we can handle it.”

BD announces Cal scan results suggest he’s high.

Cere’s smile catches on the Force and flutters off on golden wings. “Yes, it probably feels a lot like that for him.”

Cal can’t contain himself a moment longer. Releasing Greez and BD, he rushes to the hatch, hits the override, and opens the ship up to the world ahead. He throws himself to the ground before the ramp can finish extending. His feet hit the grass – bare feet because he didn’t stop to put his boots on. Pollen and seeds cast themselves into the air, sparkling in the light when the sun breaks through the rainclouds. Cal tilts his face to the sky, eyes closed as he basks in the energy humming around him. No, he won’t fly away here. Maybe he’ll sink instead, into a cloud of light and life, streams of light dancing around him. He does a one-legged twirl worthy of BD just to take it all in, pulling the Force around him so it gathers like a cloak. The Force takes his hand and pulls him away, leading him up, up, up, above a forest of flowers in bloom and trees finding new life in spring. The world is coming back to life after a long, hard winter, and the planet sings with such joy the Force swells and rises.

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Cal.”

It’s hard, returning to himself. Cere’s warm hand, the cupped light that is her true self a beacon calling him back. He opens his eyes and sees a meadow around him, flowers turned to him like he is the sun. He’s on his knees, Cere at his side. Lungs full of fresh, clean air, he reaches out, lets the yellowpinkpurplered petals brush over his fingers. “Cere,” he breathes. He can’t capture what this place is. He’s never felt anything like it. Never. And with his slowly healing Force connection, it feels like… like maybe he really can do what Cere’s asking of him, expecting of him.

Trust only in the Force.

Cere crouches down, wrapping an arm around him. “I know,” she says.

He falls against her side, closing tear-filled eyes. Such joy. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Can you hold onto yourself while Greez and I head into town, or do we need to go somewhere else?”

It’s an effort to pull back, to put a barrier between him and this wonderful place. He is drunk on this place, so high he could brush the stars with his fingers.

Cere’s hand closes around his, pulling it down. “I think Greez might need to go on this trip alone.”

Cal falls forward, pressing his ear to the dirt. He can hear the planet’s song. He wants to listen to its ebb and flow forever.

“Is he okay?” Greez’s voice blends with the music.

“Can you manage the resupply?” Cere’s voice soars above the chorus. “I need to stay with him.”

Cal can’t contain himself. “I can hear the song.”

BD whistles, his weight leaving Cal’s back. The next thing he feels is Cere’s hand once more, resting on his back. She is a mute dulling the music, and he can’t stand it. He can’t. He doesn’t want to simply hear it; he wants to be in that flow.  “Let go,” he tells Cere.

“No. I know, Cal, I know what this must be like for you, but you mustn’t let it carry you away. Hold onto yourself. Let the Force flow around you here, not through you. If the Force is a river, you are standing on the banks watching it rush by.”

He doesn’t want to watch. It’s not enough. He’s never felt the Force so completely before, so happy, unrestrained, life, so much life, everything alive and –

Cere’s touch is more insistent now, a sharp tug where a Padawan braid once would have hung. Startled, he stares at her. “I know, I’m sorry. Focus on me. We’re going back to the ship.”

“To meditate?”

“No, not here. I think you’d disappear forever.”

“Become one with the Force?” It would be like being all the colours of a rainbow. He can’t help smiling.

“Definitely no becoming one with the Force, Cal. We’re going to ground you, one way or another.”

The Mantis hums around him, and Cal can’t remember if that’s the ship’s usual sound or if maybe it’s found a song to sing too. Cere sits him down on the couch.

“Potolli weave really is so comfortable,” Cal sighs.

“Come back down from the sky.” Cere sits on the table ahead of him.

“You shine,” Cal tells her. He pokes her. “You can’t hide it from me!”

Cere smiles, a strange smile, all sad and wistful. “When your master wanted you to hone your focus, what did he make you do?” she asks.

Padawan, it is –

“ – time for instruction.” He giggles at his own impression of Master Tapal.

“And what were those instructions?” Cere asks gently.

Focus on the here and now, what you see ahead of you, the scent in the air, the feel of the deck beneath your feet and the clothes against your skin. Tell me all about it.

By the time Cal’s done telling Cere all about it, the Force’s song has dropped in volume and he feels very aware of himself. Was he always so unwieldy? So clumsy? He stares at Cere, feeling the blush on his skin. Did he really try to hug the ground? Maybe if he asks nicely it will swallow him whole. “Sorry, I – ”

She cuts him off. “It’s very special, isn’t it?”

He grins. “Very.”

[konigsblog]

captain's punishment .

summary; you're lost in a mission, price is angry and frustrated when you finally arrive back to base, teaching you a proper lesson the right way, and punishing you for being immature.

trigger warnings; degrading, rough sex, price is mean, exhibitionism (slightly), blowjobs, gagging, hair pulling, spanking, shit writing (message me if i missed anything) mean!price x f!reader, female anatomy (afab)

read more?

to say price was upset is an understatement. he expect better, especially from you. you'd been in the tasks force for years, you were a sergeant, someone who knew better than to get lost in the middle of a mission.

he'd thought you'd died, finally hearing your voice after a few days, getting your radio to work. “this is dove, come in.” you tried, muttering out your callsign.

price was in the middle of a rescue mission, searching for you, your voice ringing in his ears. “dove? where are you?” his voice was stern and cold, you could sense the anger behind the façade of being calm. “safehouse, i'll send my location.”

you were happy to be found. living off a couple things you'd found in the safehouse, the windows smashed in and allowing octobers harsh and unforgiving wind to breeze by.

the sound of the snow crushing against his crimson stained boots, the soles engraved with blood. as soon as he was on the concrete, his footsteps became louder, alerting you of his arrival. “you here, kid?” he'd call out, his gun pointed up as he scanned the area before his gaze landed on you.

no one else was behind him, it was a solo rescue, knowing he'd find you and come back in one shape, with you clinging to his arm. his gaze hardened, gritting his teeth as he put his gun down. “fuck, dove.” he cursed lowly, under his breath, smoke coming from his mouth, unsure of whether that was the smoke from his cigar or the affects from the cold weather.

“'m sorry, price..” you averted your eyes from him, avoiding eye contact before his glover hand grasped at your jaw, forcing you to look into his eyes. “you stupid? never remembered you to be this immature. should've told us immediately.” price towered above you, you were safe against a couch, old and tattered.

big doe eyes stared up at him, clearly guilty. “my radio, didn't work.” you looked into his eyes, seeing you all vulnerable beneath him was something he'd never experienced. you were a strong soldier, unable of making mistakes, something he'd never expected from you until now. it made him feel something; it made his cock twitch and throb, sighing lowly.

“wanna make it up to me?” suddenly the atmosphere changed. his bulge became more visible, more prominent. you nodded shyly, his hand still lingering of your jaw til it moved to his fly. unzipping it, maintaining eye contact, seeing the desire inside your pretty and adoring eyes.

his cock springed from his boxers, half hard, slightly dripping with precum. he nudged it against your soft lips, pushing inside, groaning when you wrapped those lips around him. john's hand immediately grasped at your hair, pushing you further onto his length til you hit his base, letting out a gag, your nose tickling his pubes.

dragging you off his size, tongue flat against his shaft, head thrown back. he let go of your skull, letting you set the pace. your fingers wrapped around his girth, not meeting due to how wide he is. swirling your tongue around the tip and sucking on his generously, taking his precum and tasting it on your pink tongue.

“fuck..- girl, that's it, you slut.” he grunted loudly, gazing down at you and admiring you, the way you dragged your tongue along each vein, moans muffled, hypnotised to the metallic and bitter taste of his semen. you whined, feeling as he pulled your hair, yanking you off his dick and forcing you back down. using your throat like a fleshlight, addicted to the sounds of your struggle.

“want your cum, sir..” you coughed, whining. “mm', bet you want it inside that pretty pussy, don't you?” a whimper left your lips, nodding your head eagerly, rubbing your thighs together. “spread those legs then, butterfly.”

you leaned back against the couch, shuffling your pants off and spreading your legs. you bit your lip, hiding the sounds you wanted to let out, feeling as he traced your slit over the material of your panties, soaked and ruined. “all wet f'me.” a chuckle escaped his throat, ripping your panties off in one swift movement, causing you to squirm and squeal.

he didn't even prepare you, slowly easing into your pussy, pulling your shirt up as he bottomed out inside you. grasping at your tits and squeezing them, fully revealing your tits, his tongue encircling your hardened nipples.

full and thick balls slapped against your tight ass, which each thrust making you clench around him, unable to think of anything other than your mean captain. “had my eyes on you for a while, soldier..” he breathed out, beginning to slam into your wet pussy as his pace increased.

you mewled for him to slow down. hairy ballsack knocking against your ass, girthy and meaty cock stretching out your pussy. it was painful, yet the pleasure took your mind off it, taking over any concerns about the pain. the sensation burned in your stomach, arching your back further into him.

“such a naughty girl, aren't you? not listening to your superior, huh?!” price became more upset, grabbing you by the scalp and forcing your head down again the comfort of the couch. he started to pound into you painfully, making you choke on a sob, eyes glistening slightly.

feeling so fucked-out already, the texture of each vein lugging against your gummy and soft walls was pleasurable. his radio began making sounds, the voice familar, gaz. “y'alright, sir? haven't heard from you.” and to make it worse, he didn't stop. “yeah, at the safehouse, sending my location for helo” he spoke, the sounds of skin slapping and moans loud, definitely heard by kyle.

“s-sir-” he put a finger to his mouth, silencing you. you couldn't stop moaning and they only grew louder as you grew more needy. knowing that helo would be here soon, you knew you would have to get this over with quickly. throwing the radio onto the coffee table, starting to ram into your swollen and sore cunt harder, faster, meaner.

“fuckin' be quiet, such a loud girl, aren't you? you want them to hear you? whore.” you gasped out, his thumb stimulating your clit, rubbing it over and over again yet pulling away everytime he thought you were coming closer to your orgasm. he wanted to drag it out, make you weep and beg him, pleading for your release.

his broad hips smacked into you again, repetitive skin slapping sounds filling the rooms silence, your noises probably heard from outside the building. his grip on your head tighten, other hand running up your waist to your breasts, running back down to your hip and squeezing. his grip tightened as he held you like a ragdoll, using you like a fleshlight, his pace coming to a stop. “if you're so desperate, fuck yourself back on my cock, dove.”

you cried out, bouncing yourself back onto his weeping length, his grasp tightening more as your walls pulsed around him. “n-need you” your pretty eyes that he loved to look at rolled to the back of your head, shut tight as you clenched around him. his tip grew red and angry, signalling that he was about to come.

panties were stuffed into your mouth, the taste of your arousal quietening your whining. you could taste the sweetness on your tongue, his thumb rubbing your clit again, causing you to squirt all over him. you came around him, milking him for all his thick cum.

it oozed from your precious hole, tight and spilling potent semen from it. your chest rised and fell as you caught your breath, pulling out your cunny and grabbing his belt, spanking your painful pussy, the cries you let out making him chuckle. the material of the belt causing a ‘thwap’ sound to echo throughout the four walls, continuing to abuse your cunt, still annoyed after that mission.

“m' sorry, sir!! please-, sir-!” he spanked your thighs a few more times, slapping your clit once before pushing you up. “hm', think i've taught you a lesson, dove?” you nodded, wanting a long and cold shower to wash of the dirt sweat and grime from your skin. he pulled you up, grabbing your pants and telling you to put them on, having to wear your soaked panties beneath them.

your belt looped through the loops, tightening it before the you heard the helo. the loud sounds of it approaching alerted you two, grabbing your wrist and pulling you out with him.

sighing as you sat down, smiling at soap who looked st you confused. it was pretty obvious what happened; your hair a mess, clothes messily and sloppily put on, clearly in a rush. and your mascara was smeared, you swear you could see ghost smirking, a low laugh leaving him quietly.

“lass, your fly's undone.” johnny had a huge grin on his face, smirking at you with a look that told you ‘i know what you did’ “o-oh, i didn't notice." wincing as you felt your cunt ache and throb, fixing your pants, embarrassed as everyone knew what you and price were up to, minutes prior.

[liloinkoink]

here's another minimal context scene from that beauty and the beast au. this one's from real late in the plot, but i think it'll make... enough sense? it'll at least sound cool

here are the other two scenes i've posted: Ren gets cursed and the knife scene, both of which come earlier in the plot

The last day of Martyn’s life is beautiful. 

The sky is bright, finally. Uncertain sunlight stretches its first warm rays across winter-hardened ground, casting the illusion of spring through the window. Martyn knows better, of course—unable to feel the sunlight through the bars of his cell, all he has to work with is the blistering winter wind, a biting cold that the sunlight has not yet chased away. 

The deceptive warmth is a bit on the nose, Martyn thinks, but maybe he doesn’t have enough time for anything but the most unsubtle of metaphors. 

Ren had been working with Scar. Weeks of hiding out at Ren’s castle, and the whole time, Ren had been planning to turn Martyn in for his own execution. Weeks Martyn spent clearing the crumbling stone, rotting wood, dusty corners of that place, making it livable again. Weeks he’d wasted in Ren’s care, eating his food, finding comfort at his fireplace, sleeping at his side. He’d believed in Ren, and Ren had been planning to betray him all along. 

Martyn really should have killed him when he’d had the chance. Maybe, if he’d been fast enough, Ren would never have been able to call for Scar at all. 

Maybe Martyn should have stopped to think why Ren was cursed in the first place. Maybe he should have considered Ren might have deserved it. 

Watching the sunlight prod the dead grass isn’t enough to distract Martyn from the sound of footsteps, though he pretends not to hear them until they stop right outside his cell. 

“Why, hello there!” Scar’s voice is as friendly as ever, which is to say so thick with syrupy cheer Martyn’s teeth hurt just listening to him. “Beautiful day out, isn’t it? Are you excited to enjoy the day? Stretch your legs?”

“Aren’t you supposed to offer me a last meal? Even your dog was a better host than this,” Martyn bites. Scar laughs. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that! I’ve given you such lovely accommodations.” Scar grins, sounding quite proud of himself, and Martyn sighs. 

“A real five star establishment,” Martyn turns, glaring, “Look, whatever gloating you’re going to do, just get it over with. Is this where you tell me I should never have gone against your rule? Or that Ren is going to be in the audience to help drive home the point? I’m already—“

“What? Ren, in the audience?” Scar asks. He’s amused, his eyes shining with undisguised glee. 

“Yeah, what?” Martyn asks. 

“Nothing, nothing, I just realized something really funny about you two, is all,” Scar says. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Martyn asks. 

“Nothing! Nothing, it’s part of his curse. Didn’t he tell you? And here I thought he trusted you!” Scar says, aghast. “He’s a dog, Martyn, you can’t let those go without some kind of leash. He’s fenced in, just as any responsible person would do.”

“He’s what?” Martyn asks, and with startling clarity Martyn remembers a hundred moments of Ren sitting just inside the gate, waiting for Martyn to return from the woods just outside the bounds of the castle. He’d stopped at the gate when Martyn had fled, too, pacing back and forth inside the entryway. Martyn gasps, “Ren can’t leave the grounds.”

“Oh, you got it!” Scar says. Martyn narrows his eyes. 

“Why would he tell that to you?” Martyn asks. Scar leans in towards the bars, grinning. It isn’t wide, but it’s all teeth, perfectly white. 

“He really didn’t tell you? Maybe I didn’t need to be worried about you two,” Scar says, “It’s starting to sound like Ren didn’t trust you at all.”

“Shut up,” Martyn snaps, “If he can’t leave, how did he contact you?”

“Hm… Well, that’s the thing…” Scar hums, stroking his chin with one hand, “I wouldn’t say he contacted me, so much as that I was around and decided to pay my friend a visit.”

“Ren didn’t turn me in,” Martyn repeats, “You were lying. That whole— how much of that did you lie about? Was he even working with you at all?”

“Ren and I haven’t worked together in some time,” Scar admits, feigning sadness, “My poor friend, stuck in that old castle, wasting away under that unbreakable curse.”

“Friend, huh?” Martyn asks. He’s trying to sound mocking, but he thinks he might just sound afraid. “Is that a lie, too?”

“Ren and I were great friends! Up until someone cursed him to take the form of a loyal dog, forced to sit and wait at home until someone actually put as much faith into him as he did them.” Scar says, wiping away a dry tear, “It’s too bad, though. That big, trusting heart of his… No one’s ever going to match it, not in this world. He’ll be in that kennel forever, waiting for someone to respect a dog as though he were a person.”

Martyn sits up. 

“You cursed him,” Martyn says. It’s not a question. 

Scar absolutely beams. 

“I was starting to get worried, actually. I felt the curse weakening, so I went up to see what had happened with Ren. The fact it was my runaway rat who had pitied him was just a lucky break, but the fact that on top of that, you’d even left the bounds of Ren’s protection? Lady Luck must really like me!” Scar brags. He sighs, crossing his arms. 

“You absolute basta—“ Martyn starts, hopping to his feet. 

“But,” Scar barrels right over him, “It doesn’t seem like I needed to worry about anything. Not even that naive old dog trusted you.” 

With that, Scar takes a step back from the cell, smiling as bright as always. 

“Well,” Scar says, “Thank you for the lovely talk, Martyn. I’ll see you later tonight!”

Martyn doesn’t bother to watch him leave. He looks back to the window, through the bars and into the courtyard. He can’t see the forest from here—can’t see anything for the walls surrounding the whole castle. 

He’s never going to see Ren again, and it’s his own damn fault. Why would he believe a pathological liar over Ren? If Scar had come any other time, if Martyn hadn’t already been jumping to conclusions just because he’d overheard— he’s never going to see Ren again, and the last thing they’ll ever have done together is argue. 

For whatever little it’s worth, he knows now who he trusts. 

—---—

Somewhere at the edge of the forest, Ren falls flat on his face. 

This is the last step in a process, though. The process begins like this: 

The barrier of Ren’s curse is unbreakable, unyielding, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He’s been scratching at it since Scar and his men disappeared over the horizon, Martyn in chains among them. His paws bleed, a few of his claws casualty to his desperation, but the barrier stays. Ren stays, his eyes locked on the path down the hill, pleading for something he knows he’ll never see.

Somewhere in the world, Ren is trusted.

Ren’s fur falls out in patches. The claws—the ones left, anyway—disappear next, and then his ears twitch for the last time, vanishing into his hair. His face changes, muzzle shrinking, body shuddering as the rest of him follows. 

The tail disappears at the same moment as the barrier, and this is when Ren pitches forward into the dirt. He hits hard ground, and what shocks him most is how cold it is—suddenly, Ren is freezing.

He scrambles up onto his elbows, tugging his cloak closer to himself. When he looks down, it’s not to thick fur—Ren finds himself staring at human arms. Perhaps a bit hairier than he remembered, sure, but pale pink, with fingers and thumbs ending in short, dirty nails. 

“Oh, my god,” Ren whispers. His mouth stretches in shapes unfamiliar, a face almost too short. He licks the inside of his mouth and finds all the teeth inside perfectly regular, devoid of the long canines that have dominated his smiles for the last few years. 

He’s human. The barrier is gone. The curse is broken. Ren can do… anything, really. Everything he’s put on hold, anything he’s dreamed while pacing the halls. The world is open to him once again, and he has all the money and power and freedom to find anything he’d like. He could take back the stolen throne. He could seek out revenge on Scar. He could take a walk out into the forest, simply because the barrier wouldn’t stop him.

There’s only one thing he needs, though. One which he knows needs him, too. 

Ren shoves himself to his feet and runs back inside. There’s got to be something he can wear in one of these rooms. He can’t be too picky, though—he has somewhere to be, and he’s already late.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hello all well ? I couldn't help but want more of your beautiful story.😍😍

could give us more Morpheus and reader (Imagine being the one who frees Morpheus), where the people adore their new queen but morpheu thinks that I don't fulfill all the duties with his love, he didn't even ask her to marry him or had a coronation, but reader is calm about it.pleases thanks

[Check out the series HERE] || Sandman-inspired playlist

For the record, you weren't an actual queen as in the bride of a king. Despite that, the inhabitants of Dreaming collectively decided to treat you like one and soon you had found yourself to be part of the court hierarchy. Not that you could ever complain about such honour - you received a lot of love and respect for simply giving advice or asking someone to consider their grudge from a different perspective. To the inhabitants of Dreaming, who were used to Morpheus's just but strict reign, a droplet of sweetness and tenderness seemed to be like water is to a cotton-mouthed man.

Morpheus might have appeared oblivious to your social 'promotion' but he was perfectly aware of it. To his dismay, no one ever outright informed him that you have allowed or done something without his council, even if those were small, fairly insignificant matters in the grand scheme of an entire realmn. Morpheus had to rely on his own observations and whispers that seemed to completely disappear whenever he was around. In any case, he had realized that there existed an entire world he was not privy to when he heard someone excitedly whisper 'Our queen' for the very first time. Dreaming did not, in fact, have a queen. Not officially, at least.

Your selflessness captured his heart, which was obvious, but it had also, quite literally, killed you for a moment. Maybe it was his fear of losing you for good or his sympathy towards the struggles you had suffered on his accord, that made Morpheus adamant about having you think solely of yourself for the first time in your life, to finally be at peace after everything you had been through. As one might expect, his desire surely did not include having you fulfil part of his royal duties. The guilt gnawed at him until one day Morpheus found himself unable to ignore the current state of affairs.

He was marching through the crystal halls of his palace prepared to dress you in silk and diamonds or do anything else that would somehow compensate for the bland weight of ruling you had on your shoulders. If he could, if you allowed him to, he'd tear it right off and break his own spine accommodating it.

Morpheus's rushed footsteps suddenly stopped when he noticed you standing on the balcony, leaning against the marble ledge. Your back was turned to him and for a moment he indulged in his selfish desires; watching your dress gently dance on the warm breeze, he wondered whether there truly was something divine about you. Maybe, if he asked nicely, you could tell him what heaven is like as you sure know it like the back of your hand. Or perhaps spring, the mother of hope and rebirth, had recognized its own face in yours, telling the wind and the sun to warm you on cold days. But if you were spring, like Persephone, was he not akin to Hades?

Such thought made him shudder. The quicker he solves his plight, the faster this feeling of dread and shame will dissolve. In fact, it seemed like blasphemy to experience something so bitter and bleak while you were within his arm's reach.

Hearing footsteps against the marble floor, you slightly turned around to see who had decided to visit you. Although the sight of Morpheus did excite your heart, the grim expression on his face, a shadow that towered over his regal beauty, quickly calmed the thrill inside you.

"You should not be fulfilling my duties for me," he stated. Strangely enough, he sounded angry.

Unable to tell what could sour his mood like that, you furrowed your eyebrows. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, Morpheus, although I have to be honest that I do not know what duties you're speaking of. I never meant to cross you, dear."

Morpheus didn't answer. He made his way towards you and did not stop walking until the tips of his shoes were brushing against yours. So far, you couldn't quite tell whether he was oblivious to a certain social etiquette or simply liked being so close to you.

His ocean-like eyes bore into you as if he was trying to enter your own mind and make himself at home there. If you were asleep, perhaps he could but you were awake and that forced him to actually speak his thoughts, although reluctantly: "Are you happy here?"

"What makes you ask that?"

Morpheus pursed his lips at your answer. Perhaps he was expecting a slightly different reaction from you - one that did not include voicing his introspection and making friends with vulnerability. "You tend to my subjects, bring order and prosperity into Dreaming, and yet I have failed to give a wedding worthy of a queen. You are bearing the weight of the crown without its splendour. It is unfair towards you."

"Have you considered that I simply want to spend time with your subjects?" you asked him with a gentle smile. Ever since he sought you out on the cold beach, you've learned that Morpheus cared a lot. Probably more than he himself was capable of understanding. His problem, however, was adequately expressing it. "Treat them as my peers, help them in their plights. You can't be everywhere all the time, Morpheus. Let me help you, just a little."

But he remained unconvinced. "A queen should wear a crown, have the king at her beck and call. The people of the realm shall praise their gods for being allowed in her vicinity." As he spoke, Morpheus reached to gently grab your hand and put it against his chest and though he was a child swearing by their own honesty. His thumb absentmindedly brushed against your skin. "It surely did not escape your attention that I have failed at granting you the honour and glory you deserve."

"The crowns, the dresses, the jewels - they're all very nice but what real difference do they make?" you asked. The question must have elicited some kind of reflection from him as his thumb stopped its soothing movement. "Strip all of that away and there remains only you and I. Believe me when I say, that I need nothing more and wish for nothing less."

His once bleak expression turned into something more gentle as though the yearning of his heart refused to remain hidden any longer. "My heart tells me to drown you in indescribable wealth and yet my mind tells me to let you be as you wish." As it appeared, such dissonance and lack of clarity were exceptionally rare for Morpheus. Gently and somewhat fearfully, he rested his forehead against yours. "How can you, a human, hold so much power over me?" he whispered.

A quiet giggle escaped your mouth. "I believe people refer to it as 'being in love'."

He felt his breath hitch as your lips softly kissed his forehead.

[pastanest]

Daryl Dixon x she/her!reader

A/N: look at me going back to my roots! thank you ever so much to the lovely @noldorinpainter for giving me my first commission!! I really hope you love it! ♡

info on my commissions can be found here, or you can always drop me a message if you’re unsure of anything! :) 

Fateful Night

The smile on your face would be considered contagious, were anyone else roaming the streets of Alexandria at this time of night. There’s a spring in your step as your hands tap idly against the strap of your satchel across your front, excitement bursting at the seams just a little more with every step you take towards your destination. The path you walk and your intended plans for the rest of the night are both routine practices for you by now, you’re almost certain you could walk this route with your eyes closed.

Though he isn’t close enough to you yet for you to hear him speak, the words you know he’d say if he were close enough to hear your thoughts float through your mind like a soft gust of wind.

“Try walkin’ anywhere with yer eyes closed ‘n’ ya’ll slam into yer own front door, ‘n’ then I’ll be the one carryin’ yer ass to the infirmary.”

Suddenly, you are walking even faster.

By the time your hand reaches to push the hatch above you at the very top of the watchtower, you’re convinced the smile on your face is a permanent fixture.The hand that reaches for yours to help you climb the last rungs of the ladder enters your vision first, then the stubbled cheeks either side of a shy smile that its holder is trying his very best to hide under the shadow of his shaggy hair, before his other hand reaches to steady you at your waist as you stand in front of him.

Beaming up at your heart’s destination, stationed very coincidentally in your duty’s destination, you breathe a deep sigh of relief at the sight of him. “Evenin’ handsome!”

Scoffing bashfully, Daryl drops your hand and waist, strolling over to the edge of the tower and slumping down to dangle his legs in the night sky. “Yer late.”

You roll your eyes at the perfect waves at the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but for good reason!”

Practically skipping over to him, you drop to the floor and kick your legs over the edge beside his, bringing your satchel to your lap. Feeling his infamous side-eye on you, you open the bag slowly for dramatic effect, taking your time in revealing the tupperware filled with chocolate chip cookies. Continuing your theatrics, you make a grand gesture of dropping the box onto Daryl’s lap.

“Special delivery from Carol!” 

Daryl huffs, feigning disapproval at your peace offering and already coming up with his next sassy remarks as he pops the lid of the tupperware and stuffs the first cookie in his mouth.

“Jus’ ‘cause I’m eatin’ this don’t mean I forgibe you.” He comments, crumbs flying from his lips with his slurred words.

At first, when you reach for a cookie, Daryl pretends to snatch the box from you, but the pretend-shock on your face brings that same soft smile back to his face as he offers you the tupperware.

Taking a cookie, your gaze stays locked with his, and you nudge his shoulder with yours. “Oh, little bird, I know you do.”

“...Shut up.” He grumbles shyly, voice gruff as ever but laced with a tenderness only you can detect.

Settling into the silence, the two of you stare out into the night, at the tree tops that neither of you can ever truly reach, but daydream about flying over together. Though it is yet to be determined whether Daryl Dixon truly is telepathic,, you are convinced that the moment you are close enough for him to see you, he can read your thoughts clearer than you can read the words behind his eyes that he never quite knows how to say. 

Absentmindedly, your head falls against his shoulder. An echo of the grin that was previously on your face lingers between warm cheeks, unable to withhold the simultaneous giddiness and inner peace that your best friend’s presence provides. So often you find yourself itching to probe his mind, ask him what he thinks about anything and everything, the most random things in the world that don’t matter at all, but his opinion on them and the further insight into him that provides is worth its weight in gold to you. 

Consequently, it’s never long before you break any silence you share.

“Do you ever think about the day we met?” You ask him, smile already widening at the thought. Despite how terrifying certain aspects of the ordeal were, his involvement covers even the worst in sugar. 

“Sometimes.” Daryl answers. “D’you?”

You nod, brushing his shoulder. “Yeah, sometimes.” Hearing his gentle, unspoken question to elaborate, you continue. “I think about how crazy it is that you saved my life that day, a total stranger, and how that has led to moments like this. I can never wrap my head around that.”

Daryl laughs softly. “Is pretty crazy.”

You chuckle with him. “Yeah.” Another second of comfortable silence passes before you speak up again. “What do you think, when you think about the day we met?”

Daryl considers this question and his answer carefully. He debates whether to give a heartfelt, sincere response, or whether to poke the bear. Considering the smirk on his face that is just out of your line of sight, he already knows the answer.

“That yer the same short ass now as ya were then.”

Lifting your head from his shoulder, you meet his gaze with an expression that he treasures. Jaw dropped, pure mischief and shock etched in your every feature. You let it linger, lull him into a false sense of security, and then you strike. Tickling him mercilessly until he’s giggling like a schoolgirl, you end up leaning over him as he falls to his back on the watchtower floor, your legs and his still dangling in the open air, the tupperware of cookies safely pushed out of the warzone. 

“Alright, alright- damn, woman! I surrender!” He pleads for his life in between gasps and the loudest laughs anyone could hope to bring from a man like Daryl Dixon.

Settling back into a calm, seated position, like you had not just offloaded a truly brutal attack on your favorite person, you clasp your hands out in front of you to click your fingers in a boastful gesture of your victory over a man that could kick your ass if he was blindfolded, handcuffed, shirtless, and- wait, where was this train of thought going?

“What’re you thinkin’ about, crazy girl?” Daryl asks as he catches his breath and sits up beside you.

And you have never been more grateful that he is not actually telepathic. “Tell me the truth: what do you really think, when you think about the day we met?”

He clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter and considering his answer carefully again. This time, he decides to be a little more honest with you, and himself.

“Guess I think most about bein’ glad I was there when I was.”

You nod slowly, understanding his sentiment and agreeing with him wholeheartedly. Had he not been there, you have no idea what would have happened to you that night.

Staring out at the trees ahead and below you, your mind so easily slots into the panicked memory of that very night, when you’d been on the ground in the dark just like this, running through forests that looked as dense and impossible to navigate as the ones the walls - and your favorite person - keep you safe from, now. 

You were alone, had been for longer than you could remember. Too much time had passed since the world ended, you felt you were living borrowed time and something like guilt tugged at you for not being able to keep track of it. Birthdays were a thing forgotten, but so were the simpler guides that weekdays and weekends provided, the routine of mornings and evenings; you slept when you could and never had time to check whether the sun was rising or setting. Your complete lack of survival skills left you surprised to have lived as long as you had, but you knew how to run; something that the dead could not match you on, no matter their numbers. In the world before, being on the shorter side gifted you with playful - and overplayed - taunts, but in the decaying world you ran through, your very existence was discrete. Being alone was better, having nothing to lose was easy, and surviving was all you had.

You didn’t have time to eat full meals, to maintain a sleep schedule, or to think about what you were living such a life for; the person you were and the purposes your life had were ghosts that followed you wherever you went, much like the dead.

Despite the fact that interacting with the living would have, possibly, improved your quality of life, you avoided people more than you did the reanimated ones. If ever you heard someone speaking a single word, you would turn and run in the opposite direction as fast as you could, even if it meant going back the way you came. People without rules to keep them from doing what they wanted in an empty world were far scarier than sluggish corpses.

That night, you had stopped running to catch your breath, tiptoeing as best you could and using your hands to feel the trees as your guide. Drawing attention to yourself with any form of light was not an option. Unfortunately at the time, but fortunately in the long run, you crossed paths with a tracker skilled enough to feel the indents of your boots in the soil and know a living person was not far ahead. Aware of the group he was with and the rules they had enforced amongst themselves, the tracker distanced himself from the group to catch up with whoever was creating an individual trail through the woods at night. 

Eventually, he caught up with you, managing to sneak around you to shine a torch in your face and stun you momentarily. If you had been able to focus, you would have seen the strangest expression flash across his features, before he looked behind you to the rest of the group that was fast approaching. Not wanting to partake in their way of doing things, but fearing your fate if he didn’t, he yelled out a single word.

“CLAIMED!”

While the others approached, he took a slow step towards you and lowered his torch slightly, holding your gaze. Something in his eyes calmed you, keeping you in place.

“‘m sorry, I had to, you don’ wanna know what they’d do if I didn’t. Jus’ stick with me, I’ll get you some place safe.” He whispered to you, and you nodded frantically, moving to his side before the rest of the group reached you.

To your horror, every other member of the group was a seedy looking man that shone their torches on you and stared at you with animalistic hunger in their eyes on discovering you were, in fact, a woman. You shrunk behind the one man that wasn’t treating you like a creature in a zoo with no means of hiding away from their greedy eyes, pressing their ugly faces against the glass that you wished truly stood between you and them, even if the barrier added very little protection for you, in reality. 

“Damn, you got yourself a fine piece of ass there, new guy.” One of the men snickered, licking his lips as he tried to peak around the wall of a man that stood between you. 

“Well, as she’s been claimed, we’d best find a place to set up camp for the night, give Daryl the time alone with his prize!” A grey haired man, who presented himself as the leader of the group, motioned around and the men split off in different directions, all laughing amongst themselves as they searched for a structure of some kind to spend the night in.

All, except for the man you had come to know as Daryl, who stood firmly in front of you. He stayed there, silent and motionless, eyes fixed on the leader of the group, who just grinned back at him.

Eventually, one of the group called out to the rest to alert them of an empty barn he’d found in a clearing that connected to some abandoned farm on the outskirts of the forest. You and Daryl trailed behind the rest as they headed inside, but the leader refused to enter unless you two went ahead. His breath on your neck still haunts your nightmares.

The men settled amongst themselves and didn’t bother you as much as you expected, as long as you tuned out their lines of sight, which burnt holes through every part of your body. You knew nothing of the group or the individuals, but you could read the dynamic clear as day: none of the men wanted to test Daryl, and you were certain you would be in a far worse position had one of them “claimed” you before he could. On that basis, and considering your instincts, you trusted him from the get go.

You didn’t know how long you would be stuck with that group, or with Daryl, so you absorbed every piece of information you could. Daryl was the silent type, that much was clear; you didn’t want to bother him with questions, so instead you just watched him. Watched as he “claimed” some bails of hay and placed them down in a corner and gestured for you to sit on them, before telling you that you could sleep, and you realized quite suddenly that despite his obvious disliking towards having to “claim” things and people to get by, he did so to provide you with a bed. A courtesy he did not stretch to himself as he stood in front of you, with his back to you.

Not wanting to come across as ungrateful and not knowing what else to do, you settled onto the bail of hay and made yourself as comfortable as you could, curling into yourself to conceal as much of your body as possible. Just as you closed your eyes, a man called over to you from the other side of the barn.

“HEY, PRETTY LADY, WANT A DRINK?”

Jumping out of your skin, you salt bolt upright and cleared your throat, managing a small, awkward smile. “N-No, thank you, I dont drink.”

The man on the other side of the barn laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, everybody drinks these days!”

Before you could answer, Daryl stepped forward. “She said she dont. Leave it, man.” 

Though he didn’t raise his voice, his tone was firm enough to shut the man up where he stood, and you watched as he avoided Daryl’s scowling eyes. His words weren’t objectively a threat, but everything about the strength he radiated and his obvious lack of care towards whether a fight happened or not, could seemingly make any man opposite him shrink in their boots. 

The small smile on your face changed then, fixing on the waves at the back of his head as you settled back into the hay.

“Thank you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, you wondered if he had even heard you, until he replied a few seconds later.

“Don’ mention it.”

And for the rest of the night, he stood there in front of you, with his back to you. A human shield.

Chuckling lightly to yourself, you shake your head in disbelief, looking at the man beside you who hasn’t changed in the years you’ve known him, you just know him beyond that intimidating surface level by now. 

“You defended me so fiercely when we’d only just met, I always wondered why.”

Daryl frowns down at you. “Ya never asked.”

You shrug. “I didn’t want to pry.”

Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes at you. “Never stopped ya before.”

Gasping in mock-offence, you nudge his shoulder with yours again. “Shut up!” 

The two of you share a lighthearted laugh at that, something that you would have thought was lost to the world before, had you never met Daryl. 

“Seriously, though, why did you stick up for me so much on the drinking thing?” You question

“Ya tol’ me ya’d had a bad first experience drinkin’...”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that then. Plus, you’re not exactly the type to jump to defend someone you’ve just met on something that was so minor- especially back then, before you’d grown into the softie you are now!” That last comment is a lighthearted one, one that you expect to bring another scoff or chuckle from the gruff sweetheart at your side, and usually it would.

Tonight, though, he stays silent, staring off into the night. You start to wonder if he even heard you, and his next question does little to reassure you on that.

“How old were you, firs’ time ya got drunk?”

You blink rapidly, processing a question you had definitely not been expecting.“19, why?”

At that, Daryl closes his eyes in a pained blink, lowering his head in shame and holding the edge of the platform with both hands. “‘m sorry.”

You frown, unable to decode your favourite person for the first time in longer than you can remember. “What for?”

His hair hangs over his eyes, hiding them from you and keeping the unsaid out of reach from you. “Not tellin’ you before.”

Trying to keep the conversation lighthearted, not wanting Daryl to get upset over something that you are certain is not worth feeling this bad about, you laugh airily. “Can you stop the cryptic-brooding shit for a second? What are you talking about?!”

Daryl sighs, lifting his head and tipping his nose up to the stars. You can see them reflecting in the stormy Georgia skies within his eyes, and he parts his lips to speak.

Alcohol had not been kind to you, that was what you had thought that night. On reflection, when out with a group of school friends, all of you having purchased fake ID’s and arrived at a bar outside of town to avoid being recognised as the 19 year olds you were, eight shots deep of straight vodka was, perhaps, not the best idea for your first experience with alcohol. 

No building had ever felt more cramped in your life, all of your senses were completely overwhelmed. You couldn’t hear yourself think, not that you were capable of a coherent thought at the time, but everyone was talking so loudly and it was like your ears couldn’t understand your own language anymore. The song playing was one you recognised, but when you tried to bob your head to the beat, you were horribly out of time, your brain delayed because it was swimming in vodka. It was all too much, so to the best of your ability, you took hold of a friend’s shoulder and told her you were going outside to get some air. Whether you actually managed to speak a word of that is yet to be confirmed, none of your friends were sober enough to even notice you’d left the bar. 

You didn’t see anyone else as you stumbled out into the parking lot, you were focussing all of your energy on the ground beneath you, because your shoes were not reaching it in the speed you expected and you were determined not to trip over your own feet. Only a few paces from the door, a man’s voice called out to you.

“Hey there, pretty lady, you comin’ my way?” He had asked sleazily, but the time it took for you 

to process his question was apparently long enough for him to assume your answer.

He swaggered over to you and swung an arm around your waist, tugging you to his side. Frowning in confusion and discomfort, you conjured every ounce of strength you had and smacked your palms against his chest in an effort to get away from him. His grip on your waist tightened.

“‘EY, THE HELL YOU DOIN’?” Another voice reached your ears then, sounding miles away and possibly underwater at first, but eventually making sense as you pieced together his words.

“Easy, man, I’m just taking my girl home.” The grip on your waist replied, and you frowned harder, lifting your hand to point accusingly.

“I am NOT yours, sunshine! I, am a FREE WOMAN!” You declared, words slurring together, but you hoped you got your point across regardless.

Much to your relief, the voice in front of you seemed to understand the situation perfectly. “Like she said, she aint yers, and she’s barely standin’, so the hell you think yer doin’ with ‘er?” His accent was thicker than the grip on your waist’s was, you noticed.

You couldn’t process what happened next, it was all too quick. The grip on your waist was gone and the two men argued, raising their voices at each other, until suddenly one of them punched the other, forcing him to the ground. Without the grip on your waist, you collapsed onto the tarmac, landing on your side and smacking your head against the ground, hard. 

The accent reached your ears again, but it was much more difficult to understand.

“Hey, hey, ya alright? C’mon, we gotta get you sittin’ up at least.” 

One hand held yours, while the other steadied you at the small of your back, both of them were so gentle you could hardly feel them, but they were strong enough to catch you if you were to fall again.

He led you over to a bench outside the bar and sat you down on it, then crouched down in front of you. The pain in your head suddenly pulsed. 

“Ow!”

The accent, much softer then, was quick to apologize for touching the wound on your head too harshly when checking it. “Sorry, didnt mean t’ hurt you. Anyone inside that knows you, can take ya home?”

Everything was spinning and nodding in response to his question made it a lot worse. “My friends are in there, I think.”

The accent spoke again, you tried as hard as you could to retain his words and piece together the sentence. “Alrigh’, I’m gonna go get ‘em, wha’s yer name?”

You had to think about it for a second. “(Y/N)...who’re you?”

The gentle hand was on your shoulder for just a second. “Don’ matter. You stay here, I’ll be back in jus’-”

A third voice entered the conversation, not the one belonging to the grip on your waist from before, which made the whole ordeal far too confusing for you to comprehend.

“THE FUCK YOU THINK YER DOIN’?” His accent was the thickest of all.

And then, it was another blur. All you remember is the man turning his back to you, acting as your huma shield while another man fought the grip on your waist.

Police sirens and lights overwhelmed your senses after that.

The accents yelled at each other, before the softer voice turned back to you.

“I gotta go, but you take care o’ yerself, alright?”

With that, he was gone. Your friends had to fill in the blank of the rest of the night for you the next day, explaining that they had grabbed you before the cops came and you all got out of there before they arrived, narrowly avoiding being caught out with your fake ID’s, but completely losing track of the man that had saved you in the process.

“Merle ‘n’ me were movin’ from place to place then, had a habit of pullin’ up to any bars we could find an’ I’d sit outside while he went in and stole bottles from anyone too drunk to notice ‘em disappearin. He’d bring ‘em back outside, we’d drink ‘em, then do it again ‘til he got drunk an’ sloppy an’ I’d have to pull him out of some fight with whoever caught him stealin’.” Daryl explains. “I was standin’ outside that bar, watchin’ that door, waitin’ for ‘im when you stumbled out, an’ I could see you were too drunk to be by yerself. When that asshole tried t’...” He trails off, feeling his blood boil in his veins at the memory. “Merle came out o’ the bar right as that prick got up and was gonna come at me from behin’, so Merle tackled him, smashed the bottle in his hand against the guy’s head. Bar owner called the cops, there was blood everywhere- the guy lived, we saw him aroun’ a month or so later at the same bar- but Merle was wanted for a whole list o’ shit and couldn’t risk the cops catchin’ him again, so we had t’ run.”

You stare at him, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, or like they were the first night you thought you’d met when he shone a torch in your face.

“It was you.”

The words passing your lips sound impossible, even after he has perfectly recalled a story you never told him with details you couldn’t recall, a memory you never knew you shared.

“‘m sorry.” He mumbles, unable to look at you for fear of the betrayal on your face for keeping this a secret from you for so long.

But you are still in disbelief, trying to wrap your head around the fact that the end of the world brought you back to your hero. 

“This whole time, you never said.”

Daryl shrugs. “Always sorta hoped you’d forget the whole night. The guy, most of all.” He confesses, having thought of you a few times in between that night and the night he found you again, always hoping that you had forgotten and been able to move on. Whether you chose to drink again after that, he always hoped you were able to live without fear and enjoy each night as it came. He didn’t have any reason to consider that you deserved any less.

“Regrettably, that was the main part that stuck with me.” You admit, feeling your own shame consume you.

Daryl nods. “I know.”

You shake your head, swallowed by the guilt. “I’m so sorry I didn’t remember you, everything was such a blur that night- I can remember the guy grabbing me, but even his face I wouldn’t recognise if he was in front of me. By the time you spoke to me close enough for me to see and hear you, my head was pounding. God, I’m so sorry that I’ve never remembered you!”

Only then, can Daryl bring himself to look at you, and it’s to frown at you in total confusion.

“Don’ gotta apologize for nothin’, aint yer fault.”

You rub your face with your hands, knowing that he’s right but still feeling terrible about it and knowing that, in your own way, you’ll make it up to him. You have to. How many times has he wanted to tell you? How many times has he thought about that night? What does he think of, when he remembers it? Has he sat alone with his thoughts and felt sad that you haven’t ever recognised him, have never pieced that it was his face right in front of you that night? What if-

“‘ey, stop that.” Those same gentle hands, feeling more familiar than ever, take yours away from your face and bring them to your lap, but don’t let them go. 

Meeting your eyes, he calms the sea of overwhelming thoughts that had been swallowing your mind. In the midst of peace returning, a moment of clarity finds you, and you smile at him.

“Now that I know who my hero was that night, I can say what I always wanted to say!”

Seeing your spirits visibly left, Daryl smiles back at you. “Wha’s that?”

Leaning forward, you plant a soft kiss on his left cheek. Instead of pulling away immediately, you linger there to whisper the words your heart has been singing to him since the day you met, and the day you met again.

“Thank you.”

The moonlight prevents you from being able to see the dusting of pink that covers Daryl’s cheeks in the wake of your kiss, the first kiss you’ve ever given him.

“Sweet girl, ya’ve never gotta thank me for nothin’.”

Resting your head back on his shoulder and releasing a deep breath, you smile out into the night and squeeze his hands.

“You know as well as I do, that’ll never stop me.”

__________

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[elucienweekofficial]

Elucien Fanfic Crossword Answer Key- Smut Day Two

How did you do? It's our hope through this week of puzzles that folks are able to find an existing fanfiction that speaks to them! Consider these a small masterlist filled with recommendations from the community itself. Below you'll find every fanfiction recommended attached to the author who created it, added in the order they were submitted! Fics were also categorized to their best of our ability. Check them out below!

[please check all tags before engaging!]

My Name, Your Confession by @ofduskanddreams

Elain and Lucien are both determined to ignore the bond at Nesta’s mating ceremony, but their ideas backfire as the bond chafes and they reach a breaking point.

Elain refuses to say Lucien’s name when he’s around—Lucien vows to make her scream it before the night ends. Is it really recklessness if it’s fate?

Previously titled: “He Who Must Not Be Named”

Desperate Measures by @separatist-apologist

Day Court keeps Lucien busy.

Lucky for Elain, Lucien knows just the way to rectify that.

we'll always have paris by @beesays

"Someone might see"

"So let them"

Or Elain has an exhibitionist streak and Lucien indulges.

Like A Survivor by @reispinkoveralls

Elain suggests a rather creative solution to overcome her PTSD involving Lucien and a set of chains.

So Long, London by @shadowisles-writes

"You swore that you loved me but where were the clues, I died on the altar waiting for the proof."

After the war with Hybern, Elain is welcome back into Graysen Nolan's estate to marry him. Elated to live the life she dreamed of, Elain learns to glamour herself to fit in among the humans of their village. Unable to keep away on her wedding day, Lucien paces outside until the very last moment he can interrupt to beg her to reconsider, except the scene he walks into is anything but a wedding.

Push Me Up Against The Wall by @xtaketwox

It's been 6 months since Elain's world was turned upside down by Graysen's cheating. Vassa knows just the thing to help Elain move on: Lucien

Separate My Soul From My Body by @crazy-ache

“I am Elain Archeron, sister of the High Lady of Night, Feyre the Cursebreaker. I’ve come to demand the release of Lucien Vanserra back to the custody of the Night Court.”

"And why would I do that?" The High Lord of Autumn demanded.

“Because he is my mate.”

When Lucien Vanserra is held captive by his father in the cruel depths of Autumn, there is only one force more powerful than politics that can save him—his mating bond with Elain Archeron. She must make the choice to save him, even if it means binding their souls forever.

Solstice Traditions by @infinitefolklore

Lucien comes to the River House on Winter Solstice eve with another gift for Elain. He is pleasantly surprised by her reaction.

Where's My Love by @shadowisles-writes

After getting the smallest taste of what being close to her mate might feel like, Elain can't help but need more. This is pretty much just smut.

Little Dove by @infinitefolklore

Human!Elain and Fox!Lucien

This is a slight canon divergence deleted scene.

After Feyre is taken to Spring Court, Tamlin sends Lucien to go check on the Archeron Estate. Lucien finds Elain all alone and offers her some company. Elain discusses her upcoming betrothal to Graysen, and Lucien tries to convince her to change her mind.

Kneel Before Me by @zenkindoflove

Lucien arrives at the House of Wind, only to be drawn into a sparring match with none other than the Inner Circle's own Shadowsinger. Things get out of hand and Azriel discovers whether he really can defeat Lucien easily.

Post-ACOSF, Elucien.

All Roads Lead To You by @annaskareninas

When Elain Archeron decides to travel the Continent, the last thing she expects is to run into Lucien Vanserra, her almost-mate, at a wine bar in the capital of Montesere. In fact, the only thing she expects less than that is to get extremely drunk, go skinny-dipping, and sleep with him.

The next morning, Elain flees Montesere. But it seems fate has other plans for her, because wherever she goes - Scythia, Xian, Rask - Lucien just keeps popping back up. Can she truly resist her destiny?

The Camping Trip by sunnyzoya

"Does that turn you on? Thinking about someone watching as I fuck you?"

I Think I Saw You In My Sleep by @zenkindoflove

The dreams of him come from the mating bond, but Elain wants them to stay. Elucien one-shot. Post ACOSF.

I'm Betting It All On You by @xtaketwox

Lucien is tired of living in limbo. He has a proposition for Elain. One kiss and if she still doesn't want him, he'll leave her alone forever.

Call Me When You Need by @whatishowedyouinthedark

Elain doesn’t mean to sleep with Lucien. The first time.

The Longest Night by @southsidestory & NextToSomething

The Winter Solstice is a time for gift-giving, love, and new beginnings. Elain wants none of those things from Lucien. She didn’t choose to be his mate, no more than she chose to be High Fae, and she’s not used to either yet. The only way to guard her heart is to keep her distance. But then a blizzard hits Velaris, leaving Lucien snowed in at the town house. And whether Elain likes it or not, she’s spending the night with her mate—the longest night of the year.

(A Court of Frost and Starlight canon-divergence.)

Emissaries With Benefits by @velidewrites

When diplomacy fails, Prythian courtiers Elain and Lucien like to resort to a steamier kind of negotiation.

[pe4nutastic]

So I made another writing thing, but like WAY longer than I originally thought it'd be. Conventionally, I've never really written things that involves me balancing more than one character lol so I'm not sure how adept I am at the balancing act yet.

All the same, this writing thing takes place in sort of alternate universe where Giegue survives M2 (originating from my old, now defunct, RP blog @anearthstruckalien) and is stuck in a kind of limbo where he needs to put his own destroyed mind back together. This is one of the many fragments he addresses.

Everything is muddled like an unwound thread, always unraveling without apparent end, splayed in all directions like spiderwork and tangled into painful knots where it had been unfortunate enough to cross into its own endless trajectory.  Muddled away into agony and nothingness.  Drenched in darkness and blood, only punctuated by a distorted painful buzzing of so much something. Hot and cold. Wet and dry.  Sparking yet dimmed.  Suffocating and all-encompassing, like a tomb.  Something short and flitting at some points, rising and lowering like especially mercurial tides, and endless at others unlike anything even the deepest and darkest depths of the oceans have ever seen.  Thoughts cannot be formed… whatever that is supposed to be.  Identity cannot be found, whatever that is supposed to be.  Memories cannot be fit together.  Whatever that is supposed to be.  He cannot discern how long it has been.  He cannot even conceptualize how something like that is measured or what it means, even as it passes through him like wind, there and yet not in an instant.

And then.  Abruptly, as if forcibly cutting to the next scene of a film in an especially jarring way with bemoaning screeeeeeeech upon reaching the terminal of some arbitrary counter, a sharp pang brings a few things to focus.  And now, he can perceive and process his environment.  A shred of clarity.  A void-like place, painted in an inky and seemingly never-ending darkness–one tinged in an oddly despairing and desolate hue somehow–and littered with glistening bits of bright shards.  Incomprehensibly bright and ever-shifting in colour and form; iridescence incarnate.  Glimmers of that which is missing, seemingly unable to fit with each other anymore yet drawn to one another anyways with the sense that with enough effort, somehow it could all fit together and become recognizable anew.  And altogether with it all, the first proper thought–as opposed to a mess of disjointed sensations and tortuous pain–springing to mind with a sudden start, something indescribably heavy like a pit coursing through what little remains of his very being intact:

Am… I… dying…?  Ceasing to… be…?

He squints or rather… would, if he had any associated visual to him.  As it stands now, it would seem that the being known as the Universal Cosmic Destroyer, is little more than a flicker of consciousness.  The tiniest and most fragile ember from a flame which had previously been extinguished, now sparking anew against all odds and probability.  Against the schematics of fate which had dictated that he die in the battle against the Earth’s latest set of Chosen Ones.  Dying.  Finality.  Somehow that seems daunting–though he can’t recall why–yet he cannot feel alarmed by it at all by his own questions nonetheless.  He had just regained (or gained?) the ability to properly process his environment and string together thoughts after all.  And either way, somehow he knows that this isn’t the end anyways.  Or at least, not yet.  All he has is a feeling.  One padded out by that which sparked that ember of consciousness, fragile as it is, into being.  A sense of resilience and indomitable spirit that refuses to bend or break, no matter how hard it is chipped away at by the harshest of elements:  willpower and determination.

The will to not die (but from what?).  The determination to endure and survive.

And somehow, without definitive rhyme and reason, part of that lies in the glimmering points of iridescent radiances before him, scattered about like stardust in the void.  He shifts his gaze towards the one closest to him, feeling something almost like a magnetic pull towards it, and as though on cue… –the very moment he eyelessly stares at it for more than a few seconds, the scene before him is softly wiped clean like chalk off a blackboard and replaced with far less monotonous and simplistic scenery:

A brightly lit room adorned by ivory wallpaper dotted with artfully-administered strokes of tiny multicoloured carnations, light brown hardwood floors, and containing little more than a small window with nothing to see but golden radiance of some kind shining through and a tiny wooden table full of various desserts and cups of tea; one cup before the entity himself and the other… before a blonde woman in a neatly-pressed pale pink dress ruffled at its ends and hanging just past her knees.

Dark blue eyes squint anew with a shrewd sense of calculation as he assesses the room anew, trying to piece together what had exactly happened to shift the location, but unable to come to an answer.  A train of thought that inevitably comes to an abrupt halt anyways when he catches sight of himself in the murky reflection of the tea soothingly settled in the ivory nook provided by its petite cup.  Shock jolts through him almost immediately, eyes widening just a smidge, as he almost jumps straight out of his plush seat.  Small fingers tap at his face and pull his cheek in an almost clinical way, as though jumpstarting a more thorough tactile examination.  He looks quite a bit like the blonde woman.  He looks… what was the word for it?  Human.  A young human boy to be precise.  Fluffy blonde hair.  A set of blue eyes set in white sclera and black pupils. A nose and mouth set into a relatively flat profile and smooth skin.  Real skin tinged with warmth, but with minimal color rising to its surface.  Human.  Somehow it feels like an illusion and yet he cannot recall every being anything else save for the formlessness he had experienced a moment prior.  Has he always been human?  It doesn’t feel like it, but…

…–and almost as soon as that particular thought starts, it comes to a grinding halt when, after what feels like an eternity of confusion and strangeness (but in actuality was little more than a few seconds worth of time), the blonde woman speaks up.

“Ah you’ve finally arrived!  I’m so happy to see you here!  It’s been a long time huh?”

She tucks a few strands of gently curling blonde hair behind an ear and all the while, the now human-boy tilts his head to the side a little at the inquiry.  A long time?  A long time for what?  He taps small stubby fingers against the solid wooden top of the table or rather, the long and lacey pale pink tablecloth daintily hanging over it, dull gaze averting in an oddly concentrated way as though attempting to grasp onto something.  Bit-by-bit, it feels like something is trickling in so as to fill an emptiness he had not realized he had, but not up to pace enough to leave him anything but perpetually confused and disoriented nonetheless.  There must be a more… a more… –efficient? yes, efficient method to this but it would seem that he has little more than the ability to think and process at the moment, knowledge itself lacking save for what inevitably trickles in.

“Are you comfortable?  I’ve prepared your favourite tea and some desserts that you’ve always liked just for this occasion.  So feel free to take as much as you want of whatever you want.  Nothing ever runs out here --take my word for it!”

She winks, one bright and lively blue eye–practically brimming with a zest for life and unwavering optimism for whatever the future may bring–of two, momentarily being obscured by the attached flap of skin before re-emerging.  In return, the human boy stares blankly at her for a few seconds before seemingly relenting his inscrutable gaze–unable to find whatever it is he was looking for–before gingerly plucking a shortbread cookie off its pristine plate, intrigued by both the dessert and by what the blonde woman had said.  By the very notion of having information that he lacks.  Something about that feels right… familiar… but he can’t quite place why exactly.  Lifting the cookie directly before him, rather than immediately consuming it, the human boy examines it with just a glint of intrigue in his comparatively dull pupils.

“My ‘favourites’...?  I have a favourite?  How would you know?”

A genuine question.  The entity rather delicately nibbles on the perfectly-formed edge of the cookie, swirling the tiny bit on the tip of his tongue, before taking a proper bite out of it afterwards.  One which he hopes will at the very least serve as a good point of reference or direction towards easing away that thick fog cluttering his mind.  The cookie is… hm… ‘good’.  It tastes good.  Familiar.  Safe.  Safe…?  Safe.  Dark blue voids flicker back up to meet the blonde woman’s gaze.  She seems to have no immediate response, thick eyebrows knitted in thought albeit without ever breaking her gaze on the entity himself, before settling on something, smile dimming a little to something less exuberant and more gentle and understanding.

“It’s a liiiittle tricky to explain if you even need to ask in the first place… but, I know what I do about you because in a way, I’m a part of you.

The one part that’s never changed… –that never could.

No matter how much everything else got rearranged.

…it’s never changed.  You were still you.  You still are.”

She taps a finger over where the human heart would be located, over the left side of her chest as she makes a claim of being part of the entity himself.  And she does just that, something lights up in softened iridescence over that point, in the shape of a stylized heart, the same occurring immediately to the entity himself in the exact same point and thus emphasizing the verity of her very point, dark blue voids widening just a smidge in surprise before giving way to a small pensive frown.  He sharply glances down to his own chest as the light fades away.  Part of him…?  He taps the same spot a few times.  But, he’s right here and yet… even though it seems nonsensical, it somehow seems to make perfect sense anyways.  Instinctively so.  The answer isn’t as direct as he had been hoping, but maybe it’s meant to be this way.  Meant to be?  There’s a word for that.  Destiny.  A bitter taste in his mouth.  Fate.  A sensation that twists and churns his guts (if he had any to begin with) with intense fervor for reasons he cannot entirely parse out… –doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t apply in this situation anyways.  Because this is on a significantly smaller scale anyways.

The entity takes a small sip of the hot and soothing tea before him, a cooling sensation immediately hitting afterwards despite its true temperature setting.  Peppermint.  Much like the shortbread cookies, it indeed seems pleasant to his palate.  Between this, what he captured beyond this world in the form of glittery fragments amidst a void, and the growing conglomerate sensation (familiarity, safety, trust) towards the blonde woman… it seems that there’s more merit than ‘meets the eye’ to this interaction.  Clarity starts with this.  Perhaps that’s why he was the most drawn to this fragment.  Another small sip of the peppermint tea.  Perhaps that’s why not receiving a direct answer is the most conducive to dispersing that thick fog over his mind.  Towards feeling less empty.

“Perhaps.  But, if what you are saying is accurate, then I must be incomplete.

In… pieces.

It is what my… ‘gut’ is telling me… though it also ‘feels’... incorrect to rely on such a thing.”  He glances back down at the tea, settled shortly after his last sip, and down to his murky reflection in it before shaking his head.  “This form feels incorrect.  As though I should have a different shape...”

Yet another sip of the peppermint tea, head tilting slightly to the side afterwards as he continues to speak, any uncertainty from before evaporating to be replaced by what seems to be rather characteristic of him; blank neutrality and flatness.

“Being in pieces is not my natural state, is it?  Is this interaction a way of pulling everything back together?”

The blonde woman takes a sip of her own tea.  Chamomile tea.  He can tell what it is somehow, without having tasted it and even before its smell registers with him.  It’s her favourite.  Just like the carnations dotting the worn wallpaper.  She taps her head for a moment as she responds, a hint of playfulness entering her tone as she does so.

“Maybe.  Maybe not. I can’t just tell you directly, but I can give that knowledge as an exchange of sorts.”

The entity lifts up his own cup of tea anew, as though planning to drink it, before deigning to just swirl the liquid around a bit as if mulling something over before responding, a twinge of determination entering his tone as he does so.  Of course not.  He isn’t being fed direct answers, but being directed towards them after all.

“What kind of exchange?”

Her smile widens, matching the playful tone as it continues to seep into her next few words.

“We can play a game and if you win, then I’ll be more direct with you.  A game of…”

She pauses, frowning a bit herself in a rather pensive manner as if mulling over a few options herself to determine which one would be best for truly helping the entity, before settling on something and with that, clasping her hands together with renewed enthusiasm. 

“... –of riddles!  It’s a pretty simple points-based game with two roles:  the one that makes up the riddles, the Riddle Master, and the one that answers them.

The Riddle Master gets points by making up riddles that the other player can’t answer while the player gets points by successfully giving the correct answer to the Riddle Master’s riddles.  No one loses points, you either get them or you don’t.

In this game, I’ll be the Riddle Master and you’ll be the one answering.  There’ll be a total of 5 riddles.  How does that sound for you?”

The entity hesitates very little, taking just a moment to mentally go over the exact parameters of the suggested game, before offering a definitive nod.  He’s already determined that judging by every minute improvement in his state here… it’s best to simply ‘play’ along, no matter how counterproductive it may seem.  He implicitly trusts her, even if the reason why exactly cannot be parsed out, and so this aspect to him must represent someone that was (and perhaps still is) important to him.

“I accept your arrangement.  Proceed with the ‘game’.”

The blonde woman takes another sip of her chamomile tea, gulping the rest of it down in one fell swoop before gently moving aside the empty cup… one which stays empty for only a second or so before the familiar steam of freshly crafted tea wafts through the air anew, as if no progress had been made on it to begin with.  ‘As much as you want’ huh?  The entity consumes the rest of his shortbread cookie, as if to test the theory for himself, and in line with what he had just seen… the empty spot on the plate from which he had plucked it is immediately filled with a new shortbread cookie as its replacement; a reinforcement that this is a matter of the mind… he thinks.  At this juncture, he only has sensations and hunches –not true concrete data to confirm if there is anything more than this.  He smoothes out the neck of his grey sweater before folding his own hands together with definitive intent and concentration, dark blue voids narrowing accordingly.  All the more reason to ‘play along’ and succeed in this game.

“Alright!  Let’s get to it then.  I’ll keep the first three riddles simple and easy; a good warm-up before getting to the trickier ones.

What… disappears as soon as you say its name?

That’s it.  That’s all you’re getting to work out the answer!”

The entity immediately gets to thinking over the answer.  A riddle is an inquiry that appeals to logic, problem-solving, or both.  And so, it either has an answer that’s so obvious one wouldn’t even consider it or clues scattered throughout as the characteristics of what the answer is supposed to be.  Judging by the minimal nature of this riddle… it must be the former.  The answer is obvious.  Something in plain sight.  An auditory component to it.  Speaking aloud the name of the subject will make it disappear and so, it can only exist so long as one doesn’t speak… ah.  He almost smiles, satisfied, even by such a trivial accomplishment.

“The answer is ‘silence’.  Not making any sound is a condition inherent to maintaining it therefore, it ceases to be once sound is made.”

The blonde woman gives an affirmative nod in agreement, sticking two closed fists with thumbs sticking out as if to reaffirm the point.  The entity isn’t entirely certain as to what he should make of the gesture, but based off her body language, he can only deduce that it is a positive gesture.  One whose continued enthusiasm is admittedly a little endearingly infectious though he doesn’t quite outwardly show it yet.  He doesn’t feel as though he is the sort to ‘warm up’ quickly to others, but something about this comes just as naturally as trust did, tinged with a sense of ‘deja vu’, as though he’s done this many times over before.  Something about this contents him, the familiarity and warmth prevalent throughout their entire interaction thus far playing no small role in this, even though the game has just started.

“That’s right aaaand one point for you!  You’re a natural at this –I knew you would be!  You’ve always been clever.  But, can you handle this one too?  

What has many keys, but can’t open a single lock?”

Hm.  Yet another question with very minimal clues and in lieu of that, an obvious answer to it.  Keys and locks.  A key?  A key is… a key is… hm… oh! something that is used to open places safeguarded by a matching lock!  Keys and locks are a pair, one shape fitting the other in order to move the mechanism keeping its interconnected block in place against those without the necessary key.  Small fingers pensively tap his chin.  But, in this case… the key in question has no matching lock.  Several keys without matching locks to be specific.  A quality inherent to the object in question and not the result of some defect or damage, if he has analyzed the phrasing correctly.

Admittedly… be it due to his gaps in actual knowledge or not, he cannot imagine anything which would have multiple useless keys attached to it.  But then… perhaps the term ‘keys’ does not refer to what his initial instinct falls upon.  Maybe he needs to consider alternate contexts of it…–an abrupt pause mid-thought, by the sound of the blonde woman tapping her fingers over top the table’s wooden surface.  A rhythmic and intentional motion…

… –as though, she’s creating music.  An oddly familiar tune, sweet yet bitter in a way he can almost grasp, like words just at the tip of his tongue.  Understanding clicks into place.  Playing an instrument.  With keys. 

“A piano.  The answer is a ‘piano’.”

No need to explain this time.  The abrupt, almost enthused despite the blandness of his tone, way in which the entity himself answered, cutting straight through the tapping says it all.  He’s certain in his conclusion with no need to explain it to the one that created the riddle in the first place.  And as such, he receives another set of ‘thumbs up’.  Something which sparks a bit of brightness in his heart anew; contentment and satisfaction at succeeding.

“Correct!  Two points now!

For someone that doesn’t remember much, you’re pretty good at this game, but remember, this is the last easy question before things get more challenging okay?”

A playful wink on her part while the entity does little more than offer a curt nod, much of his attention glued more to whatever the next question may be.  It’s difficult to parse out the exact words for this sensation, but it’s hooked him in rather quickly; a combination of its familiarity and the mental exercise it offers.

“What do you call two birds in love?”

And with that question, the blonde woman uses her respective thumbs and and index fingers to form the shape of a heart as if to emphasize the ‘love’ part.  The entity himself stares at the motion, from start to end, with a blank stare despite his enjoyment of the game before focusing in on piecing it out.  It doesn’t seem like a true riddle.  The question does not seem to have an object inherent to its answer, but a term instead.  He rubs his chin.  An odd departure or perhaps a format that he cannot recall, due to his fragmented state of being at the moment.  He thinks on it for a few seconds more before shaking his head, a touch disappointed in himself, and ultimately relenting.

“Apologies.  I do not know.  Would you be so kind as to enlighten me on the matter?”

A short and sweet–almost as musical as her voice, like gentle wind chimes–burst of laughter bubbles out her mouth at that before its obscured by an arm, bare skin far less effective than actual fabric would have been were the sleeves of her dress not short.  Nonetheless, once the blonde woman regains her composure enough, the answer comes out in one similarly short burst as if retelling an especially thrilling punchline to a joke.

“Tweet-hearts!  Get it?  Because they’re birds and in love –like sweet hearts haha!”

Another short and sweet burst of laughter, her hand gently smacking the table with a soft yet no less resounding thunk, clearly thoroughly enjoying the joke herself.  The entity on the other hand… though he understands the concept of it and the wordplay that inspired it, mouth twitching a bit, before he just turns his head to the side.  And he does so in a rather petulant and oddly childish way, as if overcome with an emotion from a separate moment in time tipped in deja vu, before huffing through his nose to forcibly dissipate any genuine amusement that may (or may not) have been felt by him.

“That is not a riddle.  It is wordplay.  You tricked me.”

In response, the blonde woman sticks up a single finger and wags it side-to-side, having long since gotten the last bit of her amusement out of her system, evidently finding great amusement in jokes like this.

“Uh-uh!  By definition, a riddle is a question or statement with a clever twist to it. And all clever twists need ingenuity to properly entangle, don’t you think?”

Incapable of actually keeping up the petulant facade–the emotion as insincere as everything else might as well be about him at this juncture–where the human woman herself is concerned, the entity ultimately relents and turns back to her with a nod.

“... I suppose.  Does it count against me then?”

She shakes her head, high energy dimmed a little but no less bright and warm in her overall demeanor nonetheless.

“It’s just a joke –a bit of humour!  Pretty punny don’t you think?  Don’t worry, this one doesn’t count against you.  You still have two points.  Two for you.  Zero for me.

Are you ready to move onto the next riddle?  Two more left.  And remember, it gets more challenging from here on out.”

The most immediate answer that pops to mind is a resounding ‘yes’.  And yet, the entity finds himself halted by a sudden and odd sense of melancholic emptiness, one which almost completely replaces the contentment he had experienced before.  He downs the rest of his peppermint tea, somewhat hoping to distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation, but ultimately failing.  How familiar.  The sense of deja vu is even stronger than before and it’s only really hitting him now.  It isn’t just the game itself, but the exact questions and wordplay interjection that’s familiar.  Nonsensical as it sounds, this exchange feels as though it’s happened before in every exact step…at least on the blonde woman’s part.  The entity himself has changed.  Somehow, he’s certain of it… certain that when (if) this actually happened in reality… he more closely mirrored the blonde woman’s demeanor.  He glances back down at the now empty cup before it immediately refills itself with the steaming and soothing aroma of the peppermint infused liquid.  The entity himself has changed, even before the fragmentation event, and likely for the worst.  He takes a renewed cursory glance at his surroundings, one with renewed clarity even through the still ever-present fog in his mind.

The surroundings make a lot less sense now.  The odd minimalism and the overly bright hues to everything (now that he really looks at it) as if it all has a subtle glow to it… the lack of anything beyond pure radiance outside the window… it seems less like reality and more like a dream.  A thing of the mind after all.  Something in his chest tightens.  Hesitation encased in dread cutting through what remains of his contentment before he mentally presses on with a determined nod, ready to hear the next riddle.

“A star twinkles in the distance, a wonder of its existence. In exchange for a bird, the silence of a child. A question of the sheep's provisions.

What is it?”

More challenging indeed.  The format is far less simple, especially when he’s on the cusp of what feels vaguely like an awakening of sorts.  A stab through delusion which, if he is to fully submit to the idea that this isn’t what reality is actually like, he must not have wanted to recover from on some level.  Not if it took for him this long to figure it out if he really is as supposedly clever as she claims.  And yet, despite the cloudiness introduced to his logical processes, the answer comes much quicker than before with little introspection needed on his part.  Like he already knows it… because he almost certainly already does.  Quick as it comes however, some of that hesitation from before rushes back with a biting vengeance.   It… hurts?  Something does.  The game is almost over after all and yet, his determination to see it through remains anyways.  Feeble as it may be… the entity nonetheless, pushes on anyways like before.

“...a lullaby.”

Almost despondently so, his gaze averting off to the side, but never fully breaking the blank neutrality of his tone.  Then silence for a bit.  A much needed reprieve and yet, one which even in the absence of the final riddle, only lasts for a short burst of time or so before his mind wanders back to the blonde woman’s tapping from before.  With a bit more clarity gained now… he not only realizes that she was giving him a hint as to what the answer to the second riddle was, but that he actually knows the words.  Sweet yet painful.  More clear images–and with it, the surroundings losing their subtle glow and coming more into focus–starting to filter through like film from an old movie that might have once been in pristine condition, but has now long since degraded, cutting off at certain points while slanting in an unsightly way at others.  Another pang of clarity.  He almost doesn’t want to play anymore.  To stop it at this before things go too far… before he is far too gone to return to being more contented and… and… normal.

N o r m a l.  He’s always wanted to be normal, but they would not let him.

A discordant thought.  One which he neatly sweeps aside, finding it easier to do so as opposed to letting it run any further, before forcing his attention back on the game.  Despite everything… he still, at the end of it all, feels inclined to finish.  He has to finish because this is important.  More than he had initially surmised in his far less lucid state upon arriving here.  At that conclusion, as if on cue, the blonde woman starts on the next riddle with no further lighthearted comments or jabs, her expression going completely inscrutable yet no less determined as if she knows the end is near in more ways than one.  An awakening is coming and though it’s a bit hard to pop the entity’s bubble… though it feels cruel… she must press on.  It’s better this way.

“Three points.  Onto the last riddle

I’m always old yet sometimes new.

Never sad yet sometimes blue.

Never empty but sometimes full.

Never pushy but always pulling.

Always here even when I’m gone.

What am I?”

The entity’s eyes widen as though he’s just been sloshed with a bucket of ice-cold water.  Inexplicably so.  Nothing about the wording is especially offensive and yet something tightens in his chest anyways.  The very feeling which had been building up over the course of this whole interaction peaking and exploding by the very last sentence of the riddle, small hand reaching up to tightly grip just over his chest, where his heart would be were he actually as human as he appears.  The moon.  Gone.  He knows it.  Not real.  She’s gone.  He knows that this is the answer with 100% certainty and yet the answer is caught in his throat anyways, as blocked and paralyzed as he’s abruptly become as something inscrutable splits, fracturing like glass or like one layer of a haze which had hung over him ever since he had gained cognizance anew.  She’s gone.  The moon in all of its mundane glory.  A basic satellite that orbits the earth.  Her home.  She’s gone.  A rock inhospitable to humans and littered with maria, dark flat regions that look like bodies of water from a distance–

…–maria? He shakes his head to himself.  No.  Not maria, but Maria.  Maria.

Maria.  She’s gone.  Always here.  Always gone.

It all cliiiiiiicks into place.  Not in full–that much requires a far lengthier and more arduous journey–but enough to properly identify that which pertains to the blonde woman before him.  His hands curl into tight fists by his sides, posture going completely rigid as he shakes his head, as though that would somehow magically make this particular ‘awakening’ stop.  To Maria.  His dearest mother.  His only family.  The one and only bit of good in his life before everything was irreversibly poisoned.

Poisoned by them.

And as if in direct response to that particular thought, rising up against it amidst everything else, something abruptly breaks on the inside and against all odds, out gushes a sensation even more overwhelming than what’s just hit him.  Overwhelming enough to push aside that odd melancholic emptiness, bitterness, and despair which had all too fast begun to fill him.  A jumbled patchwork of emotions that shouldn’t fit together yet do all the same nonetheless, tumbling out at various intensities and moments without rhyme or reason.  And it is all because of her, with one particular emotion far above the others at the core and helm of it all.  The very base origin behind everything felt now.  The planet to everything else which revolves around it.

An all-encompassing, rich, and impossibly deep sensation, almost suffocating in its concept, almost too overwhelming to contain within his fragile body yet somehow it manages to be anyways.  It permeates every fibre of his being.  It exists in every crevice and space where it could fit within the essence which constitutes who he is.

Warmer than the simple, bright, and short sprigs of happiness from before.

More passionate than the most concentrated poisons of hatred.

Beyond all comprehension and in complete violations of all logical conventions;  the very pinnacle of irrationality, evolved beyond its initial spark and into its final transcendent format.

Love.

Yes.  That’s right.  It’s clear to him now.  More than anything else, he loves her.  He had forgotten that he did, for a bit, but now that he is no longer blinded by… other things… he realizes that there is nothing more important than that.

Nothing more important than her.

That is what has come gushing out with such vigor.  The true form of his feelings towards his adoptive human mother.  That is the precise name of that sensation.  It only hurts because he loves her.  It hurts because it mattered.

Because it still does.

Despite everything, it still matters.

She still matters.

“Maria.  Mother.”

He hesitates, sadness sharply pinpricking his heart with renewed enthusiasm against the seemingly endless onslaught of love as if attempting to strike a particular emotional balance and with it, a strange and foreign wetness forming at the corners of his eyes.  Liquid.  Strange, upsetting, and rending liquid.  Are his optical receptors broken…somehow, even here in a dream…?  He rather tentatively glances down at his refilled cup of peppermint tea to discern the true identity of the mysterious liquid, almost jumping back as he does so, his chair making a muffled skidding sound on the floor as the only indication of his shock.  His appearance is no longer human.  He appears as he feels he should, but perhaps a bit small?  A small clawed digit pokes at an upright and triangular ear, then at his stubby snout, large dark blue voids (the same colour through every part of his eyes, from the sclera to the pupils) narrowing in the welcome distraction that this provides before closing his eyes with a sigh, the clear liquid dripping out and staining the otherwise pristine pink tablecloth before him.  Fists somehow becoming even tighter, claws digging into the palms of his hands without drawing blood.

“Are you really here?”

The question comes tumbling out, rigid neutrality finally properly breaking a bit under the enormous weight of what can only be his own grief reborn–having originally never been permitted to properly manifest and instead, kept at bay by things that seem awfully petty and meaningless now–before he can stop himself.  He knows.  He knows the answer to his own question.  The painful, bitter, and ugly truth.  He knows and yet he can’t help asking, hoping to be wrong.  To receive an answer to halt what he’s reliving; the warmth and intensity of love, outlined by crushing and unrelenting sadness.  Maria herself reaches out–the chairs, table and everything on it having mysteriously vanished now seemingly in accordance with this change in the entity himself, as smoothly and seamlessly as if it had been like this all along–and bending down to the entity’s now diminutive height, her expression twisted a little with concern, and gently presses a thumb at the corners of his eyes to wipe a few more budding tears away.

“My dearest Giegue, I’m always with you.  And I always will be.”

She pulls him into a hug and overwhelmed by the flurry of emotions as he is, Giegue does not resist.  Rather he numbly allows for it to happen, more liquid leaking out his eyes to replace that which Maria had so kindly wiped away, his mouth pressed into a rather tense line that faintly quivers as if holding back so much more.  He can’t breathe, physiological impossibility of that aside.  He can’t move.  He can barely think, what little he can manage utterly dedicated towards “getting it together”, simply-put.  His memories are largely incomplete, but this feels awfully pathetic anyways.  As though he’s supposed to be better than this.  As though he has no right to break and bend at all and rather, has a duty towards remaining completely militant.  To otherwise fail to do so, as he is now, admittedly makes him feel hatred not just for them in general but for himself for being unable to do something so basic and so much more.

“You’ll always have a bit of the most important people inside your heart.  They’ll always be a part of you, even after they’re long gone.

Memories might hide in different parts of the mind’s maze, but they’re never really gone.

You never really forget the important things.  Do you understand?”

Of course he understands, comprehension cutting through the budding self-hatred for a moment.  He slowly, almost tentatively moves just a bit to loosely return her hug.  But, that’s exactly what makes this so difficult.  He knows.  He knows that, though the sincerity of her words rings through, this isn’t the real Maria.  It’s an aspect of his mind.  Love and maybe a bit of hope made manifest in the form that which exclusively inspires such an irrational state of being.  He closes his eyes shut rather tightly, pointed teeth grinding harshly from behind the tight line of his mouth.  He knows.  His fingers claw into the pink fabric of her dress as if he’s been starved of something for a very long time and can no longer continue to push back the desire to be satiated at long last.  He knows that he needs to complete this interaction in order to move onto the next fragment of many out there.  To become more complete.  And yet… his grip on the pink fabric abruptly tightens at the thought of having to move onto something else.  How despicable.  And yet… he briefly entertains the thought of never properly waking up.  Disgusting.  Of never becoming complete again.  Lowly scum.  Of the dream never ending.

Irrationally so.

Irrational.  Stupid.  And selfish.

Childishly so.

Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.

Let go.

But, he can’t.

Move on.

To what…?

Get over it.

How can he?  Everything has unraveled too far to neatly tie back up in its box.

Let go.

NO.  Never again.  That fleeting thought of never repairing himself is promptly crushed underneath his proverbial and unyielding heel.  How can he even think like that?  Be that pathetic and weak?  Somehow.  He knows that it isn’t like him.  And even if it is, then he knows that he needs to transcend such a basal nonetheless.  To be better.  Stronger this time around.  A slow and disapproving shake of his head to himself before the Psion pulls back from the hug, letting go of her dress and recomposed just a bit albeit still teary, and levitates up enough to meet Maria at eye level.  The first display of his psionic power since he regained his ability to think and process things at all, perhaps in response to the latest bit of growth towards becoming complete.

For several moments, he just stares at her.  Just stares and stares and stares while she patiently waits, completely nonplussed–a glimmer of understanding no less prominent in her gentle gaze–by this particular development.  He can’t find the words.  Despite his renewed, albeit still shaky, determination… words fail him anyways.  Despite knowing just how much of an illusion this actually is… mountains of mountains of mountains of words pile up all at once, much like the way all these feelings and thoughts of his had come rushing back in a jumbled mess.  There’s so many things that he wants to say.  Things he’s always wanted to say to her; archived for millenia until the consequent backlog became almost impossible to contain, now bursting out and flooding his mind in violent waves.  She’s not really here.  She’s gonegonegone.  

Destined to never cross paths with him again.  

Like lines that can never intersect.

GONE.

There’s NO POINT in saying anything meaningful.  And yet…

“I am sorry.  I could not be what you wanted me to be.  I have failed you.”

He cannot help himself anyways.  His head dips down, gaze averted towards the ground while his shoulders hunch ever-so-slightly, thoroughly miserable.  Shame.  Pure and unadulterated shame.  Out of the billions of things that he could say… that he shouldn’t bother with saying on principle… this comes out anyways.  A hollow apology tinged with regret.  Like that fixes anything, especially when he cannot entirely recall what he’s sorry about in the first place.  All he knows is that he’s deeply regretful about everything and that it is because he has in a way that is exceedingly wrong.  Utterly unworthy of all that she has invested in him in the short time they had known each other.  Is that really all he can say anymore after everything?  More liquid leaks out his eyes and falls, guided by the gravity of this dream towards the nonexistent ground now, blanked out by pale yellow hues in place of the wooden floor from earlier.  All the while, Maria shakes her head as if in disagreement with the Psion’s outward claims and the thoughts running through his mind earlier on, before gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

“You haven’t failed me.  I think that… sometimes… we lose our way in life.  That doesn’t mean that we can’t find our way back.  Most people don’t stay lost forever.

The fact that you’re sorry at all is proof that you’re part of that majority.”

She steps forward and takes his small stubby hands into her own, cold contrasting against the very human warmth of her fair skin.  A beat.  And the Psion himself instinctively returns the grip–even though he shouldn’t–though he still doesn’t shift his gaze off the ground.

“Giegue.  You’re capable of more good than you know.

I still believe in you.  I always have and always will.  Because… just as I’ve said before, despite everything, you’re still you.

And I’ve always believed that you had a good heart.  I still do.

It’s never too late to turn away from the path you’ve been on thus far and do what’s right.  To be good against all perceived odds.  Even your own.”

Giegue wants to irrationally resist.  Hands twitching with intent to ball into fists, but only halting that particular action because said appendages in question are intertwined with hers.  Resist her words.  Resist the sense of ease starting to creep its way through him.  He wants to hold onto all that hatred, bitterness, and misery for as long as he can… to press it so close to his very core that he will never forget how rendingly awful it feels.  He deserves it.  Just as much as he wants to never let go of her, even if she’s just an illusion here.  And yet, he finds himself comforted by the words anyways, pain ebbed away by her warmth and kindness.  It’s absurd.

Because even if she’s an illusion… an apparition of his mind… he cannot bring himself to sincerely fight her on this.  He cannot deny her.  Not anymore.  So the only option he has is to simply let himself be comforted by it, somehow, and instead focus on seeing this interaction through to its end.  The surrounding details fading further away, window and wallpaper disappearing until the background is little more than a pastel rainbow of color splotches twinkling with a mysterious kind of radiance, like the starry night sky.

Good.  Being good.  Is it really that simple?

It hardly seems like it, especially for a creature such as himself.  The sincerity of her words come through as clearly as his rediscovered… love… for her and yet, he cannot help doubting himself anyways.  He’s comforted by her words, but doubt creeps in just as swiftly as comfort comes nonetheless.  He’s done nothing to warrant such faith in his apparent intrinsic ‘good’.  Absolutely nothing.  That much, he’s certain of, even in the absence of supporting memories and knowledge to that.  Because he was created by them.  The Psion species and they are certainly not good.  Because Maria is indisputably good and Giegue himself is nothing like her.  His shoulders hunch further, twitching but not accompanied by any further tears, his gaze somehow dipping down even further –fixed to the ground with even more intent than before.  Then he speaks, expression as blank as the tone of his words despite the uncertainty, misery, and lack of direction behind them.

“Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I nonetheless no longer have a purpose.

What am I supposed to do anymore?

There are many gaps in what I can recall at this juncture, but somehow I simply know that there is nothing meaningful beyond this ‘dream’.”

He pulls his hands away from Maria, so as to wipe away the last few pinpricks of liquid off the corners of dark blue voids, shaking his head as he does so despite the resignation from before, emotional vulnerability of a new sort cracking through his renewed neutrality as he continues on, volume gradually quieting as he reaches the end of his message.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.

I’m… I am…. afraid that I am not strong enough to do anything else.

That I am only good for causing destruction and harm.

I am… afraid that… that I am not strong enough to be more than what they wanted.”

For a moment, there’s a brief flicker of sadness in her ever patient, gentle, and understanding gaze–a breakage in kindness and optimism paralleling the breakage in the Psion’s neutrality–before it snaps back to normal.  Then a pause as Maria carefully thinks over how to answer.  How to even begin addressing his feelings.  Complex things entangled in such a way, hatred completely and utterly integrated throughout, that it could not possibly be resolved in one fell swoop.  Nonetheless, the apparition has hope and unwavering belief in her son’s strength.  The memory of her would not exist at all if he really were as hate-worthy and weak as he believes.  And deep down he knows it.  She places her hands, one atop the other, over her heart while a small, hopeful, and knowing smile makes its way back onto her face anew.

“I only want for you to be happy with yourself and your life again.  It might seem impossible to you now, but I know that it will come to pass.

Giegue.  

You are so much stronger than you know.

The answer might not be immediately clear to you on what you’re meant to do now, but that’s okay.  You’ll figure it out and make it through.  You always do.”

Much like before, the Psion is hit with that impulsive and irrational desire to rebel against her words, but this time he quashes that impulse much more quickly.  Even if he cannot quite believe in himself the way she’d like for him to… he has to somehow try anyways.  If not for his sake, then certainly for hers.  He straightens his posture out and finally returns Maria’s gaze more properly, a fragile yet no less determined glint reflecting off dull pupils.  His doubts and fears cannot be mitigated so easily, but that does not matter because if he allows for himself to be completely consumed by such lowly sensations then he will only end up wasting the time, effort, and love–unworthy as he is of it at all–the real Maria had put into him long ago.  Apparition or not, the feelings of his which manifested it to begin with are real.  And in his… ‘heart’... he knows that this is how the real Maria would feel.

“Do you really believe that…?”

One last slippage, one last glint of vulnerability, and he’s done.  It’s a question he cannot help asking.   Especially now that the apparition before him has abruptly lost her details in line with the renewal of his resolve, demoted to little more than a vague pink outline while the multicolored splotches of their collective backdrop fragments to reveal the void from earlier on, sans a glimmering fragment.  The very development he had been dreading, but he holds strong against it with rigid neutrality.  He has to.  For her sake.

“Do you even need to ask?  Of course I do.”

She then looks down at herself, starting to fade now with the rest of the scattered backdrop pieces, and sighs a touch disappointed.  As if she had been hoping for a little more time despite knowing that this final outcome was near.

“Our time here is almost done.  You’ve achieved what you needed to.  Before I go… can I make one last request of you…?

I know that it might be a bit much with everything that you’ll have to face moving forward–”

The apparition is abruptly cut off before she can finish her sentence when the Psion sticks out a stubby arm, palm facing outward and towards her as a silent indication to cease speaking immediately.  No explanation is needed.  He will always help her without question.  She needn’t even ask.  Such is the ‘power of love’ in all those… stories of heroes and monsters that his adoptive human mother used to tell him, is it not?  In the end, love always prevails and though mere fiction, it certainly applies here.

“Yes.  Anything.  You can have no request that is too unreasonable for me to fulfill.

Though I may be uncertain on where I… ‘fit’... now… there is something that I can nonetheless say with certainty on how I will exist from now on.

And it is that… no matter what happens, has happened, or will happen… I will always stand by your figurative side through it all.

No matter what, I will never abandon your memory.”

The Psion receives no immediate response, the apparition taken aback for a moment, as if she hadn’t been expecting this particular response.  Or at least, not so quickly.  Strange for a mere apparition born of his mind.  As an aspect of him, she should have anticipated this particular result anyways, but then… he was rather heavily damaged.  His entire mind had fractured and so, certain… incongruencies can be expected.  Nonetheless, the apparition quickly recovers, a bit of pride making its way into her fading features as she smiles for the last time, embracing the Psion as she does so which he more immediately returns this time around. A tentative and awkward, as if completely unused to contact like this, but not less sincere in its gentle nature.

“I should have known.  I won’t hesitate then.

Protect the Earth and all life on it, won’t you?”

Gone.  Gone.  Gone.  Her voice fades away as she speaks along with the rest of her form, little more than a ghostly whisper lost to the void.  She’s gone.  One hand curls into a small and tense fist, both dropping by their respective sides, while his eyes screw shut.

Some part of him admittedly felt compelled to reach out, as if that would somehow stop what had happened. Another part felt inclined to call out to not leave, even though he already knew such an inevitability was near. The visuals made that much abundantly clear. He should have done this. He should have done that and yet, it happened too fast for him to do anything but reel in the cold and isolated aftermath of it all. An aftermath from which he cannot falter; he had already done far enough of that and at this juncture, he must remain strong even as renewed bits of wetness threaten to deftly slide out the corners of his eyes.

The real Maria is long gone. She has been for a very long time. That was just an apparition. Nothing more and nothing less.

Gone, but certainly not forgotten.

The pale alien takes a moment to just… accept what’s happened… the part he supposed would be hardest, even though he had braced for it.  One.  Two.  Three.  An inhalation of air.  Four.  Five.  Six.  An exhalation of air.  Then he opens his eyes anew and glances out at the remaining fragments in the darkness as the remaining bits of the previous fragment’s backdrop morph into pure glittering golden light–the very same which had once shone through the window in the dream–before concentrating into a beam that fades into his body, right where a heart would be if he physiologically had one.

“I will.  I promise.”

The semantics of that do not matter. Whether it's more complicated or simpler than he can currently envision, limited as his current database is, he will certainly see her request through to the very end.

It's the least he can do. The only thing he can do for her anymore as her son.

[achaotichuman]

Back with chapter 3 of this fic! I have decided to make the rewrite of A Court of Mist and Fury stretch over four chapters instead of three for formatting reasons. Anyway, if you have no idea what this is here is chapter 1 and here is chapter 2

Summary-

Finally free of the Mountain and Amarantha's grip on the people. The Spring Court is scrambling to get back to normal. With their wedding not far away, Tamlin is struggling to keep his Court from falling into disarray. When he starts to get sick things begin to take a turn for the worse and worser.

When Feyre is taken by the Lord of Night, it doesn't look like anything it can get any worse. With his life experience Tamlin should know that things can always get worse.

Request- Do you think you could write about dahlia in this context: https://www.tumblr.com/praetorqueenreyna/737196004108058624?source=share, hopefully featuring deadbeat at first mom feyre, horrified stepdad rhysand, tired of it all tamlin and a supportive lucien/eris.

_____________________________________________________________

A Field Of Dahlias

When Feyre came back Tamlin was certain this time something was very different.

She stopped looking in his eyes at all. And no longer opened her arms for him. Her face was dull and she rarely spoke to anyone at all. 

Like all wildness had been stripped of her, the chaotic human girl he had loved gone. 

He wasn't the only one that noticed. 

Tamlin was slumped on the floor against the wall of his bedroom, and just outside on the other side of the open door was Ianthe, was slumped against the wall as well. Unable to stay in the same room as each other, they resorted to sitting with an open door between them. 

"She hasn't spoken to anyone." Ianthe said, "I'm worried."

"I'm worried too."

"What did he do to her?"

Tamlin's thoughts flashed back to the wedding, where she had run away, all on her own. 

"Hey Anth?" Tamlin asked, using the old shortened nickname.

"Yeah?"

"Did Feyre say anything the day Rhysand whisked her away the first time?"

He heard Ianthe's long dress rustle as she adjusted herself, "Yeah, we had a conversation before she ran off again, then he found her."

Tamlin furrowed his brow, "So you found her before he took her away?"

There was a heartbeat of silence, then Ianthe said, "if I had known he would have found her I would have dragged her back myself. But I didn't want to resort to that."

"Okay, what did she say?"

Ianthe looked at Tamlin through the open door, "She said... she didn't want to go back."

Tamlin went still, but Ianthe said, "I'm sure it was just wedding jitters."

"Yeah, jitters."

***

She was gone. 

Gone. 

Tamlin stared at the sentries as they recounted the events that had taken place. 

The Night Court's third had broken in and whisked her away. 

He had tried. 

Fucking tried. and it still wasn't enough. 

There was no safe place, there was no control of the situation. She had been taken and there was nothing he could do. 

He stood in front of the broken doors. Long curls whipping in the wind. Unable to say anything, see anything, feel anything. All went numb and all went blank. 

It was all wood splinters across broken tiles. Hinges creaking endlessly in the wind. The sword at his hip felt useless and the bow and arrows he was armed with could do nothing. 

There was a low whistle from behind him, "Couldn't have just opened a window, no, we had to do all of this."

Another voice, a female's "Could you be of any use, Eris?"

"Like you Ianthe? What do you wish for me to do? Magically remake the doors?"

"That might be a start," Lucien said as he walked up to stand beside Tamlin. 

There was silence, then Ianthe asked, "How far exactly do we need to run to not be within the perimeter of your soon to come explosion?"

"I'm not going to explode." Tamlin said quietly. 

He could practically feel the lift of Eris' eyebrow as he asked, "Are you sure about that?"

Tamlin shrugged, "There's nothing."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lucien asked. 

"I mean I feel nothing, they took her, again. After I went to the extreme to protect her from them. And there is no longer anything I can do."

Silence. The feeling of numb weighed in worse than rage or sadness. He felt hollowed out. Useless. Worthless. He couldn't protect his fiancé from the male who had assaulted her. 

How would he protect a defenceless child?

"We can't just leave her." Ianthe insisted. 

"We won't." Lucien said, he took hold of Tamlin's hand, "But we need a game plan."

Tamlin looked over at him, eyes determined and strong. Hand warm and firm. 

The High lord nodded once. 

Inhale once, exhale. One heartbeat, then the next. 

"Someone, find someone to fix these doors." Tamlin ordered. 

***

A week passed and panic began to rise in the Spring Court. It's citizens banding together and conspiring for a way to free their Lady from the clutches of the Night Court. 

Ianthe thankfully did most of the groundwork with the people. Calming their worries and assuring them the Lady would return. It did mean she was out of the Manor most of the time. 

Which suited the others fine since the three of them plotted for what to do next. 

"She is in the grasps of a mind controller, we have no real way of knowing if she is safe." Eris said as he sat back into the green lounge. 

"There has to be something we can do." Tamlin bit down on his bottom lip. Sitting at his desk. One hand playing with his sleeve. The world was too sunny today, to nice and perfect. It should have been storming as the Lady of Spring was gone from it. 

As Lucien looked between his brother and Tamlin, he went to stand, as if to walk to Tamlin. Then a letter popped into existence, it floated down and Lucien snatched it from the air. Quickly ripping it open and scanning the contents. 

"Alright we may have a bigger problem." His eyes relentlessly scanned the contents over and over. Eye whirring continuously.

"Oh God." Tamlin cursed as he leaned further in the back of his chair. Eyes tilting to the sky, screwing them shut as if he could block all of it out. 

"What now?" Eris asked, a low, almost growling noise in his voice. He too was done with everything. 

"Hybern." Lucien, a slight breathlessness in his voice. 

"What about them?" Tamlin asked as he braced for the worst. Hands gripping the rests of his chair.

"It seems we have the beginnings of a War."

***

He couldn't even enjoy this.

Tamlin remembered some days in his early childhood when he sat on his mother's knee, and she told him and his brothers stories of the days they were born. Of the terror and the love. Of the fear of the unknown and the joy of finally meeting them.

He wanted to be excited. He wanted to be excited about meeting his baby. He wanted to feel happy about this. He wanted to want it.

But as Tamlin laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't breathe. One of his hands rested on his belly. He wondered how long it would take before everyone would know.

He could only think of the fact that if he never got her back, his child would grow up without a mother. He might never see her again. His baby's mother may only end up being the story of the Cursebreaker.

He couldn't sleep, not like this.

Something pulled him to get up, and Tamlin, too tired to do anything else. Listened to the calling and slipped away from his bed.

He walked down through the hallways, white nightgown swishing in the moonlight. Following where the knot in his chest begged him to go.

Eventually he found himself standing outside of Lucien's rooms. Something in him begged to knock.

But it was late. He was probably asleep. He wouldn't want to be woken up.

The door opened and Lucien stared at him from the other side. The red head blinked, pants loose around his hips, and chest completely bare. Dark skin completely on display. It took Tamlin too long to realise he was staring.

Lucien cleared his throat, and Tamlin said, "You're awake."

The Fox nodded, “You’re awake too.”

Tamlin nodded as well. 

Silence encompassed them, and Tamlin wondered if he shouldn’t have come here. 

“Do you want to come in?” Lucien asked softly. 

“I can’t sleep.” Tamlin blurted out, immediately wishing to take back the statement. He was already weak enough. 

But nothing shone on Lucien’s face other than love. He stepped aside, holding the door open, “Come in, Tam.”

“Gods,” Tamlin mumbled, walking inside. 

Lucien closed the door, then he took hold of Tamlin’s hand. His hands were always warmer than most, never too hot but never, ever cold. The High lord wondered if he just never left Lucien’s embrace if he too would never be cold again. 

Slowly and gently, Lucien pulled Tamlin onto the bed. Tamlin went with the motions willingly, too tired for anything else. Concern, worry, was gleaming in Lucien’s big eyes, but Tamlin ignored it. 

In the end, Tamlin laid on his side and Lucien behind him, pulling him to lay flush against his body. Lucien’s lips pressed against the skin of his neck. The blankets were almost unnecessary, Lucien being enough to keep them both away from the chill of the night. 

Then Lucien’s hand slid further down, going beneath the swell of his breasts to lay on his belly. Then he stilled, fingers tensing ever so slightly. Then, Tamlin felt Lucien smile against his skin. 

The Fox kissed him, gently, in a sleepy haze. His mouth travelled up and he whispered, “You’re starting to show.”

Tamlin blinked his eyes down, then his own hand slunk down and rested on top of Lucien’s. 

It was small, would be unnoticeable if he wore a slightly baggier shirt. But Lucien was right. His belly now had the smallest bump to it. Tamlin’s heart fluttered as Lucien’s smile widened and he leaned up to kiss his temple, half mumbling, “You’re going to be a great dad.”

The High lord swallowed hard. 

He didn’t know what to feel. 

But with the male behind him. He felt a little less alone in it. 

“I don’t know.” Tamlin whispered. 

Lucien hummed, “Don’t know what?”

“How to be a parent.” He confided. 

Lucien rubbed his thumb across Tamlin’s abdomen in slow, gentle circles, “No one does at first. I’ll be here for you, so will Eris.”

The Fox of Prythian then kissed his shoulder, “And soon enough, so will Feyre.”

‘Hopefully Feyre.’ Tamlin wanted to say. But to ruin the moment with his dark thoughts didn’t sit well with him, so he remained quiet. 

“What do you think it will be?” Tamlin asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

Lucien was silent for a moment. Hands still moving gently. Tamlin nearly melted into his touch, never wanting to leave the warmth and comfort wrapped around him. Slowly, Lucien moved his lips down to his fluttering pulse point, kissing the soft, tender skin. 

“A girl.” Lucien said, “I think you would be a good girl dad.”

Tamlin’s breath stuttered, he had avoided all thoughts of the baby. Now laying here, hidden in the darkness, only the silver moonlight watching them. In the arms of the male who had held him these three horrible months. He didn’t mind thinking about it. He almost felt like he wanted to think about it. 

“My family has never had a girl.” It was true, the Fairburn family line had only ever had sons. That wasn’t a rare occurrence, most High lord lines had only sons. On the rare occasion a family had an only daughter, the High lord power had jumped to a male cousin. If he did have a daughter, he wasn’t sure she would inherit the power. 

He prayed no son or daughter of his would have the power. It only wreaked havoc, it was near uncontrollable, with a mind of its own. He didn’t wish to inflict that on any child of his. 

Lucien hummed against his skin, “Maybe you’ll break the record.”

Tamlin laughed. Then he asked, whispering into the night, “What do you think she’ll look like then?”

Lucien hummed again, finger tracing circles on his belly, “Like you, blonde hair, green eyes, pale skin. But she might have Feyre’s figure. Or maybe the other way around.”

Tamlin twisted his neck to look at Lucien, the male pulled back slightly to see his eyes properly, “Or a combination, brown hair and green eyes?”

Lucien smiled, “Or blonde hair and blue eyes.”

“What if it’s a boy?” Tamlin asked, intertwining his fingers with the hand of Lucien still resting on his stomach. 

“If it’s a boy… I think he’ll look like Feyre. Brown hair, blue eyes.” 

“So if it’s a girl she’ll look like me, and if it’s a boy he’ll look like Feyre.” Tamlin said. 

“I think so, but that’s just a guess.” Lucien ducked his head to kiss Tamlin’s shoulder, “But we still have a while before then. 

“Still have things to do.” A lot of things to do, most including what to do with Hybern. And how to get the mother of his child back. 

God’s Feyre still didn’t even know. 

“We will get her back, Tam.” Lucien whispered, pressing another soft kiss to his skin, “And we’ll get through whatever Hybern throws at us.”

“What if we can’t?” He dared to ask. 

Lucien pulled him closer, leaning over and kissing his cheek, “We will.���

The next morning Lucien woke Tamlin up as he slowly moved away. Tamlin purposely pretended to keep sleeping as the Fox sat up. Then his hand moved to pull back strands of blond curls from his face. Running his fingers through the golden hair, firm fingertips pressing gently into his scalp. 

Lucien then leaned down, his breath ghosting the shell of Tamlin’s ear, before trailing down to his cheek, kissing the skin, then moving to his temple. A kiss there, before shifting downwards and pressing a kiss to his neck and shoulder. 

Tamlin shifted slightly, then blinked his bleary eyes open. Lucien looked up with a got caught face. Then he smiled sheepishly, “Good morning, did I wake you?”

“Yes,” Tamlin smiled, “But this was a wonderful way to wake up.”

Lucien’s mouth parted slightly, before he returned the soft smile, “I’ll do it more often then.”

Tamlin’s skin heated until he was flushing from head to toe. Lucien laughed under his breath at his red face, then pushed up to press a kiss to his forehead, “Good morning, love.”

“Good morning, Fox.” Tamlin laughed, as he threaded his fingers through waves of scarlet.

In a minute they would have to get up and face the world again. 

But for now their entire world was each other’s arms. 

***

Eris was supposed to be of at least some help. Of course he seemed to be acting little more than an annoying fly buzzing around his head at all times. 

Tamlin turned the corner of the hallway, long silk dress flicking around his ankles. Trying to ignore the voice behind him. 

“If you would listen to me for a single moment, High lord, without running off-” Eris chastised him, following the High lord like a very determined dog. Though Tamlin would never make that comparison aloud, for fear of Eris burning him alive. 

"It is too early for you, Eris." Tamlin said, as he walked towards his office.

Eris hissed under his breath, then darted forward quickly. Grabbing his hips to pull him back.

"You need to listen to me for once in your life-"

"Hands off him, Eris." A voice seethed from behind them.

Tamlin smirked over his shoulder, and Eris rolled his eyes, but did release him.

"You needn't go feral protective male on me, Lucien, I don't want to claim his child." Eris had a shit-eating grin smeared across his face as he stepped away from Tamlin.

Lucien stammered, face going red. Tamlin felt his body flush all over, heart racing as his eyes cut between the two brothers.

"I am not feral protective, you just have reason to touch him." Lucien reasoned.

Eris lifted an eyebrow, "Fine then.”

Tamlin looked between them once again, then rolled his own eyes. It was eight in the morning and he had a headache. They could go spar with the sentries, he however was not going to stand in the middle of their sibling spat. 

So Tamlin turned and walked into his waiting office. Eris seemed to remember why he was chasing Tamlin in the first place and quickly followed, causing Lucien to bolt after them as well. 

“As I was saying, Hybern is our biggest problem right now, but not just ours, all of Prythians.”

“Obviously.” Tamlin replied, skimming through some papers left forgotten on his desk. 

Eris huffed, “So, what that means is that it will also be the Night Court’s problem.”

Tamlin’s eyes snapped, “What are you playing at, Eris?”

He crossed his arms, “I am betting on Rhysand trying to figure this out as well as us. Feyre may play into that.”

“You think Rhysand would use her?” Lucien murmured. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Eris said. 

Tamlin fell back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. The skirt of his dress draped over his thigh. One hand subconsciously fell to the small bump in his belly. 

It would certainly be a Rhysand choice to use Feyre in fighting against Hybern, after all, they knew her as the one who defeated Amarantha. 

Amarantha…

Rhysand had served her for his own gain for half a century. In that time, who knew what he learned. What he saw. 

Tamlin’s own father had played with Hybern. The Spring Court had plenty of connections, and was Hyberns best bet on smuggling into Prythian. 

“Lucien draft up a letter for the King of Hybern.” Tamlin said. 

“What?” Lucien’s blazing eyes snapped from his brother to Tamlin, “Why?”

Tamlin balled one hand into a fist. For his stolen love, and unborn child, he could do this. 

“Because we are going to take a page from Rhysand’s book and play double agent.”

***

“You can’t be serious.” Ianthe said, her face completely devoid of emotion. 

“It is the only way.” Tamlin told her, the High lord’s command seeping into his voice, causing her to flinch back slightly. The Priestess fisted her hands and looked briefly at Alis, who stood in the room so Ianthe could as well. 

“Do you know what Hybern nearly did to us? What will try to do-”

“Yes I do Ianthe, more than you do considering you and your family ran at the first sign of danger.” Tamlin hissed. They stood in his office, Tamlin faced the window, letting sun shine down on his face. 

Ianthe twitched as anger twisted on her face, “My father sent me away, I did not know what was happening until it happened.”

“You did not think it suspicious? Or thought that you are a grown woman who can make her own decisions-”

“Are you blaming me for escaping? Like hundreds of others did?”

“I am not blaming you, I am saying you don’t get an opinion on what went down.” Tamlin’s hand once again went to his bump. The sun was setting and the moon was rising, soon night would be upon them. Briefly he thought about returning to Lucien’s quarters instead of his own. And basking in his warmth all night long. 

“Don’t get an opinion?!” Ianthe’s face twisted as her eyes turned fiery, “I may not have been here for the fifty years, but I know a hell of a lot about Hybern, and what they will do.”

Tamlin lifted an eyebrow, “Hell?”

“Oh don’t call me on my language when you swear every other sentence.” Ianthe snapped. 

“Well what do you know Ianthe, that I don’t?” Tamlin challenged, one hand tracing the windowsill. 

She sucked in a breath, eyes furious, then her jaw tensed and she gritted her teeth. Eyes flicking around his face, “I know their ways, and I know how slimy and disgusting they are. What they will resort to.”

“And how do you know this?”

She went very still, not even her Priestess robes swayed. Like a band being pulled tighter and tighter, prepared to snap. 

“Don’t do this, Tamlin. You will regret it.”

“I already have so many regrets, Anthe.” Tamlin smiled coldly, “What’s one more?”

Her gaze was locked on his. Her mouth pressed into a firm line. 

For a second, something like grief was flaring in her eyes. 

***

“You don’t have to try this.” Tamlin said. 

“And yet I will, if we can prevent Rhysand from ever using Feyre, we will.” Lucien said as he strapped daggers to his belt and sheathed his sword, before picking up his pack. 

“We will get Feyre back, Tam, no matter what it takes.”

Tamlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Brom and Hart waited at the entrance of the Manor. They were currently in Lucien’s room. Tamlin’s eyes for a second, looked to the bed, where the sheets and pillows were still a mess from when they had been tied up together. Lucien’s arms around him, lips on his skin and whispering all things in his ear. 

Tamlin didn’t want him to go for two reasons. One, the biggest, was that Rhysand could destroy his mind if he set foot in his lands. Or anyone else could either. He could lose Lucien and never know where to find him.

The second, selfish, one was that Tamlin didn’t want to sleep alone. Be alone at all.

So the High lord stepped forward and into Lucien’s arms, who quickly swept him up into a tight embrace. Tamlin whispered into his neck, “Please come back alive.”

Lucien pressed a kiss to his pulse point, then to his jaw and finally his forehead, before whispering into his hair, “Of course I will.”

Tamlin huffed a laugh, then looked up at him with a smile and teary eyes, “You have to be around to meet the baby.”

Lucien’s arms tightened slightly around him, then he murmured in a low voice that sent a shudder down Tamlin’s spine, “I will come back, and I’ll bring her with me.”

The High lord didn’t respond, just pressed his nose into the crook of Lucien’s shoulder. Staying locked in his arms, never wishing to part. He wanted to simply meld with Lucien and never be forced to leave him. 

But all good things must come to an end, Lucien had to pull away. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and pressed one last kiss to the crown of Tamlin’s head, then he turned and they both walked out to the grounds of the Manor. 

Bron and Hart stood looking determined as ever, neither waving, neither backing down. Lucien had asked for them both specifically to accompany him, and both had said yes without a question. 

Andras’ second and third. They both had always been close with Lucien and Tamlin. Tamlin knew losing Andras had hit them both as hard as the High lord and emissary. But still they would tread into enemy territory for Feyre. 

“Ready?” Lucien asked, they both said yes in unison. 

It wasn’t with much fanfare that they winnowed away, except for Eris and Alis appearing to wish them well. And a slightly concerning threat from Eris in regards to what exactly he would do to Rhysand’s wings if he laid a hand on Lucien. 

Then Tamlin was saying goodbye and they were gone. Only his spicy scent left sticking to his dress to remind him of the male who was now out of his territory and out of his protection. 

Eris put a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder, “Feyre will return.”

He wanted to say it wasn’t Feyre he was worried about. At least not in that moment. 

***

Tamlin had thought the weeks without Feyre had been terrifying, they were nothing compared to the agony of Lucien being gone. 

Now not just one person he loved and cherished was gone, but two. He felt sick all the time and he could say for certain it wasn’t just nausea from the baby. Everytime he passed the library he looked, expecting to see red hair by the fire. Instead the embers were cold and Lucien was nowhere to be seen. 

His room was loneliest of them all. He had grown so used to sleeping beside someone, now being without anyone, it was a sudden change and one he did not like or appreciate. 

“You can’t mope about forever.” A sneering voice told him. Tamlin didn’t look away from the window behind his desk. Staring out at the fields of wildflowers, roaming trees and the ever present deer. If you looked further out the forests would change, melding together until you didn’t know where the floor started and the roots ended. Twisting and turning, cutting out all light. 

As light as Spring could be, it had its dark sides. 

“I am the High lord, I can do whatever I want.” Tamlin told him. In truth he knew he had to do more. They possibly had another war on their hands, and if he wasn’t careful, they could lose. 

If it weren’t for his current… situation, he may have marched right into Hybern. Or hell into Autumn, and demanded for someone to do something. Instead of the constant song and dance that the other rulers liked to partake in. 

As it were, he couldn’t risk it. 

Eris walked further into the office, his footsteps marked by his heels clicking against the wood floors. Eventually he stood right before Tamlin’s desk, glaring down at him. Tamlin lazily tipped his eyes towards him, chin in his hand, and one leg crossed over the other. 

Alis had handed him this morning, one of his mother’s old dresses. Tamlin couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy wearing them, he felt… closer to her somehow. Even if it had been well over two hundred years since her death. It was a dark scarlet with a high neckline and long sleeves. 

His mother had simpler taste, but she had never wanted for glorious gowns. As the woman had spent most of her time in the gardens or forests. 

“You keep thinking that, Tamlin.” Eris sneered, “But being on a throne can be one of the most restricting jobs in the world.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Expectation.” Eris stated, bluntly, “Though you never cared for those did you, Fairburn?

Dark emerald cut to glowing amber. Tamlin glared, “No I didn’t, because life isn’t a game. I don’t bother with rules that aren’t real.”

“If you think they are not rules to this, you truly are naive, Tamlin.” Eris’ eyes were laughing, mocking. Tamlin snapped. 

“No, they’re aren’t rules to this. There shouldn’t be rules for living. We shouldn’t be stuck in a constant cycle of cheating and hiding, and pretending behind masks in the name of this game of life.” Tamlin’s hand gripped the edge of his desk, claws beginning to prick his skin. 

Eris laughed, “Do you think we can just stop playing, Tam?”

Tamlin’s mouth pulled back into a snarl, “I think when people like you keep playing, and encourage others to as well. To learn this made up game. You only entrench it deeper into society and force on your children.”

Eris, cold and calculating Eris, began to lose it. Tamlin could see it in the way his hand twitched and his eyes scanned Tamlin’s face a beat too quickly, “Watch your tone, High lord.”

“Or you’ll do what, Eris? Burn me to death?” 

“You infuriate me,” Eris shook his head, a grin dawning on his face, “You do make me think from time to time though.”

Tamlin rolled his green eyes, playing with the velvet fabric of his mother’s dress. Eyes turning back to the window behind him, watching the wind play with the petals of flowers. 

“Have you received any word back from Hybern?” Eris asked. 

Tamlin now glared. Before Lucien had gone they, being Eris, Lucien and Tamlin, drafted a letter, it had been sent just a day ago. Asking for help, to get Feyre back from the Night Realm. 

The three had argued for two hours on whether or not to reveal the pregnancy to Hybern, as a reason for their desperation for Feyre’s swift return. 

They decided it would be best to play the face of a male gone near insane with lust for his lost fiance, and when the time to meet was given… well all would be revealed on its own if Tamlin met with Hybern. 

“Nothing yet.” Tamlin said, “but we will wait for Lucien to return even if they do send word, before we do anything.”

Eris hummed, then took the seat across from Tamlin’s desk, “Truly a pity this whole situation.”

“Careful who you pity, Vansnake.” Tamlin murmured. 

Eris barked a laugh at the nickname that had floated around when they were younger. Hoping between bars, and laughing with not a care in the world. Hisses and curses spat on the Vanserra name were common. They were deserved, afterall, the Vanserra blood had produced a line of killers, spiteful assholes, and abusive bastards. 

Tamlin had jumped in with his own creative nickname. Arm slung around Eris’ shoulder, bottle of open liquor in one hand, and a cigar stolen from his second-eldest brother in the other hand. The then Prince had slurred out about a snake he saw. Then watched as Eris’ dazed, amber eyes glowed in the light of the club. 

“Vansssssnake.” Tamlin had slurred. 

Eris had thrown his head back as he howled with laughter. 

And it stuck. 

“What are you going to name it?” Eris asked. 

Tamlin hummed in question. 

Eris traced the armchair with a longer, slender finger, “The child, what will you name it?”

The High lord blinked, he hadn’t even thought about that. 

Him and Lucien speculating what the baby would look like came back to mind. He smiled slightly. Then he faced the outside world again. 

A butterfly floated gently on the breeze, it flew through the air. Tamlin’s eyes followed it’s bright orange wings, and watched as it descended upon a red dahlia hidden amongst a myriad of other colours and species. 

“I have no idea.” Tamlin whispered. 

“Well then.” The tone in Eris’ voice made Tamlin look back over at him. The male snapped his fingers and a large, heavy book with a deep purple cover fell into his lap, “Come here and we’ll fix that.”

Tamlin furrowed his brow, but stood regardless and walked over, sitting smoothly into the velvet couch. Watching as Eris flicked to the first page, “This is a book of names.”

Tamlin lifted an eyebrow, “Really?”

Eris looked up with his own eyebrow raised, fingers lightly grazing the pages, “Really.”

Tamlin’s mouth curled into a smile and he leaned over to have a look, “Okay then.”

The Autumn Lord gave a small smile and read off the first name. 

They found no names. Tamlin pointed out all the ones he knew from people he had met. They even came across a ‘Cassian’ both shuddering at the name before howling with laughter. 

Alis eventually came in with mint tea and honey cakes. Eris moved from the leather chair to the lounge. Letting Tamlin sit close beside him as they read off all manner of names from the old book. 

They found two possible options, Ried if it was a boy, and Kaitlin if it were a girl. 

Tamlin couldn’t say either jumped out at him, but both were sweet names. 

And by the time he fell asleep on Eris’ shoulder he was more relaxed than he ever had been during these days with Lucien gone. 

***

When Lucien returned he was livid. The anger seeping from him was palatable by any passing by, even though he held it in a tight leash. 

Tamlin had been signing off on some papers, passing the time with working. Even though Eris and Alis had told him to lay off over working, and stressing himself out. 

Then he felt him. 

Fire, and something sweeter, something delicate and venomous, like rays of sun that burned. It rippled through the world, like a silent pond disturbed by a child pricking the surface. 

Tamlin was on his feet in seconds. Picking up the skirts pooling around his feet. Green today, another of his mother’s old dresses. 

Running, barefoot, the tiles cold under his feet, he bolted for the entrance. Nearly knocking into a servant he rounded the corners. Until finally he was near jumping down the grand staircase. 

Near halfway down he halted. 

Lucien stalked into the manor, head held high, and eyes heavy. His mouth twisted into a frown. He had black-blue bruises, dirty with his hair half falling out. Red spilling across leather hunting gear. He let the quiver on his back drop to the floor. Bron and Hart were close behind him. 

Tamlin stared in shock. 

Alis was quicker than him and ran up to the three, quickly attending to Lucien first. 

But the red-headed male laid eyes on Tamlin, and pain twisted in his eyes. 

He gently pushed past Alis who furrowed her eyes at him. 

Then without a word Lucien stalked up the stairs to where Tamlin was standing. The Lord could only remain stone still as the emissary marched the stairs until he stood directly before Tamlin. 

“Lucien.” Tamlin breathed. 

Lucien shook his head, “She won’t come back, Tam.”

Silence. 

His words seemed to shake the world with the weight they held.

Tamlin’s hand fell to his stomach as his whole word crashed a little more. His knees gave out underneath him. 

Swiftly, Lucien wrapped an arm around his back. Tamlin’s hands went to his chest, gripping tightly as he gasped in a breath. 

“Why?” Tamlin rasped. 

“Tamlin…” Lucien trailed. 

They both knew why. 

But 

Fuck. 

He had lost her. 

No. 

No. 

Please no-

“No.” Tamlin pressed his head into Lucien’s chest, “No, no, no.”

“Where is she?!” A furious voice yelled. 

Tamlin and Lucien looked up the stairs to see Eris descending, eyes burning pools of amber. 

“She won’t come back, Eris.” Lucien whispered. 

The room heated as Eris’ temper flared, he gestured to Tamlin, “But she has a child on the way-”

“And she doesn’t know that.” Tamlin murmured. 

His hand fell to his side, before Eris looked up to the sky and mouthed curses. Fingers rubbing his temples, “What do we do then?”

Lucien turned down to Tamlin, “Why do we do then?”

Tamlin fisted Lucien’s shirt, and he murmured, “I don’t know.”

***

“Dear God.” Tamlin hissed as he turned on his side for the hundredth time. Nothing was comfortable, everything was too hot or too cold. The light of the moon shining across his face was awful, and would not stop, but if Lucien closed the blinds it was too warm without the breeze of the night. 

Lucien groaned as Tamlin woke him again shifting in his arms, “Tam-”

“What?” Tamlin mumbled, half asleep, but unable to be fully asleep. 

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s so hot in here.” Tamlin grumbled into his pillow, before turning again and pressing into Lucien’s arms. 

“Then I’ll take off the blankets.” Lucien said, but before he could move Tamlin said, “No, then it’ll be too cold. 

“Mother above.” Lucien cursed, before removing his arms from around Tamlin, “Then don’t cuddle into me.” Then he rolled onto his other side. 

Tamlin stared at his back, blinking at his form. Then festering rage pooled in his veins.

“Oh I see, you hate me.” Tamlin said. 

“Tamlin!” Lucien rolled back onto his back. 

“No, I get it.” Tamlin said, no emotion in his voice, “I’m not good enough for you.”

Lucien once again mumbled something to the Mother, “Tamlin I love you.”

“But you don’t want to touch me.” He countered. 

“Because you said you’re too hot! You- you know, fine! Come back here, I’ll touch you.” Lucien tried to reach over to pull him close again, but Tamlin huffed and pulled away, crossing his arms. 

There was a beat of silence before Lucien asked, “Really?”

Tamlin shrugged, “Maybe.”

The silence of night was lighter than day, there wasn’t anything around to witness them arguing in the dark. Nor Lucien breaking into giggles as he ran a hand across the mattress to wrap around Tamlin’s waist. 

“Hey!” Tamlin tried to shove him back, even as a smile spread across his face. 

“Come here.” Lucien said with that devastating grin on his face, pulling him into his chest and pressing his lips to Tamlin’s neck, sloppily kissing the skin before working his way to his jaw. 

“Stop!” Tamlin laughed, “Gods, stop Lucien!”

Lucien laughed in between each kiss. Tamlin squirmed and tried to wriggle away but Lucien manoeuvred him to lay underneath him. Trapping him by resting his forearms on either side of Tamlin’s head, caging him in. Then Lucien attacked his face, a kiss to his cheek, then the other, then his nose, forehead and temples. Tamlin laughed until his sides hurt. 

“Lucien Vanserra,” Tamlin wrapped his arms around his neck.

“Yes, my High lord?” Lucien raised a perfect eyebrow, that damning smirk still plastered on his damning face. 

Tamlin leaned up and pressed a kiss to the tip of Lucien’s nose. 

The Fox went a very, very bright shade of pink. Tamlin fell back into the pillows as he laughed. 

Soon, Lucien’s shoulder shook as he fell into a fit of giggles as well. 

He laid down half on top of Tamlin. Legs on top of his, tangled with each other, his upper body beside the High lord. His arm around the outline of his belly, slightly more swollen since Lucien had left. 

“Four and a half months now.” Lucien murmured. 

“Yeah.” Tamlin whispered, eyes facing the spotless ceiling. The endless white like an alternate version of the night sky. When he closed his eyes he saw the endless black. 

White, black, white, black. 

He wished his issues were as plain and simple as black and white. Easy to pick between and easy to figure out. 

“What if war breaks out again?” Tamlin whispered to the ceiling, unable to stifle the question. 

Lucien pressed his face into Tamlin’s side, thumb rubbing gentle circles into his belly, “We will deal with it then, for now we have tonight.”

Tamlin let his eyes close, let the black take him, as his hand found Lucien’s hair, “Yeah, you're right.”

Silence passed, only broken by his and Lucien’s soft breathing.

Then there was a feeling of movement that made him gasp as his eyes shot open. Lucien was up in a second, sitting over Tamlin, eyes wide, fear of what could be happening. 

“What happened?”

It was like butterflies in his stomach, a sudden tickle that was so strange, so odd. Out of place, movement that wasn’t his own. 

“I think-” It happened again and Tamlin covered his mouth with his palms. 

“Tamlin what’s happening?” Lucien asked, eyes darting over him so quickly, one hand going to his thigh and the other planted next to Tamlin’s head. 

“I think that was… I think that was kicking.” Tamlin whispered. 

Slowly, the fear left Lucien’s eyes as wonderment filled them. 

***

Golden hair spilled out on red silk sheets. Eyes of dark emerald glinting up at him with tears pooling in them. Skin gleaming in the moonlight. Dress of white cotton, falling around the flesh of his breasts and exposing his collarbone. Lucien’s eyes went down to his stomach, his hand, almost out of his own control, flicked up to touch. But his eyes quickly went back up to Tamlin’s, permission. 

Tamlin nodded quickly, his hands grabbing onto Lucien’s and placing them on the centre of his belly. 

“Do you feel it?” Tamlin whispered. 

Lucien’s brow furrowed every so slightly, tongue caught between his teeth. He moved his strong hand over the fabric. 

Tamlin laughed softly, “I think it’s gone.”

“Still.” Lucien murmured. He had never felt this way. Like he was caught in amazement and wonder. Something so brand new, that he understood nothing about. But there was a deep curling need in his core, slow moving and constant. Always sitting low in him, like embers stoking. A want and a need. He needed to be closer to the male underneath him, in a body that was not of a male. A female with a babe in her womb, a male he cared so deeply about, whom he couldn’t live without. 

Feyre’s face came back to his mind. As she had drawn her arrow and looked at him with such hatred. Rhysand’s laughing eyes behind her. As they had threatened him. As she had refused to return to the Spring Court. 

He supposed she had every right to leave. After Tamlin had locked her in. It was out of desperation. But she cried and screamed. 

Still. Seeing the same male underneath him, bathing in moonlight, so at peace and gentle. 

His. 

This was theirs for tonight. 

All theirs.

All his. 

He kissed the words into Tamlin’s skin as his mouth grazed the soft spots of his neck. Causing the High lord to grip his hair. 

“We have tonight.” Lucien whispered.

“We have tonight.” Tamlin whispered back. 

***

“Well, Hybern has returned our letters.” Eris drawled as he lounged in the green couch. Tamlin was sitting at his desk, and Lucien stood near him. As of late the male was always beside him in some way. Rarely leaving his side. 

“What do they say?” Tamlin asked. 

Eris grinned as he plucked the letter from the space between realms. It was a matte black envelope with a blackened seal. Tamlin’s hands curled into his fists in his lap. Fisting his dark blue dress. 

With a swift, single move, and a short tear. Eris opened the letter and pulled out the contents. 

“High Lord of Spring,” Eris began, “We have taken time to ponder your request and our council men have elected to stage a meeting. A ship will be sent to your Western docks on the third moon of this week. 

This being the first of our meetings since your father’s unfortunate passing, we are more than delighted to finally meet with you face to face. 

With sincerities, the King of Hybern.”

Silence encompassed the room. Tamlin’s breath stuttered ever so slightly, and Lucien was at his side in a second, moving faster than any could see. His hand fell to Tamlin’s shoulder, squeezing ever so lightly. 

“The nerve of that male to have already made up the date.” Lucien murmured, “The third moon is tomorrow which means-”

“Which means we leave today,” Eris finished, “I suppose you two best pack up and prepare.”

Tamlin’s hands were shaking, but he nodded all the same. He could do this, he had to do this. For his Court. For his people. For his child. 

For Feyre. 

He could do this. 

There was a light rapping at the door. Tamlin and Lucien looked up quickly, but both just blinked. Still caught in molasses, at what to do, what to say, how to move forward. 

So it was Eris who called, “Come in!”

“Is it just you in there? Because I’ll have to get Alis then!” Ianthe called back. 

“It’s Lucien, Tamlin and I!” Eris told her. 

“Mother- no.” Ianthe stomped down on her own cursing. Tamlin nearly laughed, as his memory of the female before she became a Priestess was a woman who swore in nearly every sentence. 

“I’ll get Alis then! Hold on!” 

“Holding.” Eris said. Tamlin could nearly hear the eye roll through the door. 

A few seconds passed and the door opened to reveal a very tired looking Alis walking through. She sat down on the lounge next to Eris and sighed in relief as she was finally off her feet. 

Ianthe then came through. Out of her robes today, with a deep blue scarf over her head and a loose blue dress with a high-neck and long sleeves that nearly covered her hands. 

“Tamlin, there is a problem.” Ianthe said, her normally level voice had the slightest touch of worry in it. Setting Tamlin on edge. 

“We have many problems, at the moment.” Tamlin mumbled, “What's this one?”

She breathed in through her nose, holding her breath for three beats before releasing it, “The lands are dying, the magic is being depleted somehow.”

“Depleted?” Eris asked, eyebrows furrowing, “Wouldn’t with the current situation the magic would be thriving?”

Ianthe cut blue eyes between Eris and Tamlin, “That would be expected yes. Unless..”

The Priestess looked back over at Tamlin, wells of ice now looking more concerned than ever before. Tamlin scrutinised her for a moment, trying to pry at what she was hinting at. 

Then it hit him. 

Tamlin went white. 

“What?” Lucien put his hands on Tamlin’s shoulders, the warm solid presence behind him being the only thing keeping Tamlin anchored. 

“Unless there was something wrong with the child.” Ianthe breathed out, voice quivering ever so slightly. 

The flames in the fireplace burst. Alis cried out as she jumped over to the back of the lounge, avoiding the lick of the flames, pulling Ianthe down to the ground with her. 

Eris reacted quicker than anyone, throwing up a ward and forcing the fire back into it’s place. Directing it to heed his command. Tamlin watched as his eyes glowed with terrifying power and orange licked around the ends of his red hair. Like it was caressing its beloved son. 

There was no doubt in Tamlin’s mind Eris was the chosen Heir of the Autumn Court. And would be a powerful Lord at that. 

He was glad Eris was on his side. If he weren’t… 

Tamlin didn’t say a word, everything sucked from his mind. He looked up at Ianthe’s hardened eyes. She turned her gaze away as they met. Like she couldn’t bare to look at him. 

It hit him with a wave of sickness and fire. Blood boiling over like it might spurt from every pore. Like his skin had been turned inside out as his organs constricted around each other, intestines becoming a noose for his lungs as the breath was stolen from him. He gasped. 

Lucien was moving his chair to the side and kneeling for him in a second, grabbing both his hands and stroking them. Eyes trying to find Tamlins, but Tamlin kept looking away. 

If something was wrong with his child. With the one thing he was supposed to create as a High lord. As a High lord of Spring. The Court of fertility. Of life. If he wasn’t able to care for it. 

Failure. Failure in everything. 

Feyre was gone. Rhysand doing whatever he wanted with her. Leaving him only with his Court, and on the verge of war. 

And one child. The one thing he had to protect. 

If he failed in this. 

He could hear the whispers now, the accusations, the failing of his people. 

The ground would shrivel, the magic would leave. 

Would the magic leave him? 

Could it leave him for failing it in such a way?

His breath was gone, he couldn’t breathe, there was no air, he was trapped in a pocket with now escape. 

Gasping for breath, Tamlin clutched Lucien. The red-headed male, stood and pulled Tamlin up into his arms. Holding him gently, warmth spreading all around him as Tamlin buried his head into the heart before him. Thumping quickly underneath his tunic, but steady and constant. Always there. Always would be there. 

“To go to Hybern now…” Eris broached the subject they were all thinking of. 

“Hybern?” Ianthe shot to her feet, pulling away from Alis as they both got their bearings. 

Eris turned flaming eyes to the Priestess, “Hybern reached out to us this morning, they are sending us a ship, we are to leave tomorrow.”

Blue eyes widened, something akin to actual fear flashed over Ianthe’s face, her hands clasped into a prayer and she mumbled something before facing Tamlin and Lucien. 

Lucien rubbed up and down Tamlin’s back as tears threatened to break from the corners of his eyes. But he took in a tight breath and pulled away just enough to face Ianthe, “Yes, we are going.”

“Tamlin no, you cannot-” She reached a hand out like she could anchor him to Spring and prevent him from leaving. 

“I am the High lord and I will do as I please,” Tamlin’s voice echoed through the chambers and the four around him shuddered as the full weight of the High lord’s power settled over their skin. Ianthe’s hand fell to her side, but her chest expanded quickly as she attempted to level her breathing. 

“As your friend and High Priestess, I am warning you this will not be a good idea-” She attempted to continue, but Tamlin held up a hand. She closed her mouth, looking down.

“We are going.” Tamlin whispered. 

We have to. 

I have no other moves left. 

“Fine.” She gritted out, turning on her heel. Dress flaring around her, she strode for the door. Back ramrod straight and head never turning back. She slammed the door closed with such a force a picture on the wall beside it smashed to the ground. 

Alis winced at the noise and the mess it left behind. 

Tamlin sighed. 

One. 

Two. 

Three heartbeats. 

He fell to his knees, Lucien went down with him. Saying something to him, in his ear, rubbing his hot hands all over his skin, but nothing reached Tamlin as the world faded in and out of black. 

There was a flutter in his belly, and that feeling was everything he held onto. 

***

“The baby seems fine for now. Steady heartbeat, not too much movement, but as they grow I’m sure that will pick up.” Heilda said, hand poking and prodding over his flesh. 

She finally pulled up and Tamlin pulled his shirt back down over. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves, heavy green woollen skirts and an emerald jacket which had been slung over a nearby chair in his room. He was laying on his bed, now sitting up. Lucien was sitting beside him, hand in his, squeezing at rapid intervals, breathing a sigh of relief at Heilda’s words. 

Eris sat by Tamlin’s desk. Picking at his nails, but even he flicked his eyes up. Loosening his breath, and releasing the tension in his shoulders. 

“We’re safe to go to Hybern then?” Tamlin asked her. 

Heilda barked a laugh, “You wouldn’t be if there was no concern for your baby being unhealthy. But you have to go regardless, right?”

Lucien squeezed his hand again, and Eris’ face twisted into annoyance as flaming eyes landed on Heilda. The lesser Faery didn’t shy away, instead she grinned at the Vanserra’s.

Tamlin sighed. She was right. There was nothing they could do. He had to go. Hybern left no room for argument. 

“Well, if everything looks alright then…” Tamlin sung his legs off the bed, releasing Lucien’s hand. The fox grasped out for him, like he didn’t want to let go, but eventually pulled away and stood up as Tamlin did. 

Tamlin snatched up his jacket from the chair in the corner of the room by the door. Eris smoothly stood. Brushing off his jacket and adjusting himself. 

“Well if that is all, I’ll be making my return to Autumn.” Eris didn’t meet either Lucien or Tamlin’s eyes as he spoke, simply choosing to look out the window. 

A beat of silence passed, Tamlin saw the twitch in his hand and the hitch in his breathing. 

He smiled. Softer in this form, everything was different like this. He was more tired, more sick, but he couldn’t say he hated everything. 

If this was any other situation he may have been able to enjoy it. 

Tamlin walked up to Eris and brushed the back of his palm. Eris quickly jerked his eyes down to him.

“Thanks for being here, Eris.” Tamlin whispered. 

Eris’ flaming eyes dimmed just slightly. Face paling in comparison. He looked down at Tamlin’s fingers brushing his, “Be safe, Springling.”

“I never am.” Tamlin smiled. 

Eris laughed, it was quiet and nearly choked out, but he swallowed hard and nodded, “When you return I’ll be back.”

“I know you will.”

With that Tamlin turned away, and Eris nodded to his brother. Who nodded back. A silent exchange. 

The Heir of Autumn winnowed and Tamlin faced the door. 

Lucien held out his arm, and Tamlin linked theirs. 

“To Hybern, my Lady.”

Tamlin threw his head back as he laughed, “To Hybern, you prick.”

***

Alis had hugged him tightly as they left. Tamlin had nearly wept in her arms, but held himself together, if only because they had dozens of people watching them as the carriage was packed. 

“Be safe,” She had whispered, “For all of us.”

“Of course I will.” He whispered back, before releasing her. 

Alis curtsied low, before taking his hands and kissing them gently, “If only your mother could see you know.”

“Would she be proud, you think?” Tamlin asked, voicing the small insecurity.

Alis just smiled so softly, “She would be so proud to call you her son.”

As Tamlin had climbed into the carriage, Lucien right behind him, he had glanced over his shoulder. 

On the steps of the manor was a certain blonde haired female with pale blue robes. Her steely eyes gazing over at him. Tamlin nodded to her, either she didn’t see, or didn’t care. As Ianthe turned and headed back inside the Spring manor. 

They were off not just a few minutes later. 

As the voices of the people shouting after them faded into the distance, Lucien reached out through the empty space between them. Taking hold of his hand. Squeezing gently. 

“In just a few hours we’ll be at the port.” Lucien said. 

This carriage followed the winding paths of the old Fae routes. Ones that were too dangerous to set foot on. For they twisted and turned into different paths that led ones into dark forests and pits to fall. The carriages of the Spring manor were all spelled and warded for the path to lead them through to their desired location. Turning a trip of days, even weeks into nothing more than mere hours. 

“I know.” Tamlin whispered. 

“Are you ready?”

“Are you?” 

“No.”

Tamlin barked a laugh at the honest answer, looking down to his brown leather shoes. Breathing out a sigh, he thumbed Lucien’s hand, rubbing soft circles into his skin. 

“When we get there Lucien, I want you to do something for me.” Tamlin murmured. 

Lucien blinked, “Yes, anything.”

Tamlin laughed, then he released a breath before saying, “I will be a female to you and everyone there. Do not address me as a male.”

Lucien furrowed his brow, “Whatever you say, of course, but may I ask why?”

Tamlin swallowed, “In places like this it’s better to allow people to think what they see instead of trying to explain.”

Lucien looked as though he wished to say something but bit his tongue. Slowly, he wrapped an arm around Tamlin’s shoulders, “Whatever you say, Tam.”

Tamlin rested his head on Lucien’s shoulder, eyes closing. He was so tired. Everything was exhausting and he just wanted to sleep for a thousand years. 

Lucien pressed a soft kiss to Tamlin’s head, and Tamlin let sleep encompass him.

***

Over the open sea, his, no, her skirts flared out. A flash of green in the breeze. Her golden curls fell down her back and overhear shoulders, picking up gently. The swell of her belly mostly concealed by the large emerald coat covering her. 

In the face of Hybern today, Tamlin was exactly that. A female, nearly five months along and ruling a Court that was half in chaos. 

Lucien watched from the back of the deck. His red hair in a loose braid behind him, only strands falling over his face, dressed in impeccable green. With quiet steps he trod past the workers on the Hybern ship to where Tamlin stood at the edge, watching the writhing sea below them. 

Their morning had been nothing to stew over. After they ate breakfast, Tamlin ate not nearly enough to soothe Lucien’s worry over her. But they couldn’t delay, packing up a carriage with the bare necessities, they headed for the western port. 

The carriage ride was mostly silent. Lucien still felt the same jitters of anxiety fluttering in him, but remembering how Tamlin had let her head rest on his shoulder, completely placing all her trust in Lucien, that if worse came to worst, the Autumn lord would protect her. It made his body light up with pride, easing the knots in his stomach, making it easier. 

Not easy, but easier. 

Finally he was standing beside Tamlin, looking over the endless horizon. The buttery sun over large blue skies, reflecting silver in the lapping waves. 

“How are you doing?” Lucien asked. 

“Like I am going to be sick at any second.” Tamlin whispered. 

“Oh shit-” Lucien’s hands went to her long hair on instinct but Tamlin laughed as she pushed him away with little force. 

“I meant it’s… anxiety inducing. But I can’t say I like the sea motions either.” Tamlin told him. 

Lucien hummed, “I see.”

Reaching out his arms like it was the easiest thing, he wrapped them around Tamlin, his front pressing against her back. Tamlin grinned as she tipped his head back to see Lucien’s eyes. 

“Well then, my Lady, allow me to distract you.” Lucien murmured into his hair. 

“You’re such a sap.” Tamlin chided, before looking over the sea again. 

“Am I now? I don’t think so.” Lucien whispered, mouth moving down, breath tickling the shell of her ear. Tamlin shivered but arched ever so slightly into the action. 

Lucien moved a hand down, over the bump. Hands holding, touching, in any way he could. He couldn’t get enough of this, of any of it. 

Cutting through the salty tang of the air was the gentle smell of a rose bloom, slowly unfurling. The change in scent that distinctly made out the new growing life. Lucien couldn’t help as he pressed his face into Tamlin’s hair and breathing in that new smell, excitement curled in his core as he thought of everything he could do with the little faeling once they arrived. 

Lucien’s mind turned to what they would look like, with tiny hands and claws, blond hair and green eyes. Or perhaps more like Feyre.. 

He felt himself sour at the idea of it looking anything like its mother, as Lucien thought back on when he had tried to get Feyre to return. The words she had spat at him. 

Forcing himself away from that, he focused on the person in his arms. Putting all his attention on the High lord. 

“We’ll soon be on Hybern’s shores.” Tamlin whispered. 

Humming, Lucien moved one hand to take Tamlin’s, “We will.”

“What if this goes wrong?” Tamlin whispered. 

“Then we will deal with that then. For now we focus on the present.” 

Feeling the worry starting to overtake Tamlin. Lucien pressed a kiss to her skin. To her neck and up to her jaw. Tamlin laughed and quickly tried to push him away, “People are going to see you.”

“Let them.” Lucien murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

“We can’t be too risky, Luce.” Tamlin whispered. 

“I know.”

Then why did he want to get riskier?

***

Hybern’s dock was like any other. Markets, and ships. Cargo being unloaded and reloaded. People yelling orders and moving things about. 

But there was a distinct downcast over the people. Most wearing hoods low over their heads, not a smile in sight, nor laughter in the air. Unlike in Spring, where joy was abundant in the people, especially the lower class and the lesser Faeries. 

As they exited the ship. Lucien took hold of Tamlin’s hand. Stepping out in front of her. He wouldn’t let her be exposed in this place. Whilst he felt bad for the general mood of the people, he knew violence was abundant in streets like this. 

It reminded him so much of the bigger cities in Autumn. 

Tamlin seemed to feel the same, as she squeezed Lucien’s hand. 

A carriage of black was already parked at the docks. As they stepped onto the wooden pier, several guards emerged from shadows, in between crates and large containers. They had been waiting. 

Dressed in all black armour. Looking like shadows themselves, they flanked Lucien and Tamlin’s every side. Guiding them off the pier and onto the rocky cobblestone road. The sky was turning grey as clouds emerged and the winds picked up. 

Parked and ready was the carriage, the footman, as silent as everyone else, opened the door and allowed them in. Lucien lifted Tamlin’s hand and nodded for her to enter first, before quickly sliding in behind her and letting the door shut. 

Sitting down on the plush black seats. Tamlin watched the windows, looking out after the scatter of people. Glancing curiously at the carriage, but not daring to stare for a second too long. 

“This place is… grim.” Lucien said tightly.

“Nothing’s changed.” Tamlin murmured. 

Lucien blinked, “Pardon?”

“Nothing has changed since the last time I was here.” Her voice was smaller now. Tighter somehow. 

From the last time… 

Lucien’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he remembered that Tamlin’s father used to drag her here. 

Reaching out a hand, Lucien took Tamlin’s hand in his own, squeezing. Reminding her he was there. Never-leaving. Tamlin looked back over to him. Eyes dulled, the green somehow lessened. Like life was being sucked from her. 

Lucien stroked the back of her hand, “I’m right here, Tam. And I always will be.”

“Will you?” Tamlin challenged, “Will you always be there Lucien?”

Lucien stared at her for a moment. Mapping her face. Green eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose. Her neck, long and unmarred, sharp collarbone. Her breasts outlined by her white shirt, then the bulge of her belly, a reason they were so desperate for Feyre to be returned. 

The Fox of Fire reached out and cupped her face, “Yes, yes I will be there, I will always try everything in my power to remain beside you.”

If Feyre couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, promise that to her, Lucien would. 

Tamlin’s hand loosely grabbed Lucien’s wrist. Eyes snagging on his chest before looking up into his warm eyes. 

“Okay. Okay.” 

***

“Holy fuck.” Lucien whispered in awe as they finally arrived at the large bone gates of Hybern’s castle. Tamlin made no noise, hand just falling to her stomach. Eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing. 

For Feyre. 

They were doing this for Feyre, and Prythian, and the soon to be child. 

Memories swam back up from black, of Tamlin’s father dragging him out of these carriages kicking and screaming. Into the palace, back to her. 

He wanted to be sick. Remembering what this place had been for him. 

The day he lost his purity. In that bedroom of red and black silks, red hair above and around him, her scent drowning out everything else. Even her moans had smothered his cries and screams. 

Tamlin shook his head. Letting his curls caress his face, and feeling back into his body, his skin, his hands, his muscles. All of it, here. In the present. He wasn’t there. And he would never be there again. 

Never again. 

And so Tamlin fell back into what he was playing today, putting on a mask that wasn’t his own face as the door opened and he took the hand of the foot man. As he stepped onto the same grounds he had been tormented on, he took a breath, closing his eyes. 

She opened her eyes, and Tamlin faced the castle before her. 

Keep the mask on, the one she swore she wouldn’t wear since she inherited the throne. 

“Shall we, my Lady?” Lucien asked beside her. Hand brushing out, to touch the back of her hand. Tamlin gave her a grin, however small it was. 

“We shall.” 

They linked arms and walked up the bone white steps of Hybern’s castle. Guards of black like shadows watching their every move. 

As the blackened doors swung open. The familiar creak of the hinges setting off Tamlin’s nervous system, making her want to run for her life. 

But it was the grim faces of the Lords and Ladies that watched as they stepped into the dark, eerie castle, made Tamlin want to run more than now. 

They all stood, lined up like dolls, dressed in long silk gowns of white and black. Not unlike chess pieces, only moving once ordered too. Tamlin didn’t meet any of their eyes and instead faced the one in the centre of the group. 

With robes of sparkling black covering her entire body, a lady with a smile that slashed the air, and blue eyes filled with cunning malice stepped forward. Her head covered by a low hood. Though Tamlin could see blonde hair curling around her face. 

She looked as young as a rose bloomed in Spring. With soft, supple skin, and a glowing expression. However the weight that settled over them as she came forward revealed that she was more than likely older than the castle itself. 

She looked strangely familiar. Tamlin couldn’t place where she had seen her before. 

She bowed low, causing more blonde hair to fall around her face, “Lord and Lady of Spring, welcome to Hybern.”

Tamlin felt Lucien stiffen beside her. 

This was not going to be fun. 

***

They were led to a meeting room. Through winding, dark tunnels, carved with illustrations of killing, maiming and bloodshed. Tamlin kept her eyes on the people in front of her, and Lucien’s warm presence, so as to not slip back into the memories of coming to this dark place. Being tormented and taken against her will.

Shaking her head lightly, her curls bounced as they walked. 

Lucien snaked a hand around her waist, rubbing soft circles into her skin. Tamlin was thankful for the distraction. A blush spread up her skin, she felt like she was on fire. 

Finally they made it through those dark hallways, and into a large room with windows that overlooked the kingdom down in the darkness below. All stone and cold. A large, black table sat in the centre, covered with papers and maps. Torches lit up the space, and everyone took their place at the table. Tamlin and Lucien were led to one side of the table, and sat down. 

Silence overtook them and no one dared breath too loudly. Lucien kept looking at Tamlin, at the Lord and Ladies, trying to find their game, to figure them out. Always slinking around, playing games and wanting to engage with others. 

Lucien was good at games. But Tamlin was the best at this one. 

She looked right ahead, to the head of the table. Spine straight from her lower back to her neck. Head raised, and eyes relaxed. Mouth set in a firm line. No movement, not even a quiver. 

The doors slammed open and all Lords and ladies stood. Lucien included, one hand falling to Tamlin’s shoulder. Tamlin did not stand, she didn’t even look over her shoulder. 

Hybern walked through the room, footsteps ringing, echoing. A constant beat that fell into sync with his heartbeat. Always cunning, always measured. 

Tamlin didn’t look at him as he walked past the Spring Lord. She only met his eyes when Hybern found his seat at the head and relaxed back into the dark leather. 

His dark, ashy eyes were the same as when they first met. Hybern’s mouth twisted into a grin when he met the blank green Tamlin held in her own stare. 

“Be seated.” Hybern ordered. 

Everyone followed in unison, Lucien’s hand fell away from Tamlin, but his eyes cut to her every now and again. Tamlin wanted to snap for him to keep his eyes on the King, but also knew that would be worse than just allowing Lucien to play his own games. 

“Spring Lord.” Hybern drawled, “Or should I say Lady?”

Quivering of eyes, and low whispers as all eyes went back to Tamlin, and the form he was in. 

“Lady shall be fine until further notice, Dae.” Tamlin’s mouth curled into a smile. 

Hybern’s grin fell into a frown with disdain painted on his face, “Remember your place here, Spring Lady.”

“Oh I do, Hybern.” She said with a lift of her blonde eyebrows, “A better question would be, do you? Afterall, my place is no longer beneath your General.”

“No it isn't, is it?” The grin began to return, “Your place is atop her now, as she resides in the grave.”

“My place,” She replied smoothly, “Is on the throne of Spring, amongst the seven High lords of Prythian. Amongst the rulers of the Faery Lands.”

We stand on equal footing, did not need to be said for Dae to get the idea. 

Dae, a name Tamlin had overheard in her earlier years. It had been laughed from the tip of her father’s tongue, no doubt a shortened version of his real name. Of which had been the best kept secret in all of the Faeryworld for several centuries. 

There was something powerful in using that name on him. Having something over him that others would be beheaded for having. 

Tamlin grinned, and Dae returned it. 

The door opened again, and this time, Hybern glanced behind Tamlin and his eyes filled with smugness. 

“Welcome back, Jurian.”

Tamlin’s blood turned cold. 

“Good to be back, Hybern.”

***

Jurian’s presence didn’t hurt the mission as much as Tamlin thought it might. The former human General watched from his place beside the King, eyes smoothly moving between Tamlin and Lucien. 

Lucien locked in on the General, taking in every twist and turn of him. Tamlin ran her thumb over the back of his hand, Lucien had found his next challenge, and it appeared Jurian thought the same, if the way he kept glancing back at the Fox was any indication. 

Tamlin however kept her eyes deadlocked on the King of Hybern. 

The Cauldron. 

When Hybern had spoken of how he had taken back all the pieces, reassembled it, gaining power beyond anything any Fae had owned before the Black Queen. Tamlin had felt her heart beating in his chest like a rabbit caught in a trap. 

But outside, he grinned like a fiend. Green eyes sliding to Jurian as she drawled, “So you tossed his eye into the Cauldron and he came out fine.”

Hybern lifted an eyebrow, a dark chuckle escaping his throat. Jurian’s eyes went dark. Face going pale as he scowled. 

Tamlin felt a little sorry for picking at such a sensitive spot, but she didn’t let it show on her face. 

“Something along those lines.” Hybern replied, his eyes turned to the woman in robes on his right. She grinned from under her hood. 

“Yes,” She murmured, “Along those lines.”

Tamlin narrowed her eyes. Strange. 

Jurian appeared unnerved by the robed woman. He kept glancing at her like she was something to fear. Something to hate and pull away from. 

Tamlin clocked the glances, making a mental note to stay away from that woman. 

And the meeting truly began. 

Hybern briefly outlined their plans. His words twisting and turning in a way that revealed no weak spots, or ways to pry. 

But he confirmed they wanted to take Prythian, and the humans. 

Tamlin wanted to vomit as she listened to the savouring in his voice, salivating at the idea of having slaves once more. Of having so much control. 

Tamlin replied with slow, laughing responses. As if she too enjoyed the idea of so much power being in the hands of the Fae once more. As if she agreed with it all. Hybern listened, watched, and examined every detail. 

Tamlin put on the performance of a lifetime. Spinning and weaving lies like silk, summoning every drop of horror and hatred he had learned and remembered from his childhood. Milking memories of his father and brothers, turning his face into one of theirs. Eyes glowing with the idea of violence and wanting for bloodshed. 

Grins and looks of being made insane with wanting for control. Jurian met his eyes, making quips every now and again. 

Eventually conversation turned sour. 

“Now, another topic, Feyre Archeron.” Hybern said. 

Tamlin stiffened and the movement was noted. 

“Yes.” 

“You want her back?” Hybern asked. 

“Yes.” Tamlin replied. His voice shook with poor restraint, and it was all part of the act. He nearly grinned as Hybern’s eyes flashed with an almost look of sympathy. 

He hated masks, and pretending and fake faces. 

Being hatred of it, didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. 

Hatred didn’t equate to a skill issue. Even if he wished he didn’t know how to do this. 

“If there is any way to get her back, I want to try it.” Tamlin said. 

Hybern’s face twisted into a grin, “Then we will try.”

***

“On a scale of one to ten, how fucked do you think we are?” Tamlin asked as the door to their bedroom swung closed. 

They had been placed in interconnecting bedrooms in the West Wing of the castle. All draped in luxurious silks. Decorated with black and red. Tamlin felt sick seeing the crimson blankets and pillows. 

As Lucien locked the door, Tamlin began to pick up everything red and shoved it in a nearby closet. 

Lucien was silent for a moment, and Tamlin looked over her shoulder as she bashed a pillow that had done nothing to her other than exist, to get it to fit into the now too full closet. 

“What?” Tamlin snapped as she forced the door closed. 

“Nothing.” Lucien replied, “I think a good seven.”

“Great.” Tamlin replied sarcastically. 

Lucien moved away from the door. He snuck up behind Tamlin and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face into the crook of her neck. 

Tamlin sighed, “What’s wrong now?”

“Everything.”

“How pessimistic Lucien, that’s my job.” She smiled a little. 

Lucien breathed a laugh across her skin. Tamlin fought against arching into the warmth behind her. 

“We’ll be fine, we just need to play Dae’s game.” She murmured. 

“How do you know his name?” Lucien asked. 

“I just know the shortened version. From my father.” Was all she responded with. 

“I see.” 

There was a heartbeat of silence. It hung in the air like the silver moon in the sky. A breath away from the darkness surrounding them. For a moment only they existed in the room, and no one was outside, no predators that would overpower them the second they smelled blood. 

Then Lucien moved like an asp. One arm sweeping around the backs of her thighs. And around her shoulders. Swooping her off the ground so quickly Tamlin shouted in surprise, then tossed her head back as she laughed. 

Lucien grinned as he moved for the bed of black in a separate room. The door opened, faelight sparking to light as they walked through. 

Lucien gently placed Tamlin amongst the linen. She grinned as she crawled further up, until she was lying on the pillows, sitting up on her elbows. 

Lucien settled further down on her legs. Lying on his front and smiling up at her. 

Reaching out a hand, Tamlin pushed strands of red hair away from Lucien’s face. Thumb stroking over the scarred skin, her smile lessened over so slightly. Lucien caught her wrist, pressing her hand to cup his face. 

Tamlin’s smile came back in full as she held him, as his eyes closed and he pressed back against her palm. 

“What are we to do?” Tamlin whispered. 

Lucien hummed, “Enjoy every moment we can.”

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

Dude, I just had an idea for the trial ask. What if the court recognized Ganondorf's tendency towards belligerent behavior & decided that neither sealing nor death would stop this from happening again.

Rather, his sentence will be to face the full consequences of his own actions.

Oh? Did he think the judge meant in regards to Hyrule?

The judge chuckles at the very idea. No. Because Ganondorf doesn’t care about that. He sees Hyrule as a prize. And its people as lesser. (In the case of TotK, as little more than animals.) The judge says with a weary sigh.

Instead, Ganondorf will have to face the consequences that he brought upon his own people.

Looking upon the Gerudo's expression of confusion, the judge seemed to realize something. “You… don’t know how badly the backlash of your gambit was, do you? Specifically, for the Gerudo more than anyone.”

For TP, specifically, “You really thought that Hyrule would just… what? Kill an entire people for the crimes of a few? If that's how you think, perhaps you should consider taking the log out of your own eye before pointing out the dust in another!”

“Gánōendōrfè Drāgamīr, you killed people. I know that that isn’t anything new to you. However, something you seem to forget at times is that those people have those who cared about them. And what do you think happens when someone has lost a loved one, but are unable to seek retribution upon the one who committed the crime?”

For TotK, “Consider something for a moment. You order your soldiers to ‘exterminate Hyrule & all her allies.’ Yet, even after you've been sealed away for 10,000 years. When you wake up, the Gerudo are still alive & thriving as a culture. Not only that, but they maintain their own autonomy as people & are able to enforce their own laws despite the exclusionary nature of some of them. Yet, they are our allies & they stand with us against you. What's that tell you?” (His thoughts & feelings, please?) “It should tell you that they're ashamed of you. Because, you lead them against a much bigger, much stronger, much more technologically advanced at the time civilization with far more people & far more resources. The civilization where they get their men. So, once you, the person commanding the bulk of their army (monsters), were sealed away, where did that leave them?”

"In your arrogance, you failed to consider what would happen to your people if you failed, because the very idea of failure likely never crossed your mind. As such, they were left without a security net to catch themselves, so they were forced to take the full brunt of it."

“When people are angry at a leader, they forget the fact that the leader isn't the same as the common man. They forget that the rich, entitled pratts in charge do not equal each & every member of their community. You certainly did.”

“So, since you have so little regard for us, your punishment will not spring forth from the lips of Hylians, but from those of whom you had supposedly wished to aid.”

“We will deliver you to the Gerudo, they will try you, not based upon the laws of Hyrule, but on the ancient laws upheld by the Tribe of the Sand Spear. You will look upon the faces of those you failed. Those you left to the wolves in your mad dash for power. You will look upon the faces of those you have harmed most with your actions & they will decide, free of any outside influence, what to do with you barring execution. For it has been determined that capital punishment will be ineffective in your very unique case.” (Keep in mind that TP Gan would still be unaware of the fact that the Gerudo still lived here.)

“Here’s hoping that you’re a more hands-on learner… For everyone’s sakes…”

YESSSSSS MAKE THE MAN WORK FOR HIS CRIMESSS!!! NO DEATH! NO SEALING! REPENT!

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

How would the Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) and Demise (From Legend of Zelda Skyward Sword) be sentenced to if Death and Sealing were not an option? What could they do to repent for their crimes?

Wind Waker Ganondorf

Sentence: Wind Waker Ganondorf would be sentenced to a lifetime of service to the Gerudo people, directly aiding in their survival and prosperity. He would be stripped of his magical abilities and forced to live among his people as an ordinary Gerudo, experiencing their daily struggles and challenges firsthand.

Reparations:

Building and Rebuilding: Ganondorf would be required to participate in the construction and rebuilding of Gerudo infrastructure, using his strength and knowledge to improve living conditions.

Teaching: He would be tasked with educating the younger generation about the consequences of his actions, instilling a sense of responsibility and caution in future leaders.

Healing: Ganondorf would have to work closely with healers and caretakers, aiding in the recovery of those affected by his past actions and providing physical and emotional support.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf

Sentence: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf would be sentenced to a lifetime of exile within the Gerudo Desert, confined to a remote area where he must fend for himself. He would be denied the use of his magic and forced to rely on his wits and physical abilities.

Reparations:

Desert Survival: Ganondorf would be required to document his survival techniques and share them with the Gerudo, turning his punishment into a resource for the tribe.

Meditation and Reflection: He would have to spend time in deep reflection, documenting his thoughts and realizations about his actions and their impact on his people.

Guard Duty: Ganondorf would serve as a protector of the desert, using his strength to safeguard Gerudo territory from external threats.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf

Sentence: Twilight Princess Ganondorf would be sentenced to live under Gerudo rule, stripped of his royal status and magical abilities. He would be treated as a common Gerudo and subjected to the same laws and punishments as any other member of the tribe.

Reparations:

Labor and Service: Ganondorf would be required to perform manual labor, contributing to the agricultural and economic development of the Gerudo.

Restitution: He would be tasked with making amends to the families affected by his actions, providing support and resources to those who suffered the most.

Community Involvement: Ganondorf would have to actively participate in community activities, working to rebuild trust and repair relationships within the tribe.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf

Sentence: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf would be sentenced to serve as a protector of the Gerudo, stripped of his magical abilities but allowed to retain his combat skills. He would be placed in a position where he must defend his people from external threats, using his strength for their benefit.

Reparations:

Training and Mentorship: Ganondorf would be required to train the next generation of Gerudo warriors, passing on his knowledge and skills to ensure the tribe's safety.

Defensive Strategies: He would be tasked with developing and implementing defensive strategies to protect Gerudo territory, using his strategic mind for the good of his people.

Public Apology: Ganondorf would have to publicly acknowledge his past mistakes and express genuine remorse, working to regain the trust and respect of his people.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf

Sentence: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf would be sentenced to a life of service and repentance among the Gerudo, stripped of his magical abilities and treated as an ordinary member of the tribe. He would be placed under the watchful eye of Gerudo elders, ensuring his compliance and dedication to his people.

Reparations:

Cultural Preservation: Ganondorf would be required to study and preserve Gerudo culture, documenting traditions and practices to ensure their survival for future generations.

Environmental Restoration: He would be tasked with restoring damaged areas of Gerudo territory, working to heal the land and make it more livable for his people.

Conflict Resolution: Ganondorf would have to mediate disputes and conflicts within the tribe, using his wisdom and experience to promote peace and unity.

Demise

Sentence: Demise would be sentenced to an eternity of servitude to the people he once sought to dominate. Stripped of his immense power, he would be forced to live as a mortal among the Gerudo, experiencing their lives and struggles firsthand.

Reparations:

Manual Labor: Demise would be required to perform the most arduous and menial tasks, contributing to the well-being of the community through hard work.

Teaching and Wisdom: He would be tasked with sharing his knowledge and experiences, helping to educate the younger generation about the dangers of unchecked ambition and power.

Guardian Role: Demise would serve as a guardian of the Gerudo, using his strength to protect them from external threats and ensuring their safety.

Conclusion

Each Ganondorf and Demise would face unique consequences tailored to their actions and personalities, emphasizing the importance of redemption, service, and responsibility. By living among their people and experiencing the repercussions of their deeds, they would be given a chance to truly understand the impact of their actions and work towards genuine atonement.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

[invisible-storyteller]

5 times Derek talked about death, and 1 time he talked about love

(Read it on AO3) Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale Rating: General Words: 2708 Summary: "I buried Laura today." (Based on my headcanon that Derek often talks to the Moon and pretends that his mother can still hear him.)

The floorboards creaked under the sole of his boots, bemoaning the times of brighter, higher spirits and vivid colours. The staircase was now ash-stained where his feet landed, but he diligently followed the wan light's lead until he was basking in the halo of her pale shine. His old room was nothing but ruins of a faded memory, just like the rubbles of the missing wall to his right.

Derek sat on the edge, legs dangling off the side, and listened to the choir of the forest awakening in the darkest hours of the night. The leaves were waltzing in the wind as a light breeze ran across the land, his numb fingers rubbing together against the sting of the cold. The Moon was as beautiful as ever, and Derek took comfort in her as he stayed there, uncaring that the back of his jeans was now covered in a layer of soot.

"I buried Laura today."

The start was always the hardest part. But the Moon wasn't anything if not patient, especially with an old friend.

"I honoured her," Derek swallowed past the lump in his throat, "Like you taught us."

He watched the lines in the palm of his hands, still feeling the weight of the body in his arms. Another breeze ran through the clearing, climbing up the walls and caressing Derek's cheeks that began to colour in the chill weather. Everything felt cold these days.

"I haven't cried," Derek confessed, feeling the burn in his eyes but unable to shed tears, "Does that make me a bad person?"

Derek listened to the hoot of an owl in the distance. Still no answer. He didn't know what he'd expected.

"Maybe a bad brother?"

Who would let their sister return alone to the town that brought so much suffering and danger to them? - just another question he didn't wish to know the answer to. The Moon stared down at him, expectant.

"I still feel as if I'm in New York. Just waiting for her to come back. To step through that door and make everything make sense again."

Derek finally looked up, marvelling at the sky and the comfort its presence brought. He shouldn't feel better, he shouldn't even be able to breathe right now, but there was a reason why werewolves worshipped the Moon. Because when everything disappeared, she still remained.

With a sigh, Derek stood up and shoved his cold hands into his pockets, his eyes wandering back to the Moon for just a second.

"I miss you, Mom."

"I killed him."

The sounds of traffic drifted up from the town below, people hurrying home after a long day of work, probably. The dusk was already settling over the lines of houses from where spots of light dotted the city map like moles, families sitting down for dinner to rejoice at the serenity of simple days and a loving home. Meanwhile, Derek was perched atop a lone rock in the preserve, engulfed in endless darkness. It was fitting, he thought.

"My last family member. Gone." There were no stars in the sky, no one Derek could talk to, just an empty space. "I have no one left."

He hugged the leather jacket tighter as the Sun dipped below the horizon, and he could hear the first creatures of the night arise from the shadows. How long had he been sitting there?

"You made it look so easy," Derek huffed, his smile feeling foreign on his lips, "You always seemed to know what you were doing. Laura, too."

His fingers dug into his thighs but he could never reach far enough, never find that part of himself that he desperately wanted to claw out. For now, he pulled his leather jacket tighter, the warmth of the spring nights never seeming to seep into his skin.

"I have no idea what I'm doing, mom."

The teardrop tickled his face where it ran down his cheek before Derek could wipe it off with a grunt.

"They have questions I don't know the answers to. I'm supposed to guide them." He shook his head against the memory of three pairs of shining yellow eyes, all trained on him in expectation. "But I'm the one needing guidance."

Hiding behind the clouds, the Moon finally peeked down at him.

"I need you, Mom."

When Derek went back to the railway depot, it was still empty.

The bright hue of the phone was like a beacon in the otherwise pitch-black loft. Derek's figure was outlined against the window where small drops of water raced down the glass, the rain's monotonous sound filling the quiet space where there used to be two sets of heartbeats alongside his own. Today was one of those days.

Derek scrolled down his shamefully short contact list before throwing the device onto his bed, feeling frustrated and lonely, but what was new? Every day was just a bit rougher around the edges than the previous one, and today in particular felt like a constant battering of wind against his house of glass. He just wished he could pick up the phone and call someone - If it were that easy. He did share one intimate night with Jennifer but this... this felt larger. Their connection was still new, still in the making, and Derek had no wish to scare her away so soon.

There was also someone else...

He would surely listen to Derek, as attentive as ever. Derek just wasn't sure if he would be able to find the words. Any words at all.

The cold travelled through the window and Derek thought not for the first time that he should have installed central heating in the loft. He could also put on something warmer than his white tanktop, but comfort wasn't attainable either way so why bother? The Moon was barely visible behind the veil of rain, but Derek felt the words flood out of him all the same.

"I feel like I don't have the right to grieve."

One shaky breath. Two. A ghost of a touch on his shoulder.

"I didn't talk to his parents. Didn't know what to say." The laugh that left his mouth had a bitter aftertaste. Or maybe it was just bile.

Another huff. "Sorry I killed your son?"

Derek gripped the edge of the table, right next to the claw marks that were already engraved there. He closed his eyes against the burn, reminding himself that he didn't deserve to cry - not when he was the one responsible for his death. His vision still blurred around the edges, though.

"You know how many people were at Boyd's funeral?"

The table's legs screeched as they dragged against the floor. Derek stared up at the clouds, face twitching and eyes hard.

"Three."

He shook his head but the memory was still there. Boyd's parents weeping at the grave, Derek hiding behind a tree, not even brave enough to go up to them and give the parents an explanation. He was a coward and a killer.

"He deserved better. Erica deserved better."

He knew that a box of Boyd's stuff was still collecting dust in his room. He couldn't bring himself to give it back to his family yet, he was just a selfish creature like that. In all honesty, Derek dreaded the day Boyd's scent would ultimately disappear from the loft. The same way Isaac's did.

"I should have died."

He wasn't sure whether he meant instead of Boyd or back in the fire. He didn't think it mattered. The phantom feeling of a hand on his shoulder squeezed him harder.

"Mom, I had a horrible thought today."

He couldn't see much of the town spread below his balcony. There was a thick layer of fog that covered the ground and swallowed most of the buildings like an Atlantis of white smoke, but even through the grey curtain, there was the silver sliver of the Moon shining above his head. Listening.

"Today, for a moment," Derek marched on, his jaw clenching as he forced the words out, "I wished I was the one who killed Allison."

He waited a few seconds just to see if anything would happen. Maybe he was awaiting some sort of punishment for a monstrous thought like that, or maybe he had wanted someone to hear it and call him out on his dark desires because "That's what you've always wanted, right? Revenge." Except no. There was only silence, the Moon blinking down at him as if encouraging him to continue.

"I couldn't look Scott in the eye," Derek pursed his lips, thoughts still whirling like particles in a sand storm, "His eyes were so.... dull. Like a light had been blown out."

Derek couldn't help but notice how the lights of the city shone just as tiredly.

"But the worst was being around Stiles," Derek confessed, recalling the memory with a frown, "I could barely stand his presence. His scent was... it was so full of guilt. Shame. Grief."

Derek felt his heart clench. Oh, how terrifying it was to look into a mirror of whiskey-brown eyes and see at last the reflection he'd been running from!

"They are so young, Mom. They don't deserve to feel like this."

I didn't deserve to feel like that.

"I can't wash the blood off my hands," Derek watched his claws elongate and then retreat, his nose picking up the smell of Aiden's blood under his nails. "But I'm learning to live with it."

Derek looked up then, eyes shiny and back straight.

"So I wished I had killed her. So Scott and Stiles wouldn't have to carry this weight."

And suddenly, his chest felt lighter. Like the fog had lifted.

The motel's sign lit up with neon lights in an attempt to beckon the tired travellers that happened to roll through this small town in the middle of nowhere, and Derek would have laughed at the idea of luring in guests with crappy LED signs if he hadn't been one of the motel's patrons himself. It was just temporary, of course, but he had always found shitty establishments like this fitting for his renegade lifestyle. Well, maybe not anymore.

"I don't think I can go back to Mexico. Not yet."

The coke in his hand was already room temperature but he was simply relieved that the drink hadn't gotten stuck in the vending machine because the last thing this run-down motel needed was having to replace the glass barrier. Summer nights were also getting warmer, and Derek felt something heavy in his bones as he sat on the hood of his car.

"I wanted to visit some family, but I think I might just go back to New York for a bit. I think it's time I settled a few things there."

Derek took a sip, catching the sound of someone cursing in one of the rooms, followed by the noise of a TV falling to the ground. Maybe Derek could leave a generous tip. After all, this place really needed it.

"I always wondered what it felt like. Dying."

The Moon was bright in the sky but he could still see the last rays of sunlight on the horizon. It was tranquil with only the occasional disturbance of a car passing through the town, and thankfully there were no people in the parking lot to be witness to Derek's spontaneous rambling. Not like he couldn't scare them away with so much as a look.

"I never knew it could feel so peaceful," Derek said, the words coming strangely easily to his tongue, "I wanted to join you."

It was a simple statement. Derek had wished for that many times in the past, and it was still true - probably would be forever. But now... he thought he could maybe wait a little longer. Stick around for a while.

"You always said that having a cause to die for is noble," Derek smiled at the memory, even if the warmth in his chest was still an alien sensation when it came to remembering his past life. He had been feeling closer to his mom since he had attained his full wolf shift, and still, maybe there was more to it than he had originally thought.

"But having a reason to live for is liberating. And I think you were right."

He felt the bump of the little key chain in his pocket. A tiny baseball bat. A reminder.

"I know what I want to live for," Derek stated, locking eyes with the Sun, "I'll become better, a worthy heir of your legacy. Not as an alpha, but as a Hale. A guardian, like you said."

Derek hopped off his car and opened the door to the driver's side. His hand wrapped around the steering wheel, an unprecedented excitement settling over him. He was ready to see where the road would take him.

"I love you. All of you."

A cascade of sunlight filtered through the thin foliage to lead the shadows into a playful waltz along the forest ground. The leaves swayed gracefully in the air as Derek soaked up the warmth, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket and his lips stretched into a comfortable smile.

"I think I understand now," Derek started, his eyes opening slowly to the sight of purple wolfsbane. There was an abundance of the plant in this clearing, all buried systematically inside a triangle of trees, and even Derek had to admit that Deaton had done a pretty good job with the gravesite.

"For a long time, I thought I knew what you meant by finding a Sun to your Moon."

Memories, so many, and all wrong in their nature. None of their touches was ever as warm as the Sun, their souls never blinding in beauty, and their colours never as vibrant as to paint Derek's skies with the different shades of love. Never even close to what he had always dreamt of. Never... until now.

"I always wished to have what you and Dad had." An inhale, quiet and easy. "Ironic, isn't it? I selfishly wished for selfless love."

The rustle of leaves grew in volume as a gust of wind swept through the clearing but it still wasn't enough to dull the sound of a constant heartbeat bearing the slightest uptick of worry nearby.

"But you were right. Again." Derek smiled, a ray of sunshine dancing across his mother's grave. "Love happens when you don't search for it, and it gives the most when you don't ask for anything in return."

Derek could see his smile - like an image carved into his mind -, always hand-in-hand with that familiar mischievous glint that crept into his star-filled eyes whenever his soul shook with laughter. It was breathtaking - overflowing sometimes - and it felt nothing short of an embrace. Like unsaid promises and lingering touches and secret glances and open hearts.

"I finally found him, Mom, and I never asked him to love me."

The approaching footsteps abruptly halted at the edge of the tree-framed triangle, a smell that Derek could describe in no other way than home bringing a smile to his face.

"But he loves me, anyway."

Brightness fell upon the two purple flowers, planted beside each other as they were meant to be. Carefully, long fingers brushed against Derek's hand, intertwining with his own until the light of the Moon and the Sun blended into each other, Derek's shoulder light with the weight of his lover's head.

"Thank you," Derek told them finally, as it was long overdue - his Mom, his Dad, Laura, his uncles and aunts, him, the Sun, and the Moon. He was grateful for the love that surrounded him, even in times when he was too blind to notice the obvious light that filtered through the trees and into his life. Because deep down, he knew that something so luminous and warm could always be found, he just had to stop searching.

"You're ready?" Stiles asked, his cheeks nuzzling into Derek's shoulder and the wayward ends of his hair tickling the side of the werewolf's face.

Derek nodded.

"Yeah." He gave Stiles's hand a gentle squeeze, feeling his presence unwavering in Derek's life.

"Let's go home."

[1nksta1neddesk]

A Court of Readers and Dreamers

Chapter 20: Monster Party

I do not know for how long I sobbed or slept, both happening interchangeably as I hid my face in the blankets. I felt unable to even face the shadows that held their spots in my cell. I often find myself biting into my hand to muffle the sounds , hoping Rhysand felt the dig of teeth into scabbing palms. He had to have known Amaratha had the boys, and god how long had she had them under her? Had they been in a cell near mine, one of the dozens I passed every night to be dragged up to the parties?

How could they ever forgive me, how could Alis forgive me? They had seen me smiling each night as I was led out, happy to dance in a court of their captors. Even if Alis forgave me it would be over a corpse, and I would never be able to apologize to her. It sent me into another sobbing wave.

The shadows that whispered in the corned wobble slightly, like air rising from a hot road and I drew the blanket over my head, turning my body to the damp stone wall. I felt his presence join me in the cell, I could hear the scrape of hard soled shoes against the rough stone as he took a pace forward.

“Still weeping?” The words were teasing and sent a hot bolt of rage through me that quieted my sobs. My hands tightened in the blankets and I could feel my nails form crescent indents in my palm

“You won her trial,again. Tears are unnecessary.”

I sat slowly from the cot, blankets pooling around my hips as I looked at him. Despite the heat of anger boiling my blood I felt icy disbelief paint my face as I gaped at him, disgust plain at the words. I looked him over, hair combed and his normal black clothes pressed finely.

“Did you know?” The words were louder than I anticipated, and I sounded sick from all the sobbing that had worn my throat raw. His eyes dropped to the floor with a small nod and I was on my feet pushing my shaking arms at his chest.

He hadn’t had time to brace himself against my anger enforced shove and he staggered back as I screamed at him. “Get out! Leave!” The tears were back, burning down my face as my heart twisted into knots. He knew, he had known the boys had been trapped for two months down here. I cursed myself a fool for being too open with him. I might remember him being a sweet male on pages but I also remembered the dozen children in winter court that were dead, the male with his wings torn from him, the head piked in the garden.

He caught my wrists, holding them both in one hand as I thrashed against the grip. Still he held them steadfast as I kicked at his shins, he did not pull me off my feet when I knew I had struck an especially tender spot at the top of his foot. The anger trickled out of me as tears came back stronger than before and I was left hanging limply from my wrists, just as I had when I had been swept from my feet in the water. He eased me back to the cot as I sobbed more, then he sat next to me with his own head in his hands.

“I’m sorry.” His words caught me off guard as I watched him from the corner of my eye, drawing my knees up to my chest to cover myself just a bit, the gossamer gown I still wore from last night -or was it two nights ago now?- having become more tattered and useless in covering anything. “I knew she had something relating to a servant in Spring Court, but I didn’t know they were children, or that they were involved in the trials.”

I couldn’t comfort him or tell him I understood, not when I don’t know where my emotions were trying to lead me, but I lean against him. It's what I can offer, a solid body next to his and an acknowledgment of his own turmoil. Moments of tension filled silence held between us like a taught string ready to be cut before he rose, dusting his pants of dust that did not exist.

“There is no party tonight, your services are of no need but we will return to normal tomorrow night.” He didn’t look at me as he walked into the shadows and disappeared with a ripple of sea scented wind.

I stared into the space he left, the shadows darkening and then lightening back to their normal as I felt drained. Normal, the parties were becoming normal and I was craving the release of body and soul the wine would give me night after night. Maybe the wine had addicted me already, and I was at its throes as I no longer wept. The tears dried against my skin and I continued to stare, unseeing as I contemplated all the prayers and apologies I would have to send out between now and the final trial.

I ate the backlog of slipped food trays I had been ignoring, cold soup and stale breads filling my stomach but I still felt hollow inside. I was waiting now, no more preparations to be made or scheming to think of as I awaited my execution.

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

Nights did return to normal, though the jokes and smiles and playful insults between me and Rhys had died after the night he had visited me in the cells. Now I only followed him like a cowed dog having had its manners beat into it as I readily drank the wine each night, occasionally spurring the burn in my veins with a second glass before Rhys could stop me. Then I would sleep away the majority of my free time, dreaming of darkened waters and twisting bone before I would wake just to stare into that unwavering darkness until the wraiths came to fetch me.

I felt hollow and it was okay, good even, not to feel the shame that would burn me deep in the recesses of sleep. I wasn’t Feyre and I had done too much to change the story before and it had nearly gotten me and those two boys killed. I didn’t want to think about that so I drank and slept and drank again, it let me sink into the hollowness like a deep pitted bathtub of warm bubbles.

It was rare occasions that the crying would come back to me to burn that hollow cavity in me, like a flash fire before it died out and I was just slightly charred. Those nights would only happen would I awake from a memory; a hunt with Lucien where I ranted to him over the discontinuities between two texts in Tam’s library, or me weaving a flower crown with flowers of Queen Anne’s lace (I never did learn the name of the flower in this world, perhaps it was just wild carrot) for Elain, or the days of time I would spend with those aged artisans and craftsmen of the village. Memories I never made also came to me, of chasing the Beisenn and Luca down along Summer Court shores as Alis watched us from under a heavy hat, me spending time in the kitchens with Spring Staff to prepare a nightly dinner. Everything soft and domestic came to me in nights of harsh stone and shadow. A life line that dangled just outside of my reach and made my heart wail even more for the inability to grasp it and the traitorous feelings of glee at not being able to.

Maybe weeks passed with me in those alcohol laden dreams, but the dark was becoming a comfort. I cringed away from the torch light when Nuala and Ceridwen brought me through the halls, and even further cringed from the image of myself in the mirror of the dressing room as I watched my tan leach away. The golden brown hair lost its luster along the nights and now hung like limp waste around my shoulders. My eyes had sunken and the bags under them were a bruised purple. I was a dead man walking. Me laughing at that little joke in my head had the twins looking at me with worry as they painted me and further worried Rhysand when I shared the thought with him on grape reddened lips.

I was so far sunken into that warm darkness of the heart I started to imagine warping shapes in the shadows of my cell. Sometimes they took the shape of a prowling wolf, gold eyes shining as they pinned on me and shared every thought of disgust at his long dried blood on my hands and clothes, other nights they were waltzing couples that got tangled in the vines of a garden walkway and fell. Maybe I could start to understand Amarantha’s pension for cruelty at the thought of Nesta or Elain being butchered at the hand of some pompous lordling that must have asked for Elain’s hand by now.

Some nights the dark did not change all that much and I stared at the night sky of my own world, eyes tracing constellations that did not exist. Those nights were the simplest, where I could see and not think of my own troubles but the troubles of men and women who found themselves immortalized in the tales of the stars. One night music had started to trickle into the cell, light and soft as a mother’s lullaby as it weaved bright stories of blooming loves and summer nights. I cursed Rhysand 7 ways to Sunday that night as I growled the words into the center of my palm. But it did reawaken a spark in me, a spark of hate and promise for blood shed against the thought of trampling armies on the human realms if I did not succeed in my final days.

I asked Nuala the next day how many days were left until my trial, and she smiled at the spark in my eye, mistaking it for a vigor for life, as she told me two days. Good I could tend the fire of my anger for two days, had been letting that anger burn in me for far longer than that and three measly months here would not have it dying in its hearth. I would set this underground Court on fire before I let that happen, let everyone down here suffocate on the smoke before that.

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

The final night of partying was like every other except for the fact I was not drunk off my rocker already, Rhysand having been careful to keep me from the table of wine that whispered for me to indulge in its swirling liquid. My gossamer was a pale blue tonight as I waited along the stone walls of the ballroom as Rhysand laughed with some fae that looked like they were from Autumn Court, and the supple bodied female that was already clinging to him as her yellow hair fell to the floor like a pile of molded straw.

My mouth was dry but I was not so idiotic to believe if I left this wall I would be safe from the sharp gazes of the Autumn Court lordlings that still followed me each night. I could barely remember the eldest brother, Eris, having some redemption arc but I hadn’t paid much attention in the later books and still felt no need to lavish over the details I could remember. So I stay against the wall and rested my feet as I crossed my ankle over the other and my arms over my chest.

I spent the time observing the mess of bodies around me, lesser and high fae alike mingling as they danced and chatted together. Then there was Tamlin, still sat in his chair next to Amarantha’s throne and dressed in his greens and gold. There were no blades in his baldrick and his golden hair that had simply been long before had grown shaggy and frizzy under the stone. His eyes did not scan the crowd but looked ahead, vacant. There was a brush of a hand at my arm as I saw a flash of wine red hair.

I had told Lucien to stay away but he did not listen. I watched him slip into a storage door obscured by a tapestry of a sword piercing a sparrow just below the wing. I shot a quick glance over to Amarantha but found her leaning over the arm of her throne, a heavy wine goblet to her lips as she cackled with a doe legged woman dressed in an orange tunic and nothing else. I made my way through the room, slow and unassuming as I wandered toward the door. I was just another party guest who was finding their way through the room.

I slid into the door as I knocked into a distracted fae female, wine soaking the front of her dress. She shrieked and turned to accuse a thin boy with a dense cluster of moss like hair on his head. I was gone as the comotion rose, hoping to buy another minute or two from Rhys coming into the room.

I had only my arm through the door before a hand yanked me in and the door snickered shut behind me. I was in Lucien’s embrace, a warm hug that I found myself returning with damp eyes.

I went to open my mouth first but Lucien was already making a mess of his words as he pushed back to look over me. “Do you know how much trouble you have caused?” It was light with laughter as he joked but I saw the keen in his eyes and tightened my grip on his arm where my hand had fallen.

“I told you not to intervene Lucien,” I hiss it out because if I raised my voice much more it would crack, the thought that I would have been happy if it had been him and I under descending metal spikes making a darker form of guilt than I had considered possible blooming, “I already endangered Alis and her boys, I can’t be the reason you lose your head.”

He shook his head as I spoke.“I am trying to save you, Feyre, I found some tunnels that lead up to winter but you have to leave now.” He pulled at my arms while he spoke but I dug my heels in, face furrowed.

“I’m not leaving, Lucien, not when I am this close to freeing him, freeing all of you from her.” I saw his eyes go a little wild before he took a breath and stood back, running his hands through his hair. I looked him over, his finery in colors of mixed copper and evergreen matching him well as his hair was free to flow down and around his shoulders, small braids clasped with matching copper cuffs glinting with the barest amount of light leaking from under the door. His running of his hand through his hair had sullied it though, ink smearing at his roots and I saw more ink across his fine vest and white under shirt from our embrace. Fuck, he couldn’t leave now and I save his hide, now our only hope was that Rhysand came and transfigured the ink from Lucien to himself or what ever the hell else Rhysand would do to play little mind games with the courtier.

“Damn it, Lucien.” I swore at him as I started pacing, biting at the nails Nuala had painted the same shade of blue as the dress.He looked offended as I started pacing.

“I am trying to save you , Feyre. I get that you don’t have any self preservation skills but that is not true for all of us and if you don’t get out of here before your trial tomorrow there will be far too much blood on this floor for anyone to ever return.” He stepped up to me and I whirled, throwing out my hands in annoyance. I was in Lucien’s face, pushing a finger against his chest.

“Do you think they would come back anyway? Lucien, if I do not go through with my plan tomorrow there will be far much more bloodshed as she goes and kills my family and every other mortal south of the wall.” I was going to continue but then the shadows around us condensed and waivered before Rhysand stepped from the darkness. He came from behind Lucien so the other male didn’t notice as he started his own rebut.

“What plan? Do you know what she plans for you to do tomorrow? Because I don’t and I will not be made to see you die.” We had kept the conversation to whisper yells but his voice had returned to a normal volume which sounded far too loud for the small space as Rhysand chuckled. Lucien’s body went rigid as he took in the annoyed look across my face as I settled my weight on one leg and looked at the man incredulously.

“My, my, what a lover’s quarrel. If this is what Tamlin had to watch in Spring all these months I do not blame him for being so complacent with the Queen.” He was goating Lucien, I could see it easily but Lucien still let out a low growl as he stepped half in front of me. Rhys raised an eyebrow at the movement but I gave him an exasperated expression as I threw up my arms.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Rhys?” Lucien growled at him and I glared at the back of his head. If he would shut up and let me talk with the man who would either be the reason we both came out this closet with all our limbs or not I would be forever grateful to the Mother that controlled this world.

Rhys didn’t answer Lucien as he tutted his tongue at the blue-black ink marring the fine clothes, “Have some fun with my pet, now did you?” his eyes were flicking over the ink over the front of Lucien, wrapped around his side from the hug, and the trails through his hair that could very well look like I had been the one to run my hands through it. “How much fun Amarantha would have with this, the son of Autumn with her captive. What punishment would she give you? Lashings? The spit? Or maybe she will have your brothers take the head of this little lover as well.”

My breath stilled, Lucien’s breath stilled and I felt something feral spread through Lucien. Rhys had crossed a line, tearing open a scar that would never heal and rubbing salt and faebane into the wound.

“Rhysand.” I startled myself at the growl in my voice, something deep and angry stepping up to the plate to defend Lucien. The male who had spent days on horseback with me where neither of us shot a single squirrel, the male who cracked the same cheap jokes I did and laughed at them. Lucien was family, the same ease I moved around him as I did Nesta and Elain, the middle sister I knew was to be his mate.

I stepped in front of Lucien now, more to protect Rhysand from the male I could tell was hanging by less than a thread. The air didn’t even dare move around Lucien as I touched his shoulder. “Go, I can handle this.” I whispered to him.

“Enjoy the party, little fox.” Rhys taunted more before he flicked his fingers, the paint on Lucien disappearing before Lucien turned and walked out the small door. His movements were too robotic and his eye had taken a haze to it before he moved.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yelled at Rhys, not caring if the sound of the party drowned it out or not. If I had pushed down the betrayal of the boys being held captive then this brought it back to the surface tenfold. Lucien may have not listened to me but he was also only trying to get me to escape, the polar opposite of what Tamlin had done in the original story. “He did nothing wrong, if you could get your head out of your ass then maybe you could see that he just doesn’t want me to die unlike the rest of this damned court.”

“I don’t like my things touched.” He uttered it as he stepped towards me, going to crowd me against the wall.

“I am not your thing Rhysand. You can drop the damn ‘wicked lord of the night’ act but that was a bastard move right there. We hugged, is that what you want to hear? We hugged because I missed having a friend and he thinks I am going to die tomorrow.” I was seething, the anger I had been tending was burning bright and I no longer had a grasp on it. All these times I had tried trusting Rhysand despite his insistence on his mask. Maybe it was all because it was under the mountain and Amarantha still watched from everywhere, but could he not give me a sign that he was the male I believed him to be.

“You two are fools, do you think that no one else in that throne room saw you two slink off? Do you think no one would notice that you disappeared on my watch and by fox boy’s hand?”

“Do you really think I knew what Lucien wanted? I wanted a good bye, that was it.” It held enough truth to it, and he felt it.

“Oh you two would be saying goodbye to both of your heads soon enough.” He was turning irate, the shadows whipping around him.

“Then let us die, maybe you should have let me die after that first trial because it seems that would have been so much easier for you. What does it matter anyway?”

I knew I was baiting for something, I wanted him as angry as I am. This is what I had craved for years, someone to scream at and be screamed back at. “What does it matter?” He was dumb founded before the wings I had longed to see condensed at his back. They were ginormous, expansive things that illustrations in Tamlin’s books would never be able to replicate. “ What does it matter?” I wanted him to say why it mattered, something twisting in my heart for confirmation that he felt Feyre still connected to this body.

He didn’t prove me right, though. Not as he pushed me up against the wall with a firm hand grabbing my chin and bringing my lips to his. The kiss was rough, teeth clacking as he pushed me up the wall, making my arms go to his biceps to steady myself. He kissed into my mouth like a drowning man taking a breath of air, desperate and despairing at the same time. I was so taken aback that I didn't kiss back for a moment and by the time my brain was working again the small door was flung open to let bright light pour in around us.

Amarantha stood with Tamlin at her side as Rhysand separated from me with a nip to my bottom lip. My face was flushed with a mixture of still boiling anger and embarrassment of being caught in what looked like a messy make out. I saw Tamlin’s eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, he had been expecting me and Lucien here together, he had seen us slip in here and he had told Amarantha . I swallowed down bile at the betrayal of his friend as Amarantha laughed.

Rhysand separated from me languidly, hands trailing down my side as he gave them a lazy and indulgent smile. His wings were gone now, and the space they had occupied felt so empty now to me. A crowd of peering high fae and lesser fae alike were rising behind Amarantha like a sea of castigation as they joined her laughter. Her eyes burned with some depraved fire as Rhysand bowed to her

“I knew it was a matter of time,” she said, putting a hand on Tamlin’s arm. She lifted the other hand to present her ring- Jurian- to the entertainment. “You humans are all the same, aren’t you?”

I cringed away from the turning eye of the mad man, pulling myself off the wall as I readjusted the fabric of my dress over my chest. It didn’t help much though, not where everyone could see the smudges of paint on both me and Rhysand. When had he transferred the paint to himself? I hadn’t noticed it in the low light, but the warm fire light that normally set his hair into an oil-slick sheen had matte stripes of dark blue.

“Dull human hearts, so easily swayed by a pretty face.” She ran a finger over the glass encasing Jurian’s eye. I didn’t say anything as I felt the poison of words that would have me pinned on the wall, the spot that had been vacated by Emiline. She turned back to the crowd and left the door frame, presumably to return to her throne as her cortege parted and flowed behind her to return to their revels.

Rhysand pushed me along with a warm hand as I fussed with the fabric of the dress. I heard the laughing whispers of the court as we moved through it but I still refused to lower my head. I watched Rhysand’s blue stained hands as he paused along the wall, no more than a few paces from the exit.The crowd jeered at the paint that was usually so crisp, now defaced as I was.

“I’ve tired of your company tonight,” His fingers pushed more firmly at my elbow and I felt the nerves there twinge as they motioned me towards the doors, “Return to your cell.” I scurried off to the guards that had guided me to my rooms every night when me and Rhysand parted ways, though this was the first and last time they were going to return me sober.

[saiakv]

@limitlessscion: is at fault for this :/

The three sectioned staff is a capricious weapon.

An amateur would find themself caught up in between the compartments, unable to comprehend the utility of a third bend. But for one who holds genuine appreciation for its art, it can be the masterful partner leading them into a lethal choreography. Very few cursed tools could claim such simplicity and effectiveness all at once, encompassing the powerful stream of a river that has freshly been re-awakened by the kiss of spring. It is with that same surge that its three parts whirl around each other, in the deft hands of one Suguru Geto. He rides the wave with teeth bared into a smile, moves like the wind gaining momentum in between each blaring clash against Infinity.

If the men splattered around them were in any state to see it, it would be made clear; which one of them is the river and which the mountain. Especially when that sudden grip electrifies taut skin and red reflects in the whites of Suguru's eyes. He knows to expect the unexpected. He knows not to hold back and give him everything in the sense that matters most. Once they would have lost themselves into the brawl like elemental forces caught in an eternal war dance. But now — when cerulean blues dim he feels his own fall from grace catch up to him in an instant. Did I paint your bluest skies the darkest grey?

The staff connects and terrified his eyes follow the movement, as fabrics soak in darkness and Suguru loses his footing, held up by that same hand that sealed his fate. Their gaze meets next in what seems to be a fleeting second stretched to eternity. Satoru holds his pain between his teeth and yet for all his absent expression Suguru knows he saw everything. The panic — the guilt. It was a blow so powerful it could shatter time and bring back a glimpse of that same expression he wore when their roughhousing would leave a bruise back then.

❝ Sato— ... ❞ It's only a hushed whimper. What follows next wipes every trace of nostalgic innocence from his features, however. He watches speechless as broken bones weave themselves together again, as battered viscera shake off the impact and flesh rebuilds.

In that moment he knows what a sailor feels like when a strong gust of wind humbles him to the ocean's true power; reminds him that he's only afloat because the sea wills it. There is a feeling engraved in every human mind that speaks for that fear for things far greater than their comprehension. And Gojo Satoru has become one of those things.

All Suguru fixes on is the acidic taste of bile sat at the roof of his mouth when he comes to; released, finally allowed to take that much needed step back. He blinks away a droplet of crimson, Playful Cloud rattling at his feet. But he's just as quick to straighten up and guard himself behind the cool facade that lets his friend know, silently, that the message has been received. It won't change anything.

❝ I worry you might get bored. ❞ Suguru retorts quietly, with one hand clasping the weapon and the other wiping a bloodstain from his cheekbone. ❝ But it seems like this isn't enough to make things interesting for you anymore, huh. ❞ It smears to a dull red over his thumb. He examines it for a moment, ichor straight from a divine heart, before lapping it clean. And a smirk plays on his lips as he begins to stumble backwards - the same stubborn one that refuses to go out.

❝ That's alright. ❞ Only when he starts heading for the window at the hallway's end does his body begin to alert him to his own injuries. And yet teeth bare even as he limps. There's something to be spoken here, something about the ways in which they've hurt each other, something about the things Suguru is not willing to forgive anymore; but it would be futile, wouldn't it? They have never been the type to rely on words, after all; for Satoru he could never quite find them and for Suguru they could never quite contain what he felt. So he settles for gestures, letting the sleeve to his robes slip and expose his freshly bruised wrist under that iron grip.

❝ Let me know when you're ready to try a different way. Until then... ❞ He steps on the window, back to the coagulated traffic beneath. And with that newfound flair for showmanship he presses his lips to that bruise, violets burrowing into rekindled bright orbs even from this safe distance. ❝ At least I'm taking something home. ❞

Yes, it hurts; he of all people would know it. But what else do they have left to share, aside from this pain?

He steps back into the void.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

🌤️❄

🌤 This bit from Dragon Age AU, under the cut!

She takes a slow, deep breath, her chest rising and falling like a wave on the ocean.  “I’ve always struggled to accept my lot as a mage, to remember that the Maker made me this way for a reason.  Magic was his gift to me, so I could serve Him in the way he intended, but there are times when I just can’t see His path for me as anything but a curse.  It shames me to say it, but it’s true.”

“Well…” You measure your words with great care, contemplating the best way to get your point across without upsetting her or sounding dismissive.  “You know my thoughts on the Maker,” you say.  “But if there’s anything I agree with the Big Guy on, it’s that magic is a gift, one that we’re meant to use to make things better, to make the world better.”  You press your hand against your chest, and Hope responds in kind, wrapping Herself around you until the glow of your skin starts reflecting off the table.  “If I know anything, Beatrice, I know that.  So, please, don’t hate what you are.  What you are is beautiful.”

 A tear escapes from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek, but she smiles again.  It quivers on her lips, unsteady, but enduring.  “Thank you.  For saying so.” she whispers.

“I’ll say it again.  However many times you need me to.  You’re amazing, Bea.  Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fuckwit.”

She laughs as though you’ve knocked the wind out of her, her shoulders shaking hard enough to make her chair rattle in place.  There are more tears, but they seem to spring now from happiness rather than pain.  You join in with her, unable to help it, because making her laugh like this, open and unrestrained, makes you feel like a god.  

And then, when she settles again, she does something that absolutely knocks you off your feet.  She squeezes your hand in hers and stares deeply into your eyes.  “You are extraordinary, Ava.  I see that clearly.  I’ve seen it every day since I’ve met you.  I know you hate the title you’ve been given, and I know you don’t believe in the Maker.  But I do, and, if you’ll allow me to say so, I don’t think there’s anyone else here more deserving of His blessing, or of being His champion.”

Your entire body feels suddenly suffused with heat.  Your eyes sting, your cheeks light up like a bed of coals, and your chest feels impossibly warm.  You look away, unable to bear the sincerity of her gaze lest it smash through your ribs and steal your heart from the cavity.  “You need to stop being good at that,” you tell her solemnly.

“Being good at what?”

“Saying nice shit to me.”

She snorts.  “If I have to stop being good at it, then you need to do the same.”

“Great, it’s agreed.  We’ll only give each other stupid compliments from now on.”

That sets her off again, and keeps her laughing through another pot of tea and all the way through the evening until Flissa kicks you both out so she can close for the night.

//////

❄ And then this, from SCP au

//////

The table’s other occupant was a woman who appeared to be in her late 20s, with messy blonde hair chopped short to just below her ears.  She was the same size as Ava, but more muscular, having a build akin to a trained athlete.  While Ava was all restless movement, this woman was relaxed, leaning back in her chair and fiddling with her fork.  One of the cameras showcased her face, where a long scar could be seen over her right eye.  A prominent identifying feature, if one was needed.

SCP-105, “Iris”, had a long and storied history, even for an SCP, and Beatrice knew only a little of it: her civilian name, the basics of her ability, and her inclusion on the doomed operation known as Omega-7.  Nearly ten years ago, some bright mind within the Foundation proposed the idea of weaponizing various humanoid anomalies, forming Mobile Task Force Omega-7, “Pandora’s Box”.  The details of the endeavor were highly classified, but the outcome was not.  It was a bloody, violent, horrifying failure, one that 105 had notably survived.  Beatrice watched the woman in question whistle softly at Columbo before feeding him a piece of sausage.

[SCP-XXXX: Hey, don’t steal my dog, Iris!

SCP-105 smirks at SCP-XXXX while petting SCP-XXXX-1E, which licks her hand.

SCP-105: Step up your game then, pipsqueak.  Or I might sneak him out of your room.

SCP-XXXX: First of all, we're the same height.  Second of all, you can’t.  He loves me too much.  Columbo, here!

SCP-XXXX-1E wags its tail and waddles back to SCP-XXXX.]

Beatrice watched the exchange, feeling a smile creep onto her lips.  She quickly glanced at the guard, but found their attention firmly back on the screens as Ava and 105 continued to banter back and forth.  Eventually, Ava picked up a piece of egg from her plate and threw it, much to the other woman’s amusement, a smirk pulling on the edges of her scar tissue.  The sight of it unsettled Beatrice, before a distressing question came unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts.

If Omega-7 hadn’t failed, would Ava be on it?  Maybe or maybe not.  Her powers would be highly valuable on the battlefield, but her disability would make her vulnerable.  Unless they chose to continue the J-class experiments, which was a horrifying prospect.  They would also have to convince (or coerce) her to test her powers on humans, and Beatrice didn’t want to consider how the Foundation might do that.

She also remembered what Lilith told her when she admitted to stopping the J experiments.  We think we understand the extent of her powers, but we don’t.  We know nothing.  If she was right, if Ava possessed other, more dangerous abilities that no one knew about, then perhaps it was best that Omega-7 went defunct long before she arrived.  Some doors were better left shut.