#which was two more than i expected

[sassypantsjaxon]

Hizashi Yamada is too powerful to be anything other than a side character

5/5 intelligence stat - this one's from the Ultra Archive book but I don't have anything to prove it, so you just have to take my word for it sorry but it's not hard to believe considering we know he speaks english well enough to teach it, has multiple high intensity jobs, and has some pretty good instincts too.

Highly intuitive - We see this first in chapter 83, after the training camp invasion, when Mic suggests a student could have betrayed them. And then again in chapter 254 with the Kurogiri reveal, where Mic questions the reason for it (really this is more of a grief fueled rambling, but I'm counting it anyway). In both cases, he's quickly dismissed, only to later be proven right.

Excels at all parts of heroism - Even as a teenager in the flashbacks in chapter 60 of Vigilantes, we can see that Mic is naturally skilled at being a hero. Obviously, he's now had 15 years to grow and improve, so it would be safe to assume he's even stronger and more skilled now.

Powerful quirk since birth - I think chapter 66 is the first time we get an idea of what he's really capable of. Plenty of other people have posted about just how destructive his quirk probably is, so I'm not going to rehash that here. What I am going to say is that we're told most people get their quirks around the age of 4, and we've seen that even as teenagers, they're still growing and strengthening their quirks. Whereas Mic's had literally his entire life to hone a quirk that was powerful enough to cause damage from the start.

Near All Might in terms of strength/power among UA teachers - Then in chapter 67, while Izuku's discussing his classmates exams with Recovery Girl, she states that Mic's one of the strongest teachers at UA. What interests me about this is that they're actually discussing Midnight, and Mic's already been beaten by this point. There's no need to bring him up really. Except that it's true and Izuku wants to learn everything he can about the pros. It's just a little throwaway line that actually reveals a lot.

And he does all of this while managing three very different jobs. Same, Izuku, same.

[ceruleanvulpine]

helena eagan both defying and exceeding my expectations by losing so hard and so immediately... having an even worse relationship with her dad than expected... filming a youtuber apology with an embarrassingly obvious fake cover story... reacting to the cctv footage Like That

[suntails]

stalemate

[lavenderprose]

'He would not fucking say that' only it's 'That child would not speak in full fucking sentences.'

[corn-cardigan]

I'm genuinely shocked that my recent stuff has been getting such warm reception 🫶🫶 anyways Phos print so I can replace my old one I used to sell

[leupagus]

Ted Lasso, the character, is one of the only representations of 'sometimes getting better with your mental health issues means that you are less visibly happy, and that is okay, because you are not required to be happy in order to be loved' out there and I am really discouraged that so much of the audience is angry at that.

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

In honour of William Russell's passing, here's one of those moments that I constantly come back to, time and again: That time Ian, without explicit words (because in 1963 no explicit words were needed) tells you exactly what he was doing 20 years before the episode's airing, and in so doing becomes one of the first people to actually challenge the Doctor to improve his morals:

[moeblob]

Princess! The ice deity in all his indifferent glory as a fish.

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Bath

Hello!

Direct continuation from the prev Drabble 'Mud'! Taking place almost directly after.

First Drabble (original prompt by @spotaus ) Prev drabble Next Drabble

So we take off almost right were we left off, only like a small hour later.

*---------------------*

Nighmtare can't stop the purr as warm water goes over his shoulders to clean some of the worst mud away from the cravices.

Dust hums "Yeah I figured it would feel nice. feeling warmer?"

Nightmare nods and leans back against the hand on his spine. Dust had been supporting his spine ever since they got back and told him what happened. They went straight to the bathroom.

"Hah! Dusty using his magic hands?"

Dust shoots Killer and annoyed look from where Killer is sitting with his boxers on in the bathtub with Ngihtmare. Grinning widely.

"What? I also needed to get cleaned up!" Killer looks very smug.

Dust shoots Nightmare a look "How is it that you are 6 yet he is more childish?"

Ngihtamre grins and just leans more into the hold. The touch is gentle as Dust removes mud from the sensitive and painful spots. It hurts a little but not nearly as much as it used to hurt when getting cleaned, and no were near as much hurt as with the mud in it.

Dust continues cleanign his spine and ribcage slowly "It didn't get too far in. Seems like your sweater protected you from that."

Ngihtmare pushes closer to Dust's touch "Sorry for getting it dirty..."

Dust hums "No need. You didn't mean to get it dirty and even fi you meant to. It is just a sweater. Even so Cross is already working on cleaning it. It will be fine." He uses a small bucket to let some water wash away the soap.

Killer grins as he leans agianst the tub edge "Me next dusty?"

Dust doesn't even look up as he keeps washing Nihgtmare's shoulders "You can wash yourself."

Killer whines "But dusty~ Stuff may have gotten between my joints! Same like nighty!"

Nightmare rolls his eye lights but purrs when Dust starts washing his skull and neck. It is so nice and familiar by now. They always do this even if Nightmare knows that Dust knows Nightmare can wash that himself. Dust always takes time to carefully wash his skull and neck for him.

Dust hums "And Nightmare is six. which you are not." Dust taps his shoulder carefully "close your sockets nightmare. I am going to wash off the soap."

Nightmare nods and closes his sockets before feeling the warm water wash over his skull and shoulders. It feels amazing!

Dust smiles "there is the happy purring. much better." then softer "Can I wash your sockets?"

Nightmare considers it for a moment. He never likes seeing the others when he baths, he should be able to wash himself and it make sit easier to accept their help when he can't see them... But Killer is also in the bath and that is fine... Maybe he will be fine with it?

Dust is silent and waits patiently as Nightmare thinks it over. Ngihtmare ends up nodding and turning around in the tub to be facing Dust instead.

Dust gives a small smile before focussing on his face as he looks at his sockets from different angles. as Dust stares at him Nightmare just looks back at Dust. Unlike Killer, who is mostly naked and with just his boxers on, Dust is still mostly dressed. Dust had only taken off his hoody, scarf and gloves. So Dust just sits by them in loose sweats and a shirt. Dust gives a quiet hum "Yeah I can see some mud in there. I am going to try and get it out okay?" he looks at their basket of bathstuff and takes out some soft cotton swabs. Dust soaps them up before holdign hsi skull steady with a gentle hand by his skull.

Dust looks at him "Still okay?"

Nightmare frowns as he thinks it over. This should feel bad or dangerous. people near his sockets or skull is very bad news. But no panic or fear. He hums and mutters "it is fine."

Dust looks a bit surprised before grinning "Brave babybones." ngihtamre knows he is glaring at Dust but Dust just chuckles "okay. No eye lights."

Nightmare huffs but does as told. he turns his eye lights off and with them goes his side.

The darkness does make him nervous but he still feels the steadying hand of Dust on his skull. He hears Killer whine and mumble about unfairness and that he wants the spa treatment as well. And that Dust is so unfair to not give him one as well!

the cotton swab touching the inside of his skull and near his sockets is weird. It doesn't hurt but it is still weird. His hands shoot up and he grabs Dust's arms.

Dust freezes "too much?"

Nightmare shallows and forces the words out "It is okay..." he just.. needs this... just a reminder. it is okay.

Dust mutters softly "I will be careful."

And as he said he would. He is. careful and slow movements. with purpose. And It does feel better! discomfort and itchiness he hadn't been fully aware of just disappears with each gentle movement.

"That was it. You can turn on your eye lights again."

NIghtmare needs a moment to get his magic to respond and get his eye lights to return. It is brihgt for a moment but even his sight seems better than before!

Dust grins "There. Almost all clean."

Killer grins and leans over the side of the tub "Which means it is mine turn!" causing a big wave to splash over and for Dust to now have wet pants.

Dust looks down before shooting him a glare "You did that on purpose."

Killer gasps and puts a hand above his soul "me?! I would never! I am sooooo sorry for your pants!" he grins and winks "You could just lose them." and he wiggles his eye brows.

Dust looks very unimpressed and Ngihtmare agrees. Not one of Killer's best tries at flirting.

Dust just looks at Nightmare again "do you want me to clean your arms or do you want to do it yourself today?"

Nightmare frowns and thinks it over. He did his own pelvis and legs as always but it was harder than he remembers to get dirt and mud out of those spots. He just looks at Dust "Can you do it?"

Dust nods and starts getting the shower floof ready again. Nightmare holds out his arms and lets Dust do his magic to get the stubborn dirt out off his joints. Dust just seems to know how to do it as the dirt and mud easily disappears.

Dust nods and looks very happy with himself "There he is. All clean." he puts the bathstuff to the side and goes to grab the towel.

Killer whines again "come on dusty~ Please?" Killer grins as he turns around until his spine is against the tub and he looks over backwards over the edge with his skull upsidedown to look at Dust. It can't be comfortable. Killer grins "Please~ What if some of the stuff stays behind? What if I can't clean myself right?"

Dust rolls hsi sockets as he gets the towel and with an easy motions nightmare is out of the bathtub and wrapped in the towel. Dust pats him down carefully as he ignroes the whining of the adult behind him. Killer bemoans about this unfair fate and how he needs help from his friend and teammate yet Dust is cruel to not help him.

Nightmare is dry and Dust dresses him in his PJs. Dust lifts him up and shoots Killer a look "Don't destroy our bathroom whiel I am gone." and Dust leaves the bathroom.

They exit into their downstairs bedroom and Dust goes straight to their pillow and blanket nest.

Dust sits down and grabs a blanket and wraps it around him "comfy?"

Nightmar enods "yeah." Dust hands over his plushy and NIghtmare is quick to put her right by his side. Batsie is her name... Like the cow name Bessie because they are on a farm but with bat because... bat.

Not that it matters because Nightmare isn't going to admit he named his plushy.

Dust smiles at him "I need to go clean the bathroom and make sure Killer doens't drown and kill himself with his stupidity. Horror is-"

"right here." and Horror joins him. Horror smiles at Dust "Good luck with Killer. I got this."

Dust nods and leaves to return to the bathroom.

Nightmare moves his plushy around until he can use the wings to blanket him as well. trying to keep his hands free. horror hands him a plate and fork as he sits with him. Asking him how his day had been at his appointment.

nightmare eats and calmly talks about his day and all that happened. his soul calm and content after his bath.

--

Killer chuckles as Dust leaves wiht Nightmare. He should have actually cleaned up but come on! It was too much fun to hoke around with Dusty! Especially the tiny blush he had managed to cause!

Killer chuckles as he kicks the water up before leaning back to lay in the tub. Ah, baths are very nice. Maybe he should take more of them.

He just lays there to enjoy the water.

"Dont'drown yourself. Water and dust together make a mess."

Killer opens his sockets and grins at Dust who looks very unimpressed "I don't know. YOu seem fine with bathtime."

Dust rolls his eye lights "You know what i mean. Also get dressed weirdo. Have some modesty."

Killer grins and winks "oh? Is the most powerful monster shy about bare bones?"

Dust shoots him a look "Just clean yourself."

Killer leans dramatically over the edge of the tub "I can't~ What if i miss a spot? And how am I suposed to wash myself if i have to fully dress myself? I can't do both at the same time dusty~"

Dust crosses his arms as he glares at him. "YOu seriously still on about this?"

Killer grins "Sorry. can't." he leans forwards and shrugs his shoulders.

Dust lets out a long annoyed sigh "fine."

Killer blinks and looks abck at Dust as Dust calmly cleans the shower fluff of dirty water and puts new soap on it. "euh?"

Dust moves in his blind spot and a hand touches his shoulders and Killer just freezes.

He hand pushes him a bit forover and oh fuck. fuck... that.. that is that seem shower fluff on his spine and it feels so good and how are dust's hand so secure?!

He doens't know what to think. What does he do?! Why?! Why is dust washing him? Oh fuck it feels so nice? No wonder Nightmare always purrs up a storm after bathtime. Fuck keep in the purring. You are making this weird. it is just your homie giving you a bath that you have been asking him for! Don't make it weird!

He... hadn't realised how nice this was. this touch. Normally Killer is the one that hangs all over the others and starts contact. This is technically stuff that Dust started and it feels so nice is this what it is suposed to feel like?! Is it normal that Killer just wants to melt into the touch and wnats it to never stop?!

how is this so nice?!

Killer straight up had one night stands with others across the multiverse and that is NOTHING compared to how nice this is.

The fluff disappears and some warm, almost scolding hot how does Nightmare deal with this heat every bath and whyt does he like it so much? Goes over his back and spine.

Dust snorts and speaks "There. your spine and ribcage are clean now."

Killer glances back and Dust looks highly amused and smug as he collects the shower stuff. He puts it on the side of the bath before he gets up. He shoots him a look "The rest you should be able to manage yourself." and he leaves the bathroom.

okay while Killer is sad the contact ended he is also thankful that Dust left because there is a very very very obvious reaction to the touch and his boxers are not doing a great job hiding it.

What the fuck is wrong with him!?

*---------------------*

Killer having a bit of a gay panic. It was his turn. Also I have so little drabbles from his POV?! It is criminal

First Drabble Prev drabble Next Drabble

[cassiopeiasara]

You know if I hadn’t seen the ep myself, I would have thought Athena did so much wrong from the way people posted about things. Obviously everyone is entitled to their own interpretation but this is what I saw (spoilers below):

Athena suggested divine intervention as a door for Bobby to choose to walk through to talk to his mom. She didn’t force shit. Bobby goes bc Charlie tells him his mom invited them. Athena didn’t force him to go. He could have said no. He could have not even mentioned it to Athena at all (which would have definitely been in character).

While Athena doesn’t outright punch Ann for that house fire comment, she does look offended on Bobby’s behalf. Here’s the thing, she’s following Bobby’s lead the whole time. She sits herself between Bobby and his mom. When she does encourage him to sit, it’s right next to her so he has some distance. The moment he says Athena I have to go, she follows him.

She sits next to him in that hospital talking to him about how he’s feeling and trying to ease his pain.

Athena is not a perfect wife but she is a supportive one and I’m so fucking exhausted by folks acting like she’s not.

The pattern for who this fandom takes to task and who is allowed grace in their decisions is always the same and it’s so fucking ridiculous.

[astyr-art]

i drew this for tiktok and wasnt rly planning on posting it anywhere else cuz ~aspect ratio~ but it BLEW TF UP (just like jason) on there so tumblr gets it too lmao

plz note that i can count the number of comics ive read on one hand (im working on changing that but still) and none of them involving these two, so what i know abt them ive learned from the fandom. im aware this probably feels ooc/fanon. but i had the idea and thought "thatd be funny" which means i legally had to draw it

this was also my first time ever drawing both jason AND tim and its a whole ass animatic. why do i do these things to myself (for the bit thats why lmao)

[tathrin]

The Extremely Serious and Scientific Legolas Fandom Hair Colour Poll:

What colour hair do you picture in your head for your personal mental image of Legolas of the Woodland Realm? (Not necessarily which one you think is more or less "canonical"; rather just what you see in your head when you're reading something.)

Ideally, you can also share when and how you were first exposed to Lord of the Rings in the tags or reblogs, and what you think most influenced your mental image.

No I'm not procrastinating from writing stuff, go away.

[cyanocophrenic]

Sweets (1/?)

The snugness was barely tolerable. She had overestimated herself. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder and ducked around a corner. The only thing following her were her bad decisions, but she felt chased all the same.

Okay. Calm down. Breathe (but not too deep). Evaluate the situation. What are your options? Can you loosen anything?

She looked down at herself. Past her swollen breasts, past a fluffy roll of upper belly, she examined her waistline. Nope. The button was the only thing keeping the zipper together, and vice versa. For the millionth time, she lamented her morning. What a bright idea, interviewing for a job with a snack company. She was very well aware of how sweets affected her.

Could she find somewhere discrete to wait out her... little metabolic mishap? She looked around for a discrete nook to accommodate her fresh bulk.

The little atrium she had found had a series of plush benches around the walls. She sighed and headed for the one in the corner. She sucked in as best she could and sat down. Some horny little corner of her mind made note of how it felt as her tight belly shifted against her puffy thighs.

Sitting like this, only barely upright lest bending too far compromise her jeans, she couldn't ignore how her waistband was trying to cut her in half. She thought back to how she had done this to herself. The lovely HR manager had very explicitly pointed out the basket of the company's sugary offerings there in the middle of interview table. The woman had been insistent that she try at least one of each, gushing like any good salesperson about their rich flavors and subtle textures, occasionally even peeling one out of its wrapper and handing it to her.

How could she have done anything but eat what was offered to her? And by a beautiful woman, no less. She knew how her body reacted to food like this, but she had been desperate to make a good impression, to look good and eager and employable. A good girl. She ignored that last thought, and the accompanying shiver through her frazzled tummy.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth (but not too deeply). All she had to do was calm down, and give her body a chance to do the same. Then she could find a back door to sneak out of, go home and hope that somehow that she hadn't blown the interview.

She opened her eyes again and caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. Holy crap, she was huge. She had been her normal, narrow self, and her outfit had fit very very normally, when she had arrived. But now? Now it looked positively painted onto her. Her breasts were trying to spill out of her tastefully exposed bra and over the lapel of her blouse. She was more balloon than woman at this point. She ignored another tingle.

As she watched herself in the mirror, she noticed something change. Slowly but surely, the last wrinkle in her blouse smoothed out. Uh oh. That meant... she was still filling out. Panic. She tingled again.

No. No. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). She closed her eyes again, and could feel her plump body quietly grow. Crap.

Panic. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). Calm.

Maybe if she didn't look, it would go away. That had never worked before, sure, but there's a first time for everything, right?

As she rationalized to herself, she noticed the sound of heels clacking towards her hiding spot. Panic!

Maybe their owner would pass and not notice her?

No such luck.

The woman who had interviewed her rounded the corner.

"There you are!"

She struggled to stand. So tight.

"You left your purse upstairs. I get it, though. Interviews can be pretty stressful, huh?"

Like nothing had changed. Did this woman not notice that she was currently three times the size she was when she had shown up? Could this woman not hear every seam in her clothes creaking in harmony? Could the woman not see how wide and deep and round she was becoming?

"It's such a beautiful handbag, I almost wanted to keep it for myself!" The woman laughed. "Oh well."

She took the bag from the woman. "O-oh! Thank you!" Leapt out of her.

"Listen," said the woman, "technically I have to review a few other candidates, but I think you're a shoo-in for the position." The woman moved closer. "No one else has shown so much... enthusiasm." Closer still. She basked in the smell of the woman's musky perfume.

"Oh... that's great!" she managed to squeak out.

"In fact," the woman continued, "if you'd like to come back upstairs, we can have you fill out the onboarding paperwork now, so you don't have to come back just to fill out some forms if... when we give you the job." So close now.

"Um! Okay!" What.

The woman placed a gentle hand on the side of her massive, tight, growing belly. "Listen, between you and me, that passion you showed today will take you far with us. Do you feel like the offer is fair? We can negotiate further if you need." The woman's eyes were so sincere.

What was going on here? She could barely think.

The woman placed her other hand on top of her belly, well hidden by her burgeoning breasts. "I do hope you'll say yes."

"Um..."

There was a pop. Her button pinged away across the room from her overburdened jeans. It made a little thwack sound as it hit the far wall. Her zipper flew down, zizzing audibly. Her belly erupted through the breach. Her blouse retreated upwards. The tingling became a roar. All the while, the woman, as though no tectonic shifts were happening right there and then, continued to implore with borderline puppydog eyes.

The world held its breath with her. How had this woman not reacted to any of that?! What? Was the woman still waiting for an answer?

"...okay?" She tried. She wasn't sure if her brain was still working. "Sure?" Best to stick to small sentences.

"Yay!" cheered the woman, "I really think you'll love it here!" The woman launched in for a quick hug around her exposed belly. The woman's arms didn't go even halfway around her. And still the woman didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

"Well! If you'll follow me back to the elevators, we can at least get the formalities out of the way."

The woman took her by the hand and pulled, still gentle. She followed, mutely. Even the horniest, shamiest corners of her mind were silent, waiting with bated breath.

As they reached the elevators, the woman pushed the up button and stood to the side. "Please," said the woman, "after you!"

On autopilot now, she stepped into the elevator and... wedged into the door. Stuck. What. Panic? Calm? The elevator dinged again as if to say "I'm waiting!"

The cold of the elevator doors brought her back to reality. She put a hand on either side of herself and tried to pull herself in. As though this were somehow normal, the woman chirped "Oh, here, let me help!"

She felt a gentle pair of hands press into her oceanic bottom. Her horny brain thrilled again. She clamped down on those thoughts. No time to be a pervert.

Between the two of them, they muscled her into the elevator. She turned to face the doors in time to watch the woman press into her in order to let the doors close. Normally equipped for eight full-sized human adults, due to her immensity, it very barely fit two.

"We need floor thirty," said the woman into her barely contained cleavage. She tried to reach for the panel of buttons, but by now there was simply too much of her in the way.

"I've got it," said the woman, reaching behind her without looking.

They rode the thirty floors quietly. She could feel herself still widening, pressing towards the walls of the elevator car. Her embarrassment had burnt out, leaving only a kind of stunned peace in her mind. She tried to will her body away from the woman, but where else could it really go?

By the time they reached their destination, the woman was firmly pressed against the doors, still showing no indication of the extra-ordinariness of the situation.

As the doors opened, the woman stepped back, grabbed her hands, and pulled as she tried to wiggle through the door. Eventually she floomped through, and they set off toward the HR suite.

Full-on waddling now, she felt an inner tension release. She had stopped growing. Relief. If nothing else, at least things had stopped getting worse. Sure, she was almost round enough to roll. Tingle. Sure, her clothing had been reduced to barely covering her... rude areas. Tingle. Sure, a beautiful woman was acting as though this was all perfectly normal. Tingle tingle tingle. But hey, at least it finally wasn't getting worse.

The woman pushed open the double doors to the HR suite and welcomed her in with another glittering smile. They seemed to be the only ones there. The woman led her, patiently, to the front desk area. The woman ducked behind the desk, looking for something.

"Hmm, it looks like I'll need to go print off more some more copies of the forms. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two." Finally she'd have a moment to collect herself.

Then the woman produced a basket, laden with various goodies, from underneath the desk. "Here! Help yourself, sorry to make you wait." Uh.

"Oh, here, allow me," said the woman, picking out a chocolate confection, peeling it, and pressing it into her mouth. "I'll be right back!"

She chewed and swallowed the treat.

Uh oh.

[freezinglemur]

It burns…it hurts. 

It hurts so much.

Slow, shaky breathing is the only sound to leave the little sapling as it lays in the grass, keeping its eye shut.

Why? It had tried so hard…it had one job! One purpose! And now? Now?! Now…now it just hurt.

Hate. They should feel so much hate, but it is too tired now to feel such a thing in the way it thinks it should.

It almost wants to cry, not that it has much energy for that either if it wanted to.

Their few thoughts are paused by a gentle touch. It’s…familiar, and cooler in temperature. It doesn’t burn. Somehow it's simultaneously and contradictorily warm in a sense, but not in the same way fire is. They can’t explain the sensation, but it knows who the sensation belongs to.

The void gently brushes one of their hands over the little spirit’s head. 

Why didn’t xe just give up? Feel disdain towards it like everything else? Why hadn’t they fought it like the burning ram had, even upon knowing its intentions fully? It should hate that being, but it can’t find the energy to right now. Xe did get them free, it supposed, even if it was all for not. It should–

“Shh…”

The thoughts pause again. The burns…hurt slightly less where the void lays xir hand.

“You did your best. It is time to rest now, Birch. She’ll be here to collect you soon.”

She…? Master…?

It’s hard to say, the sapling is exhausted. The void tucks a small, familiar lantern under the tree’s cloak. It limply rests its hands around it…something else to focus on. It was nice to not have darkness for a time. What a waste, now…maybe they will keep it. Out of spite–that’s all…yeah. Just...just out of spite. Right.

It feels the void rise, the figure gently removing their hands and taking a few steps back. A tendril still holds on a moment longer. Perhaps they’ll stay...?

It isn’t long before Birch is scooped up by someone else, however; someone…familiar in a different way. The void says a farewell to the sapling, and to whomever has picked it up, but the little tree doesn’t process the words well, and they cannot answer. The tendril gently falls away, returning to its owner.

The spirit feels so weak, and so tired…so very, very tired.

‘It’s time to rest, little sapling. Until we meet again.’

It gives in, it falls asleep.

And Hex departs with it in her arms.

(Based on the events of @ask-the-secret-weapons (Bonus below))

The two share a brief glance. They share an understanding, somehow, perhaps if only due to the tree and their connections to it.

Opal, as they call their vessel, stands and watches Hex depart. They hold no malice towards her nor the sapling; in xir mind, it hardly did anything wrong.

All the grudges, sins, hatred, and malice from being trapped so long–those souls had every right to feel as they did in their restlessness, and the tree only was fulfilling its given orders and purpose. Very little wrong with that, in the Void’s many eyes.

The horned god of the hearth hardly did anything wrong either; He was created, though told little of his purpose. Sentient with the ability to question, he deserved answers, to think, and to choose what to do. While Opal had hardly expected such a hasty decision to release little Birch from the burning Ram, they did not blame the Wickerman for his choice. Very little wrong with that, in the Void’s many eyes.

The town itself. It has done many wrong, and many right. Some deserve the wrath that was coming, some may not, but no one particularly wants to die. They are not wrong for wanting to preserve themselves, either. Very little wrong with that, in the Void’s many eyes.

The Phalanx. Believing they could contain things forever, they have grown so accustomed to disaster being contained or controlled. They have lulled themselves into a false sense of security, believing they are forever on top. That they can use these “secret weapons” as they call them, for whatever they please one day. “Strength in Control,” and yet, they have little control now. Perhaps they can lie to themselves longer. Rather amusing, in the Void’s many eyes.

The rest of the “weapons” themselves…quite the collection. A shame, a princess stolen away, what is she without her people, twisted into a form meant for war? What would the supercomputer think if she knew what had happened to this old friend, would she morn? A doctor, kept complacent by its programing, his only purpose to make others “happy,” what is he when forsaken? An escaped employee of this superstructure, running to make a life for himself away from disassembly; is he wrong for wanting and taking such a freedom? 

They cry out for aid, it is a shame, in the Void’s many eyes. The Void hears all the cries which do not manage to reach anyone else, desires that hide deep within, the void listens, and it provides its own aid in certain ways.

Alton, you are supposed to heed the call of your creations, and yet you give them silence. You shirk your responsibilities, and they pay the price.

And in the Void's many eyes...

There is something wrong with that. 👁

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

"Cuhut it out- you guys!" "Nu-uh, not until you're all perked up first! You don't want those gym challengers meetin' with an ol' mopey leader, do ya?" "Whitney's right, dear friend. No need to hide that beautiful smile of yours, alright?~"

What it takes to cheer up Johto's beloved ghost boy 👻💕

[seleneprince]

A Court of Shadows and Blood Chapter 3

The hallways are carved out of pale stone, lined on either side by torches. No shadowy spots to hide. It's a wide open space, but she barely has the chance to appreciate the details. The eery silence that reigns in there is only interupted by the echo of her hurried steps as she runs.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. Every hallway looks the same. She’s taken several turns already, but can’t, for the life of her, figure out where she is.

But there’s no other option. She has to keep running and hope she finds a way out—or else stay locked up until the monster tires of her and ends her life. Especially now that she’s given him very good reasons to do so.

Nothing has gone as it should since she left for the Wall. Nesta thought that embarking on a life-threatening journey to rescue Feyre was the craziest thing she’d ever do.

Until she was captured by a Fae made of deadly shadows and locked in his opulent room. Until she tried to strangle that same Fae with her bare hands. Until she chained him to his own bed with the very metal that had once been locked around her ankle.

Nesta isn’t naïve enough to believe it will hold him down forever. He’s an ancient being, filled with power. She doesn’t know how, but she can feel it—perhaps the same way she can see through spells.

'Have you ever witnessed something really strange that you had no explanation for, but no one else noticed? Things that just didn't make sense in your mind?'

He obviously knows the reason. It unsettles her deeply that he’s aware of some hidden part of herself, something she doesn’t even fully understand. For someone to know you like that is dangerous. She learnt that the hard way, long ago.

She skids around a corner, nearly slipping as she pushes forward, her pulse drumming louder than her footsteps. The torches flicker as she passes, shadows trailing her like phantoms.

She thinks of Feyre, her sister’s face flashing in her mind, and she clenches her fists, gritting her teeth. Nesta will get out of this wretched place and find her, somehow. She will drag her back home, away from these monsters and this godforsaken land.

That thought pushes her fear down and drives her forward. The iron poker burns her hands as she grips it harder—it’s the only weapon she could find in that room. She’s been planning her escape ever since those hellish shadowy creatures spawned in the room and dragged her from the bed.

She had no way of knowing what time it was, only that she’d been sleeping shortly before they arrived. She’d dreamed of Feyre, of Elain, and for a moment, all was well. Then the dream twisted into a nightmare of black claws pinning her to the bed by her throat, choking her slowly as they dug into her skin. A pair of violet eyes stared at her with cruel amusement while blood trickled down her neck. She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t respond. It was all pain, darkness, pure agony.

She woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Her eyes took in the room, fixing on the orange flames crackling in the fireplace. She buried her face in her hands and, for the first time since she’d left, she sobbed.

She had already stopped by the time those Fae materialized in front of her, her eyes still red and puffy. They were made of shadows and floated around the room, their features barely discernable, save for their loose, flowing cobweb gowns. They didn't say a word even when they reached for her. She tried to fight them off, get their cold inhuman hands off her, but to no avail. The grip around her forearms remained firm.

She knew exactly who had sent them. Shadows were obviously his domain. One of them crouched down, tugged at the chain a couple of times, and unlocked it, freeing her ankle from its weight. The relief was short-lived, though, as they dragged her across the room and into a nondescript chamber, where they stripped her bare and bathed her roughly.

The sensation of hands tearing away her clothes and touching her skin stirred panic and fury, making her lash out in an attempt to push them off. But it was useless. The two shadows forced her to stay still in the tub as they scrubbed her. Then they wrapped her in a thin robe and, to her confusion, began to paint her face and brush her hair.

Their brushes were cold and tickling, their shadowy grips firm whenever she squirmed. They didn’t speak, offering no explanation for their actions—though Nesta had no doubt it was yet another sick game of that bastard.

When they were finished, she hardly recognized her reflection. She looked regal, reminiscent of the noble girl she’d once been. Her face was artfully decorated with cosmetics that subtly enhanced her features, just enough to suit a lady’s propriety.

The shadows didn’t stop there, of course. They seized her again, wrapping her in a dress. It was tight around her torso and flowed loosely toward the ground, cascading over her legs like a sea of stars. The design was unlike anything she’d ever worn—or would have if she had a choice.

"What’s this? Why are you…?" But before she could finish, they dragged her back to the bed, locked the chain around her ankle once more, and vanished as soon as they did so.

She was alone again, processing what had just happened. In their absence, she could feel the nightmare flooding back—the suffocation, the pain, the raw terror as she was killed, again and again. Those violet eyes full of evil.

Nesta decided she couldn’t stay there any longer, trapped as a plaything for these faeries, awaiting her inevitable demise at their hands. She would not let that nightmare become her reality.

Hit with a surge of determination and desperation, Nesta grabbed the metal chain with both hands and began pulling at it repeatedly. Her hands ached, her ankle throbbed, but she didn’t stop. She ignored everything but the relentless clink of the metal as she tried to tear it free, focusing on the sound it made when she tugged at certain angles.

Finally, the cold air hit the raw skin of her ankle, and the chain fell to the ground. She almost sobbed again.

But she wasn’t done. Carefully, she set one foot on the floor, testing her strength. Her eyes shifted to the poker by the fireplace, lying close enough to the flames to sear anyone’s skin if touched on the wrong side. Faeries have skin, too, after all. And it's not so much different from human's, if her experience with her hands around someone's throat were anything to go by.

She began to formulate her plan right there. It was very risky, downright suicidal, but at that point she was ready to try anything for her freedom. So she returned to the bed, hid the chain under the skirt and waited for him.

She still can't believe it worked.

Another turn. Her lungs burn, and the air feels thicker, heavier, with each step. She’s in a maze meant to ensnare her, to lead her back to where she started, drive her to insanity. Her thoughts race, searching for any sense of direction, any logic in this place.

But nothing about it makes sense. Seems to be the rule of the faerie world.

She rounds another corner and stops dead. Ahead, two guards are stationed at the end of the hall, clad in dark armor that reflects none of the torchlight. They haven't seen her yet, too engrossed in their conversation.

Nesta takes a step back and presses her back against the wall beneath it, concealing her body with the shadows. Sucking in deep breaths behind her mouth, she glances back down the corridor. They're still there, seemingly unaware of her presence.

She wonders how it works. Don't faeries smell humans from miles away? That's the only explanation on how her captor found her the way he did. And she knows by what he said that he could, in fact, smell her like a piece of meat. But these guards haven't so much as glanced in her direction. ¿Maybe not all faeries can sense humans?

She tries to make out pieces of what they're talking about. Their voices are the only sound in the hallway, so it's easy for her to listen. Perhap she can hear something useful, a hint to leave this place.

"...to leave. He's...bad mood."

"...prick. Almost worse...other."

"Waiting...company."

They chuckle. A sound so unnerving it makes her skin crawl.

"Vanserra...most dangerous."

Vanserra. A name. It means nothing to her, but they way they say it carries a certain air of authority. Whoever it is, it's someone they have to obey.

Her mind is running through multiple possibilities, strategies to proceed. She has to act now. Every minute she spends here without moving is more time for that monster to find her. She's not that foolish to think the iron poker in her hand will stop him.

Suddenly, the guards begin to move towards her and Nesta's blood runs cold. She turns, sprinting down another passageway, uncaring that they surely heard her now.

She’s running blind again, every hallway an endless stretch of pale stone and torchlight. Her mind flits back to the Fae chained in his bed, his rage as he realized what she’d done. She’s not sure if she’s more terrified of his revenge or the despair of knowing she might never escape this place. That it was all for nothing.

The hall narrows, and ahead, she catches a dim glimmer. She sprints toward it, pressing her hands against the wall. There's a slight fissure in the rock, opening onto a crudely carved, dark subterranean passageway. It's large enough for one person to squeeze through—so jagged and rough that it's obviously not used often.

It’s deathly silent, with a faint, warm breeze whistling through. The sound of footsteps and angry shouts approaching spurs her into action; she squeezes herself into a narrow opening, holding her breath to fit. She remains perfectly still as the guards pass her hiding spot. When their footsteps fade, she moves on. The iron rod scrapes against the stone, and she almost feels sorry for the high-quality fabric of the dress getting ruined. Almost.

The passageway narrows, forcing her to suck in her stomach to keep moving. The smell of burning wood reaches her nose, and distant sounds—voices—grow clearer. Light seeps through cracks in the stone, giving her glimpses of the other side.

Bedrooms. This passageway connects to other fae’s bedrooms. She wants to scream.

Nesta closes her eyes for a moment, steeling herself. She can’t fall apart now. She's already here. Turning back is not an option anymore. And she has to find Feyre.

She keeps moving. The voices fade, and her body bumps into a solid wall. The smell of burning wood is stronger now, drifting from just beyond it.

She presses her hands against the wall, pushing with all her strength until it slides aside. A hidden door, then. As soon as she steps out, it closes behind her.

Before her it's a magnificent bedroom, entirely different from the one she was locked in, yet equally beautiful.

The color scheme is rich in golds and reds, with warm orange hues. Another king-sized bed stands at the center, adorned with exquisite bed linens embroidered in flame-like patterns. The posts are made of real gold, and the fire blazing in the enormous hearth beside it casts an ethereal glow across the room. A large, intricately carved wardrobe stands nearby, its surface adorned with thorny patterns. A small desk is cluttered with scattered papers and books, yet looks as expensive as everything else.

If Nesta were asked to describe it, she’d say this room is made of fire and fury. It radiates a palpable power, as though the very walls are steeped in the essence of whoever resides here. The heat from the fire makes her skin prickle, and a strange, welcome warmth settles over her, seeping into her bones.

She walks around slowly, eyes scanning for exits. She notes a large set of double doors to her right—likely the main entrance—and a smaller, inconspicuous door to the left. Her heartbeat quickens, calculating the odds.

But then she hears faint footsteps, muffled but approaching. Her gaze darts to the wardrobe, and without another thought, she darts toward it, slipping inside just as the door swings open. She presses herself against the back of the wardrobe, the scent of polished wood and faintly spiced cologne surrounding her. Through the crack between the doors, she watches.

A figure steps inside, tall and imposing, dressed in an elegant jacket of scarlet and gold. His movements are fluid, controlled. His gaze sweeps over the room, his expression sharp and focused, as if he senses something amiss.

Nesta holds her breath, willing herself invisible. She grips the iron poker with both hands, ready to pounce.

The Fae moves to the bed, then over to the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers trail along the desk, tracing patterns on the scattered papers. And then, he turns on his back and leaves. The sound of doors closing resonate in the room.

Nesta waits until she's sure he's gone. She steps out of the wardrobe carefully, glancing in both directions. Her heart pounds so hard she can feel it in her throat.

Standing in the middle of the room, she watches the flames flicker. Their light reflects off her dress, casting an orange glow that transforms the fabric into the hues of a sunset rather than a night sky. She likes it better.

Suddenly, the flames sink in size and she barely has time to react before she feels a strong hand grabbing her by the arm, grip iron-clad.

"Well, well" a voice low and silk-smooth drawls in her ear, breath hot against her skin. "What do we have here? A little bird who..."

Nesta doesn't even think it.

She whips around and swings the poker, the sharp, burning end aimed blindly at him.

The iron rod connects, glancing off his arm before he jerks back with a low, furious hiss. She stumbles, nearly losing her grip on the poker, but she doesn’t let go. Instead, she takes a shaky step back, holding it between them like a weapon. Her pulse pounds like thunder, her gaze locked on the Fae.

The flames leap higher in the fireplace as he steadies himself, one hand cradling his injured arm. His face twists, not in pain but in something sharper, colder—a kind of restrained fury that makes her blood run cold.

"Quite the little fighter, aren’t you?" he says, his voice low and dripping with dark amusement, though his eyes burn with ire. "I assume you're not the female I was expecting tonight."

He speaks in a unfamiliar accent, different from the other Fae man she knows. His voice is rich and deep in a way that would be attractive in an human man, but coming from someone like him, Nesta refuses to feel anything.

Just by looking at him she knows he’s of the same status—or close—to her captor. He’s taller than any man she’s ever met, with dark red hair perfectly cut over his nape and amber eyes that resemble two flaming orbs. He's dressed even more elegantly than the other bastard, and Nesta has the knowledge to see he has a refined taste and takes pride in his appearance.

Not to mention she can practically feel the power thrumming off him, as palpable as the fire’s warmth at her back. This is no ordinary fae—he’s one of the important kind. The masters.

And this is his bedroom.

Nesta feels the urge to scream again.

He huffs, releasing his injured arm, and she catches sight of a thin trail of blood trickling down his elegantly stitched sleeve. It’s a dark shade of red—almost black—a stark reminder that he’s not human, but a monster.

She holds the iron rod between them, keeping it firmly pressed against his chest, though she knows it’s futile. The sharp end digs in, and he raises an eyebrow, glancing from the poker to her with a look of faint bewilderment.

"Who are you?" it takes everything within her to keep her voice steady.

He snorts. "I believe I should be the one asking that, birdie. This is my bedroom."

Nesta bites her lips, her pulse beating in her ears. He doesn't look threatening, but that doesn't mean he's safe. Yet there's something oddly comforting about this room, about its aura. She can't explain it, but it just feels alluring to her. Just like the man in front of her.

'Focus, you idiot. He's not a man. He's a predator.'

She straightens her spine, trying to appear taller and more confident than she truly feels. She’s no fighter, despite the iron rod clenched in her fingers. Her weapons have always been her words—and she doesn't know to what extent they're useful against faeries.

The fae draws a twisted grin, his fire eyes gleaming with menace.

"How interesting," he takes a step closer to her, the iron pressing further into his chest. "I wasn't aware the Night court kept human pets now."

The fury that flares up at being called "pet" dims in confusion as she processes his words. ¿Night Court? Is that where that fae of shadows comes from?

The red-haired fae picks up on her shock instantly, his grin widening as if he’s uncovered something amusing and entirely to his advantage.

"Oh?" he drawls, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Don’t tell me you didn’t even know? You're dressed like one of them. A wonder we haven't heard of you." He says the last part more to himself, as though she’s little more than a spectator to his thoughts.

Nesta grits her teeth, keeping her grip on the poker tight. "I don’t care about that. I only want to leave."

The fae’s expression shifts, some trace of real interest sparking in his eyes, though his amusement remains. "Leave? And where exactly would you go, little mortal? This place isn’t exactly known for its... hospitality to uninvited guests. Specially if they're humans. She has a...let's say strong dislike for your kind."

He lifts his fingers to trace the iron rod lightly, as though inspecting it. "Besides, did no one tell you it’s rather rude to wander into another male’s chambers?" His tone drips with sarcasm, but Nesta catches the veiled threat in his words.

She truly has the worst luck in the world. Jumping from one sick bastard to another. ¿When will this end?

Nesta’s pulse races. She can feel the power simmering just beneath his polished exterior, as potent as the fae she’s managed to escape from. Her hand tightens on the rod as she meets his gaze defiantly. "You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?"

For a moment, he simply stares at her, the smirk fading as he watches her face with sharp, unreadable eyes. Then, he inclines his head in a graceful bow.

"Call me Eris," he says, voice low and almost purring. "And you, little bird?"

Nesta hesitates. Giving her name to a Fae is a horrible idea, or so she's been taught. But she also thought iron could hurt them and she saw her captor holding it with his own hands to chain her. She's not sure what to do.

But he's given her something more than the other male has. So maybe she can allow herself to be a bit nice.

"I'll tell you if you let me out of here," she replies after a beat, keeping her chin high.

Eris’s smile returns, smug and unbelieving, as if he’s found something truly valuable. "Seriously?" he repeats, letting a short huff of amusement. "I just gave you mine. It's not fair I don't get to know yours."

Her eyes narrow. "You could be lying to me for all I know. Some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands."

He stares at her. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"I agree," he clasps his hands behind him, leaning forward. The end of the poker cutting slightly through his exquisite jacket. He doesn't seem to care. "So pray tell, why should I let you leave after telling you my name, mhm? It's dangerous knowledge, after all."

She tenses.

"What could I possibly do against you? I'm just a human."

He takes a step closer to her.

"A human dressed like a member of the Night court, who just intruded in my bedroom with a weapon. Forgive me for being a bit skeptical."

His gaze never leaves hers, and though Nesta tries to keep her stance steady, she feels herself shrinking back involuntarily. His body is on the way to her exit, but it dawns to her that, even if she managed to get pass him by some miracle, there could be more faes outside.

She doesn't have time to think that far ahead. She needs to act now.

The fire cracks behind her, the comforting smell of burning wood caressing her nose. She can do this.

"Please, I just want to go home." Fighting back hasn’t worked so far, so maybe playing the role of a pitiful, scared human will "He kidnapped me, kept me locked in his room like a beast. I escaped by sheer miracle, but I know he's looking for me now."

His eyebrows rise briefly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before it vanishes, replaced by an unimpressed stare. If Nesta wasn't so well versed in those same tactics, she would've missed it.

She knows Fae look down on her kind, see them as inferior beings. If she plays on that role, she might get the upper hand here.

Eris watches her, the flickering firelight casting his sharp features in a golden glow. His smirk fades and his eyes narrow slightly, as though he’s debating whether or not to believe her tale.

"How exactly did you escape? I know he wouldn't have let you go so easily. And there's no way you could've overpower him."

Shit. He’s cornering her with that question. If she tells him the truth—that she outwitted a powerful fae and chained him to the bed—there’s a risk he’ll see her as a genuine threat and act accordingly. Or worse, he won’t believe her at all. And hand her over to her captor.

Everything's been a risk since she got out of that room. She can't falter. Not now. Not when might be so close to freedom.

"When his servants came to dress me, they unlocked the chain, and forgot to lock it again when they left. I saw an opportunity. I grabbed the poker and ran away before he returned." she sighs. "I almost got caught by some guards, so I hid. That's how I ended up here."

He hums, looking at her in silence, as if pushing her to continue.

"Please, I beg you, let me go. My s...family need me. I must find them. I promise I won't tell anyone about this place. Ever. I just...let me go home."

As she talks, she realizes it's not an act anymore. Every word comes straight out of her heart, her raw emotions. She misses her home deeply, misses her sisters. She must save Feyre from that monster's claws and bring her back home. Her eyes grow misty against her will, but she's too weary to feel asshamed.

She only wants this nightmare to end.

The fae doesn't say anything. Not a sound comes out of him. Nesta doesn't dare to look at his face.

"Home, you say?" His voice drips with an emotion she can't identify. "You really think that's an option for you now? That's why you went through all that trouble? Sweet Mother, I forgot how blissfully unaware mortals are of everything around them." He looks away, his expression serious, contrasting greatly to how he's been acting until now. "And what, pray tell, is it you intend to do once you’re back in your quaint little life? Forget this ever happened? Forget this place? Him?" His tone lowers, his words taunting. "Do you truly believe a creature like him will let you escape unscathed?"

Nesta's blood freezes, her head throbbing. The grip around the iron rod begins to tremble.

"There must be a way, I know it..."

"Let's suppose I let you out of here. What then?" he interrupts her, insisting. Taking her apart. "Do you have any idea where you are right now? How to navigate this place? You don't. Bet you don't even know where the entrance is. You don't have a plan, am I right? Risked your sorry life for nothing."

Nesta moves before her common sense can't stop it. She swings the iron rod again, narrowly missing his side as he sidesteps.

Eris laughs, a sharp, delighted sound, even as he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, you're fun. I like you."

"Shut up. You're a powerful fae, I can feel it. There has to be a way you can help me here. What do I have to do?"

Eris’s smile returns, smug and predatory, as if he’s found what he was looking for.

"Well, I can think of a few ways you can...persuade me to help."

Nesta already recognizes this tone, resisting the urge to roll her eyes and the shiver all through her back. Maybe she should try to aim for the head this time.

"Not that, you disgusting pervert." She grits her teeth.

Eris hums, his expression unreadable as he steps even closer, close enough now that the heat of his body mixes with the warmth of the fire behind her. "How brave of you to say that. Or just suicidal. I can't decide."

Nesta holds her ground, though her instincts scream at her to back away. She won’t cower—not yet. She tilts her chin up, meeting his fiery gaze head-on. "I repeat. I’m no threat to you. If you're not going to help me, then let me go, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again."

Eris laughs, low and rich, the sound reverberating through the room and her body. "You misunderstand, birdie. I don’t 'have' to deal with you. I’m choosing to."

His hand reaches out, catching her wrist with infuriating ease as he gently pulls the poker from her grip. He lets it clatter to the ground, his hand still wrapped around her wrist, firm but not painful. "And now I’m wondering…" He leans in, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him. "Why the High Lord of the Night Court went to such lengths to dress you up like his prize, only to let you slip away."

Her pulse pounds in her ears, but she forces her voice steady. "I’m no one’s prize."

Eris’s lips twitch, his grip tightening just slightly. "No, you’re not. You're a pet." he murmurs. "But I think there's something more of you than that. And I really want to find out."

His free hand raises toward her face, and Nesta reacts without thinking. She stomps down on his foot with all her strength, yanking her wrist free as his grip loosens.

But before she can grab the iron rod again, his whole face changes. It’s almost imperceptible, but she notices it, and it makes her wary.

He tilts his head to the side, as if listening to something outside. She watches him, his sudden change in behavior unsettling her enough to keep quiet. The faint tension in his posture, the way his eyes flicker toward the door, and the tilt of his head, as if straining to hear something beyond the thick walls. It sets her on edge.

Her heart pounds in her chest, the icy claws of unease curling around her spine. Whatever—or whoever—has his attention, it makes him pause. And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

A cold, horrifying though comes to her. ¿Could it be him? Has he found her at last?

Suddenly, he turns his head at her with an intense stare. Something flicker in his eyes, and he's frowning. He looks at her as if he's conflicted. ¿Why?

He grabs her harshly by the arms, but not enough to hurt, and basically lifts her up in the air. She doesn't have time to protest before he presses a hand against the wall where she came from and...pushes it open like nothing. Like he does it regularly.

He shoves her inside and gives her a stern look of warning.

"Leave the way you came," he instructs, his tone firm but distracted. "Once you're out, keep your right hand pressed to the wall and follow it. It’ll take you where you need to go. Don’t run, don’t make a sound, and above all, avoid the shadows. They’re not safe." He turns his head to the door again in a pissed off gesture. "And one more thing."

He grabs her wrist, and Nesta feels the cool weight of something pressed into her palm. She looks down.

A knife. Crafted from gold and ash wood.

"That will hurt a Fae far more than burning iron," he says evenly. "Keep it with you at all times. Even a light touch of it will have them writhing in pain."

She can barely process what's happening. Everything feels too fast, his words too cryptic.

"Why are you doing this? What's going on?"

The glare he shoots her makes her breath hitch.

"He's here."

Her chest tightens as her heartbeat thunders painfully against her ribs, each beat like a desperate plea to escape.

"But... I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this? Why are you helping me?"

He stares at her, his expression unreadable, though something flickers in his eyes—a shadow of emotion too fleeting to name.

"We’re not close enough yet to share our secrets," he says, his smile sharp but empty, like a blade with no warmth behind it. "Now go, before I regret it and hand you over to him."

Her mind spins, a storm of unanswered questions she can’t bring herself to voice. Her tongue feels heavy, her thoughts muddled.

But one thing is unmistakable: he’s helping her. For reasons she can’t fathom, this Fae is offering her a chance. A lifeline. And he hasn’t demanded anything in return.

Before she can say another word, he moves to push the wall closed.

"Pity. I didn't got your name in the end," he says, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Maybe next time."

It's so absurd she feels the urge to chuckle. For the first time since she was kidnapped. It's a miracle. Or a sign of insanity.

"Nesta."

"What?"

She locks eyes with him, her gaze unwavering as she stares into those amber depths, like molten fire swirling. Her own reflection in those fiery orbs.

"My name is Nesta."

He blinks.

"Nesta." He repeats, savouring the syllabes in a soft, low tone. "Be careful, Nesta. Everything can be trap here."

She grips the knife.

"Trust me, I know now" she replies. "Thank you. For doing this."

He chuckles.

"Don't thank me yet, birdie. After all, I'm sure we'll meet again."

The wall closes in her face before she can ask, leaving her alone in the darkness once more.

She battles with herself to get moving, her mind still reeling from everything that just transpired. Pressing her right hand firmly against the wall beside her, she begins to walk back on her steps.

Every step is deliberate, her movements slow and calculated, as she struggles to keep silent. Her breathing is shallow, her chest tight with the effort of not making a sound.

If that bastard truly is here, then there’s a chance—pretty big one—that she'll pass by him through this hidden passage, near the damn rooms.

The weight of the knife in her hand is both a comfort and a reminder of the dangers that lie ahead. Nesta moves cautiously, every small sound amplified in the thick silence surrounding her. Her heart hammers in her chest, a constant warning of how close she is to being discovered. The passage feels tighter now, the stone walls pressing in as if the space itself is conspiring to trap her.

As she walks, her mind races. Who was that fae, Eris? Why had he helped her? And why, despite the sharpness in his eyes and the veiled threat in his words, had he let her go instead of handing her over to the other? Surely it would've been easier for him, and spared him any trouble.

Her breath catches in her throat as a thought hits her like a cold wave—was he playing her all along? Or was there something more to his intentions?

The wall beneath her fingers feels cold, unyielding, as if daring her to falter. She forces herself to ignore the creeping dread, pressing onward, trusting in the directions Eris had given her. The passage twists and turns, its walls narrowing at times, forcing her to squeeze through with minimal room to spare. She forces her thoughts back to the present. 'Focus. Get out of here. Find Feyre.'

The low murmur of voices reaches her ears just as she rounds a corner. Her stomach tightens. They’re close—too close for her liking. She slows her pace, flattening herself against the wall as much as she can, holding her breath. Her eyes scan the shadows, looking for any sign of movement.

The voices grow louder, unmistakable now. It’s him. The one she’s been running from.

"Sorry, but I don't have the slighest idea what you're talking about," That's Eris. She recognizes that suave, arrogant tone. "Are you sure you're not just tired? I know she's been keeping you busy lately..."

"Spare me your bullshit, Vanserra," her tormentor growls, and Nesta's heart stops at how close he sounds. "I can smell her here. Where.Is.She?"

Hold on. Vanserra? Did he just call Eris 'Vanserra'?

'Vanserra...most dangerous.'

'...prick. Almost worse...other.'

'Waiting...company.'

¿What was it he said when he saw her?

'I assume you're not the female I was expecting tonight'

Her knees threaten to give out, her breath growing heavy and clawing at her chest. In her desesperation to escape from a monster, she jumped into another one. And made him bleed.

She truly, definitely, has the worst luck in this godsforsaken world.

But he also let her leave. Even gave her a weapon to defend herself against his kind, or so he claimed. So what's the truth here? Why are these creatures so dreadfully confusing?

"Who exactly is 'her'? I don't understand...Oh!" He chuckles mockingly, in that taunting way of this. "Are you hiding something from us, Rhys? It must be pretty important if our queen doesn't know yet."

"I'm warning you, Eris, I'm losing my patience here. Tell me where the fuck she is now, or you can say goodbye to you and your miserable family before tomorrow."

Her pulse quickens again. It’s really him—her captor, the shadowed fae who had claimed her as his. His voice is unmistakable, even though he’s out of sight. Nesta’s stomach lurches with the realization that she’s within inches of him, and the thought of what he might do if he catches her sends a shiver down her spine.

Keep moving, she tells herself. Don’t stop. Ignore them.

But it's hard to do so when they're so close to her, specially the moment Eris replies.

"Keep my family out of our filthy mouth." It shocks her how deadly serious he sounds. How threatening. "They have nothing to do with your personal messes. If I were you, I'll be more worried about Amarantha finding out. I wonder what she'll think of her whore keeping an human pet under her nose, without her permission?

Whore? Amarantha?

Suddenly, there's a loud bang and she has to bite her lip to not scream.

Someone punched a wall, cracked a hole in it probably. She can hear some heavy breathing, but can't tell whose.

"I'm sick of your games, Vanserra." It's him. "I don't like when people tamper with my things. Tell me where you hid her, or I'll fucking slit your throat right here. How would your mother fare mourning another son?"

Nesta takes another step, but her foot catches on something—a loose stone, a crack in the floor. The faint sound is enough to make her freeze, her breath caught in her throat. The voices stop. The air becomes thick with tension, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She closes her eyes, praying she hasn’t been heard.

Seconds stretch into eternity.

Then, a faint shuffle of feet.

She presses herself further against the stone, her heart racing, praying to whatever gods might listen that she’s not discovered. She waits, breath held, her fingers tightening around the golden knife. The faintest tremor runs through her as she imagines what would happen if the shadows, that dark fae that had haunted her every step, found her now.

Her breath escapes in a silent rush, and she forces herself to keep going, her movements fluid but swift. Just a little further. Just a little further. She has move away from them. Far enough to give her some advantage by the time he comes out to get her. Whatever farse Eris had been spouting to distract him is over with her mistake.

Her mind is racing as the path stretches ahead of her—there’s no going back now. She’s committed herself to whatever happens next. The knife feels cold in her hand, despite having been there for quite a while now.

The voices resume, softer now, but she can no longer understand them. She takes it as a good sign.

The passage winds on, the flickering lights from the cracks that guided her earlier growing faint and distant. Nesta’s pulse thunders in her ears as she moves, every nerve in her body attuned to the faintest shift in sound or shadow. She keeps her right hand on the wall, gripping the knife in her left. Eris’s instructions echo in her mind: Follow the wall. Don’t run. Don’t make a sound. Avoid the shadows.

She tries not to think about how close she came to being caught—or how the bastard would’ve reacted if he’d seen her. His threats, his fury—it all feels like a dark storm closing in, and she’s only barely staying ahead of it.

The air grows colder as she moves deeper into the passage, and she shivers despite herself. Her dress feels flimsy and useless against the chill. The fabric whispers against her legs as she walks, the only sound she allows herself to make.

She misses the fire and the wood from Eris' bedroom. She's going insane, no doubt, missing to be in a Fae's presence.

Nesta rounds another corner, her steps faltering as the walls widen slightly. The space feels different here—emptier, less confining. She presses her hand more firmly against the stone, willing herself to keep going. She doesn’t know where this path leads, but it’s better than staying where she was.

A faint, eerie hum creeps into her awareness. It’s distant, almost like a melody carried on the wind, and she freezes. Her breathing stills as she listens, trying to pinpoint the sound. It doesn’t seem like voices, nor does it belong to any creature she can identify. It's almost hypnotic...except she doesn't feel particularly drawn to it. More like weirded out, scared even. It wants to pull her attention, she knows, and she feels how it flies past her body. Her eyes squint around her, trying to see something.

Avoid the shadows, he said.

How is she supposed to avoid them if she's surrounded by them?

Nesta steps back instinctively, her grip tightening on the knife. She scans the dim passage, her eyes straining to see through the gloom. The hum grows louder, closer, and she realizes it’s not coming from one direction but all around her, as if the passage itself is alive and aware.

Her breath catches as a flicker of movement darts just beyond her vision—a shadow, but not her own. Her blood runs cold, and she takes another step back, pressing herself against the wall.

"Not safe," she whispers to herself, repeating his warning like a mantra. "Not safe. Not safe."

The hum crescendos, a low, thrumming sound that resonates in her chest, and the shadows seem to swell, stretching toward her. Panic claws at her throat, but Nesta forces herself to move, keeping her steps deliberate and quiet. She doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t dare think about what might be lurking just out of sight.

The wall beneath her hand feels warmer now, as though guiding her toward something—away from the terrifying darkness. She follows it blindly, her focus narrowing to the rough texture beneath her fingertips and the steady rhythm of her steps.

Finally, she sees it: a faint glimmer of light ahead, spilling through the cracks of what looks like another possible exit. Relief floods her, but she doesn’t let herself rush. Instead, she inches closer, every muscle coiled and ready to act if something—or someone—appears.

When she reaches the door, she feels along its edges, noticing a soft breeze coming from the other side. Her fingers brush against a hidden latch, and she hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder. She can see the shadows writhe in the distance, alive and hungry, and she knows she has no choice.

Nesta pushes the latch, and the wall swings open, revealing a room bathed in warm light. She steps through, the wall closing shut behind her with a quiet click. The hum vanishes abruptly, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.

It’s a small, empty space, furnished only with a worn-out desk and an old chair, a few cushions tossed carelessly on the ground, and a dusty bookshelf leaning against the wall. The thick layer of dust suggests it hasn’t been used in quite some time—or that no one cares enough to clean it.

She hears nothing but her own breathing. No footsteps, no voices, no hums. The room feels abandoned.

For now, she’s safe.

As if on cue, her knees give out, and she collapses to the ground. The knife slips from her grasp, clattering loudly against the floor beside her open hand. Her shoulders tremble as her vision blurs with unshed tears. The adrenaline that had kept her upright is gone, leaving her raw and vulnerable. Everything—the danger, the fear, the weight of survival—crashes over her all at once.

Nesta hugs herself tightly, pulling her legs to her chest and burying her face in her knees. For a moment, she lets herself break.

Now it's not the time, a voice eerily similar to her Mother's echoe in her head. Focus. Get out of here. Find Feyre.

Nesta takes a long, deep breath, looking up again. She casts a glance to the knife besides her and grabs it. She scans her surroundings again, making sure she didn't miss anything. The knife somehow comforts her, her heart going back to its normal rhythm as her finger traces the ashwood part.

She doesn’t know what more dangers she'll have to face, but she’ll find a way out of this nightmare—back to her sister—or die trying.

She's Nesta Archeron. And she won't break.