#manon crochan x reader

[wrinniewrites]

A Fool's Gambit | Manon Blackbeak

SUMMARY ↣ in a world with little hope, you find solace in the gold, dead eyes of manon blackbeak.

WARNINGS ↣ smut, blood, injury, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, suicidal ideation, allusions to sa, death, and worst of all—hope.

WORD COUNT ↣ 5.6k

PAIRINGS ↣ manon blackbeak x fem!reader

“My uncle will be displeased with me should he learn it is I who takes up all of your precious time.” Elide Lochan murmurs from where she sweeps the already spotless floor beside you, a task unfit for a lady of her status. 

“Then I shall have to unleash the wrath of Adarlan upon him,” you quip, watching her intently. “Besides, who else might I conspire with.” The black haired beauty manages a faint smile at that.

“What is it that you plan this time, Princess?” The Lady of Perranth inquires, trying, and failing, to conceal her growing interest.

“Nothing grand,” you beam, eyes darting to the horde of wyverns that enter the aerie one after the other. However, your attention is fixed upon the white haired female standing amongst them, stance alone commanding respect.

Elide pales, glancing between you and the host of witches. “Please tell me this scheme of yours has nothing to do with the iron-teeth witches I fear may kill us for looking at them wrong?” She all but begs, face scrunched up, already knowing the answer upon catching your mischievous grin.

“I make no promises, Lady Lochan.”

And before she can blink, you are already sauntering toward the thirteen. She reaches for your arm in warning, but you simply brush her off. To her absolute horror, you stroll past each and every witch, paying no heed to their stares.

Instead, stopping right before the Blackbeak Elide did not dare even look at.

“What.” The white haired witch barks out, and the Lady of Perranth flinches at the sound from across the room. You, however, remain steadfast. Your friend feels her chest tighten as yet another witch appears, this one with golden hair, staring appraisingly.

Uncaring of the burnt gold eyes burning into your soul, you only tilt your head curiously, smiling a pretty smile.

“This one might be mad,” you hear one of her thirteen mutter, a grin in her voice.

The wing-leader shoots Vesta a warning glare, not bothering to glance your way, only breezing by you boredly.

It is your voice that halts her step.

“I wish to ride,” you announce, not looking back as the white haired witch turns to face you once more.

Elide almost passes out from where she stands.

Manon’s eyes narrow, following your gaze to Abraxos. She smells not an ounce of fear on you, remaining unsure whether you refer to witch or wyvern.

When you meet her gaze over your shoulder, the glint in your eyes makes her wonder if the answer might be both. The witch barely allows a smirk to grace her lips as you hold her stare before spinning on her heel without another word.

Elide dares not breathe until you are safely back at her side. Your lips bearing a wide grin as you approach

“Perhaps one day, I too shall fly.”

If Manon is surprised to find you seated at Duke Perrington’s side during her private audience, she does not show it.

It is only after his speech is at its end does he notice her gaze flicker to you.

“I suppose I should introduce you,” the man grumbles in his seat.

“Wing-leader, this is the Princess of Adarlan.” His words are dull as he offers a lazy gesture in your direction. “You may do with her as you please during your stay, so long as she remains in one piece.”

Manon notes the way your jaw tightens at his statement. So you were an unwilling guest, she deduces.

The witch does not deign him with a response, nor make the mistake glance your way again. She simply continues pressing him about the Wastes; her home. Even when she feels your curious gaze on her, she does not turn.

It will be days before the wing-leader even sees you again. But the hollow eyes of Adarlan’s Princess do not cease to haunt her.

It is late when Elide stumbles upon you in one of Morath's corridors, almost crashing into you with the force of her fear, shoulders shaky and eyes watering.

Your strong grasp holds her by the arms, keeping her steady as soft inquiries fall past your lips. Hushed whispers float through the stone castle as she speaks of her interaction with the white haired witch, your gaze hardening as she continues.

You are grateful she is too caught up in her own fear to see the tear in your dress, the bruises lining your forearms. Just as you are thankful for the distraction she provides.

With a snap of your fingers, your cousin is at your side. Ordered to guard and contain you by Duke Perrington. Though you suppose he is no longer Roland Havilliard. He does not speak as you command him to escort Elide to her rooms, and you do not watch as he mindlessly obeys.

You ignore the visions of depthless black eyes and dark collars that rise to your mind. Instead, finding yourself making the reluctant journey up the tower’s steps, muscles aching with each movement.

The wing-leader appears before you as you reach the top, likely having scented you. She does not speak as you welcome yourself into her quarters, watching you with caution.

“Do not trouble Elide with your ventures,” you begin, features impassive to your thoughts. “She is innocent in this war.” Are the only words you speak in explanation, and the witch raises an unimpressed brow.

“And you are not?” Is all she asks.

“Few are.” You answer vaguely.

Her burnt gold eyes travel your body from head to toe assessment, and you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest.

“You know, most would not dare to speak to me as you do.” She takes a threatening step forward, eyes glinting when you do not back away.

“I am not most,” you answer grimly. Curiously, none of the excitement —hope— she found the day you gazed upon her wyvern lingered.

“No,” she agrees. “But I suspect that means you taste far better,” her iron nails shoot out. Perhaps that might get a reaction out of you. And how she did love playing with her food.

“Kill me if you wish,” your tone remains flat as she stalks toward you, “it would be a mercy.”

Manon smirks at that. “I do not wish to kill you,” her tongue darts out to swipe across her iron teeth. “Not yet, at least.” 

Your brows furrow, but you do not balk as her nails dig into your chin, tilting your head so that you may forcibly meet her gaze.

“What do you say, Princess? Do you still wish to ride?” She rasps, her lips a breath from yours.

You still for a moment, shoulders tense. “If I say yes,” you pause thoughtfully, “will you do me a favour?” Your eyes drift to her lips, and Manon knows she has you, but she still bites.

“And what might that entail?” 

“Freedom,” you speak softly, and her grip tightens.

She raises her thumb to brush over your bottom lip, “we’ll see.”

“And if I say no?” You dare to ask, leaning into her touch all the while. It had been so long since you’d found any semblance of pleasure in this cruel life.

The witch grins. “You won’t,” and in a flash her lips are pressed to yours in a bruising kiss. The hand at your jaw travelling to your neck, eliciting a gasp that parts your lips for her tongue.

She walks you backwards until your back is pressed to the cool stone wall, pinned by her hips. A whine escapes you when Manon squeezes her hand around your throat, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. It is only then that she pulls back, burnt gold eyes hooded as she tugs your bottom lip between her teeth playfully. 

You barely have a chance to catch your breath before her mouth is at your neck, tongue swiping over the blood that trickles from where her iron nails punctured your skin. She hums, pleased when you tilt your head back and a moan parts your lips.

“You do taste nice, Princess ,” Manon murmurs as her teeth scrape your neck. Hands roam your body freely, her knee parts your legs with ease, settling between them. You reach blindly for her riding leathers for support, heat pooling between your legs.

She grins at the way your eyes widen when she uses her iron claws to tear a line right down the centre of your dress. You shiver when an icy breeze caresses your bare breasts, nipples hardening. Manon makes quick work of bringing her lips to them, sucking and biting, you arch into her touch.

“You’re dripping,” she purrs, removing her fingers from your core in spite of your complaints. Instead, you watch, enamoured, as she brings them to her own lips, tongue darting out to suck them clean. Moaning at the taste, she crashes her lips into yours a second time, forcing you to taste yourself on her tongue.

She allows clumsy hands to strip her of her own leathers, finding enjoyment in watching you attempt to focus as she rakes her nails over your thighs and stomach teasingly. You are reduced to pathetic whimpers when her fingers slide between your legs and you clench around nothing.

Her eager mouth swallows your sounds greedily as her fingers return, slipping between your legs once more. Finding your bundle of nerves with ease, she circles vigorously. You are embarrassed to admit you almost came from that alone.

“Manon,” you plead when she slows her pace tantalisingly. “Please,” you beg, bucking your hips to seek friction. The witch only raises an unimpressed brow.

“Please, what?” She demands.

“Please,” you say again, hands reaching desperately for her, pulling her closer. “Please fuck me.” She smirks, and for a moment you think she’ll abandon you entirely for daring to touch her, leaving you high and dry.

Instead, a moan loud enough to echo through Morath is ripped from your lips as two fingers plunge into you. All while her thumb continues to rub at your clit. At first, her strokes are slow, gentle even, agonisingly so. But when your own nails dig into her skin with need, she thrusts into you knuckles deep, hard enough to have you falling over the edge pitifully fast.

Only she does not pull away then for she is finished with you yet. Her pace turns tortuous. And in just a few short touches you are reaching your high again, begging her to stop. And when she does not, tears glitter in your eyes. Then, and only then does the witch show mercy.

Your ears are ringing by the time she has had her way with you, chest rising and falling with each laboured breath you take. As you blink away the blurriness, you realise she is the only reason you remain on two feet, for your body is limp in her arms.

Once you are recovered enough to stand on your own, two rough hands grip your shoulders, forcing you to your knees hard enough to leave a dull ache; a reminder. Her slim fingers weave through your hair before tightening, urging you forward in a wordless command. 

“Your friend plots her escape,” Manon’s voice is tainted by exhaustion as she lays on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Immediately you know she refers to Elide.

You turn to face her from where you lie, bare skin covered only by a thin sheet. It is the second week you have spent in her bed. For you found yourself returning to her chambers the very day after the first, and the next, and the next.

The witch greets you with a smug smirk every time.

She does not ask after the strange bruises that litter your skin, and for that you are thankful. Though she will come to regret it one day.

“Good.” You say in response to her statement, and the witch’s brows pinch in confusion. “It means she still has hope,” you answer her wordless question.

“And you do not?” She asks, already knowing the answer.

“I am beyond hoping,” you whisper sombrely before forcing a smile to your lips. “But fun is not entirely lost on me,” you lift your hand to her skin, mindlessly trailing a line on her collarbone with the tip of your finger.

Manon stiffens at your touch. You cannot help but wonder if in time she may soften. The idea is quickly lost on you, moving to retract. Only she catches your wrist in a painfully tight grip. You grimace but do not make any move to pull away. Instead you raise your brows in silent questioning when her burnt gold eyes deign to meet your own. You frown when her nostrils flare.

“You are with child,” she murmurs, surprise clear in her voice despite her face remaining stoic. “How long have you known?” She watches the way your frown deepens, biting the inside of your cheek. “You did not know,” she answers herself.

She does not ask of the who, and you almost wish she would. But deep down, you both know her mind already holds the answer.

Not another word passes your lips that night.

Pulling back the sheets grimly, you feel bile rise to your throat as you spare a glance at your stomach. You know the witch watches you keenly, but cannot bring yourself to care as tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

Instead, you opt to turn for the open window, feeling only the icy breeze and burnt gold orbs on your back as you will yourself to sleep. 

Just as the darkness threatens to consume you whole, the faintest skim of fingertips along your stomach keeps you on the cusp of sleep. The covers are then pulled up to your neck, and you allow yourself to find peace in the dreamworld.

You do not remember it the next morning.

Elide finds you in the aerie the very next day, watching the wyverns intently.

“What troubles you today, Princess?” She asks, noting your features tainted by exhaustion. But when you turn to face her she does not find the grave look she expects.

“I have been sitting here for more hours than I can count, Elide, and what I have discovered is most fascinating.” Your eyes glimmer with each word, though the smile you wear does not quite reach your eyes.

“And what is it that you have discerned?” 

“They are much like us, you know.” You report grimly. “Tortured, but hopeful creatures,” you say, carefully observing Abraxos and Narene, Asterin’s wyvern. Elide does not fully understand your statement until she follows your wavering gaze to the white haired witch at her gentle beast’s side.

“Hope is not lost on you yet, Princess?” She asks, recalling how adamant you had been in your argument only a month prior. ‘It is a doomed world we live in, and one would be a fool to even consider the prospect of change.’ You had once said.

“I fear I no longer possess the answer to that particular question.” Your brows furrow in thought, hands twirling the flower you cradle in your hands. 

“Do you think people can change, Lady Lochan?” 

The question confuses her. She first thinks of her Uncle Vernon, and finds herself frowning doubtfully. But then she tunes her mind to you, of how you had unknowingly given her a hope that had been all but lost for the last ten years.

“I would like to believe so,” is all she can offer. You nod once, twice, before rising to your feet. She does not stop you as you make your way to the witch and her wyvern.

Manon’s attention is drawn to you the second you so much as glance in her direction. No one can say whether you came to the aerie that day for her, or she for you. But the fact remains that every living being within the space could feel the tension lingering between you.

She raises her perfectly sculpted brow as you approach, eyeing the flower you hold with caution. The witch is surprised when you stroll right by her, though she does not show it.

Instead, you stop directly before her wyvern, flower outstretched in your hand. A rare laugh escapes your lips when he nudges your hand softly, sniffing. Abraxos then lets out what you can only assume is a sound of delight, nuzzling into your palm.

“I think he rather likes me,” you glance back at Manon with a grin, and she frowns in return. She does not enjoy the feeling it stirs in her chest; it is one of discomfort. 

Her gentle beast huffs at her expression, almost knowingly, and the witch rolls her eyes. “He recognises your scent,” Manon explains, not bothering to gesture to herself. And you almost allow yourself to smile at the idea of her smelling of you.

“When we first met, I asked you for a ride.” You say, running your hands over Abraxos’ scales, who hums in content. “Will you really make me ask a second time?”

“And here I thought you were talking about me.”

Your eyes brighten at her words, but then she finds her gaze drifting to your stomach and you frown. “Perhaps another day,” she excuses stiffly, and you nod solemnly.

“Perhaps another day,” you repeat.

The sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon by the time you finally hear the footsteps that belong only to Manon Blackbeak. 

You sit curled beneath the window, neck craned so that you might look upon the stars. When her pace quickens in the stairwell, a rare flicker of fear passes over you. You know then that she has figured it out.

You know not of where she was, nor how long it has been since she left, only that she was gone. 

The moment she passes the threshold her eyes dart to yours, burnt gold irises swirling with fury. Manon is at your side before you can blink, but your vision has already begun to blur. She is too late.

“What have you done?” Manon demands, iron nails digging into your arms. 

“For once, I have done as I wish.” A simple smile adorns your lips

Something brews in her burnt gold eyes as they dip to your stomach, the red staining it, something you almost mistake for worry. But you are not so foolish as to believe your own delusions.

“You are a fool,” the witch sneers.

A careless laugh bubbles from your throat. “A fool I may be, but a free one at that.”

She scowls, “not if I have anything to say about it,” hauling your limp body into her arms.

It is only then your eyes widen in a blind panic. 

“No.” you whisper, and blood spills from your lips. “No.” You say again, using the last of your strength to trash in her arms. “No, please no.” A feeble attempt to free yourself.

“You are mine,” Manon grunts as she tightens her grip. “Mine to have. Mine to dictate. And I say you will not die today, Princess, so die you shall not.”

“Please,” you beg, voice taut. 

Her gaze steels. “You are mine.” She repeats, and you feel tears pool in your eyes. A soft shake of your head in disbelief follows, freedom so close, yet so far. Perhaps if you could— you blindly reach for the gaping wound in your stomach.

“Stop.” Manon orders, reaching to grasp your wrist. Her iron claws do not dig into your skin as you expect. There is a strain in her voice, and when you look up, her eyes are filled by a wild panic. Your wrist slackens.

“Good.” Is the last word you hear before your vision fades and the world goes black.

When you wake you are in Manon’s chambers, you recognise the room even with your eyes closed.

“And so she lives,” someone speaks, but the voice is muffled, distant. It is a great effort to peel your eyes open, throat dry as you attempt to speak. A flash of flaming red hair and a cup of water is pressed to your lips.

“Thank you,” you rasp, and the witch grins in acknowledgement. Only for her back to stiffen as she shifts away from you, eyes darting for the door. A moment later, Manon steps past the threshold, Asterin hot on her tail.

Burnt gold eyes immediately dart to you, alert. “You’re awake.” Manon swallows. 

When you refuse to meet her gaze, her jaw tightens. “Out.” She orders, and with a wave of her hand Vesta is gone. Only three of you remain now.

“The babe?” You question, voice hollow as you finally raise your head. When Asterin gazes at you with sympathy you know it is done. You wish she wouldn’t, but you manage an appreciative glance no less.

It was better this way.

Your gaze then flickers to Manon, who stands tense by her second. Asterin does not need to be told to leave, offering a curt nod as she goes.

The silence only stretches between you two so long before you can no longer bear it. “Why?” You ask, doing everything in your power to keep your voice from cracking. She could ask you the same, but does not.

“Because I can,” her answer is simple; cold. 

You hang your head lowly in a cruel mix of disappointment and acceptance. But then her voice comes again, “because you asked for a favour,” she says, your brows furrowing. “And I intend to fulfil it.”

Your head shoots up, face contorted by a thousand questions resting at the tip of your tongue. “I answered your question, now you answer mine.” Just as you part your lips to speak, she raises her hand, commanding silence. “Who did this to you?” 

“I—”

“Do not lie to me.”

Pausing, you eye her pensively. “He did not exactly introduce himself,” you retort.

“He was here for me?” She questions, and you stare at her a moment, assessingly, before nodding. Her back straightens, and you can almost feel how hard she resists the iron claws threatening to shoot free.

“So why,” she breathes, “did I find you in my chambers with a blade in your stomach?”

You fight the urge to grimace. “I suppose he thought if he could not take you, taking your bed warmer might cause you harm enough to satisfy his handler.” You offer a faux smile. “He was a fool to believe so.”

She is silent, deathly so. When the words come, you do not expect them.

“I will kill him.”

“You have a visitor,” Manon announces, albeit begrudgingly. And you immediately try to rise from the thick covers, pausing when iron claws shoot out in warning. She only stands once you raise your hands in surrender, laying back with a roll of your eyes. 

Elide comes bursting into the room the second the witch opens the door, stumbling over her feet to reach you. Her eyes shine when she makes it to your side, and you lift your hand to her cheek absently, faintly aware of Manon’s lingering presence,

“You are well?” You ask, and the Lady of Perranth gapes.

The witch leaves the room with a glance over her shoulder, surprised to find your gaze on her. She does not understand the look you give her, for it is one of mixed emotions. As though you thank her for going, but plead for her to stay all the same. Manon leaves before she can think further on it.

“You are faced with death, but still ask after me?” Elide shakes her in exasperation. Suddenly overcome, she reaches for your hands. “I do not know what I would do without you, Princess.”

“You would be just fine,” you assure, but the ravenette frowns in disagreement, glancing behind her.

“I am surprised they even allowed me to see you.” When your brows furrow, she continues in a hushed whisper. “The wing-leader has been on edge ever since—” she gestures to you. “Even Perrington grows displeased with her refusal to let a soul near you.” 

“Then I suppose you, my friend, are one lucky lady,” you quip, but your mind stirs with thoughts you never allowed yourself to have in the past. Ones of hope. 

A groan passes your lips when you shift, roused from sleep by the pain it causes your stitches. When your eyes flutter open, you find burnt gold ones already on you.

“Manon?” You rasp, yawning sleepily. The witch blinks from where she lies on her side, a silent acknowledgement. You mindlessly shuffle closer, seeking warmth. Too tired to wonder why she does not turn away, you draw near enough to hear her short, sharp breaths.

“I shall take you to the skies on Abraxos,” the witch is hesitant as she lays a hand upon your hip, careful not to hurt you. “So that you may know true freedom.” Her body freezes when you press your face to her neck, hot air spilling from your lips, sending a chill down her stiff spine.

“This is enough for me,” you murmur. 

It is all so different from anything she knows. From the touch she has given you to elicit pleasure. From the same favours you have returned to her, only gentler. No, this is like nothing she has ever known.

She does not know what to make of it. Her desire for it.

And when you wake the next morning, Manon is gone. 

It is days before she returns to you, and you are finally able to move freely after the incident. “Princess?” A voice draws you from sleep, and you find the witch sitting at your side, peering down at you.

“You’re back,” you whisper into the darkness.

The Blackbeak heir hums softly, her touch oddly gentle as she reaches for your neck. You do not flinch, not when her hands only seek to caress the smooth skin thoughtfully. Instead, you wait for the words to find her.

“You do not bear the same collar they have used on your brother,” she frowns, staring at you as though you are a puzzle she cannot solve. “Why?”

You jerk upright. “Dorian wears a collar?” 

“You did not know.” Manon observes, feeling foolish for asking. Though you show no anger towards her. Saying nothing, your gaze finds the open window. It does little to hide the tears in your eyes, the moon’s dull glow illuminating your fragile features.

The witch feels an uncomfortable urge to reach out to you. But, “I asked you a question,” is all she can think to say.

When you turn back to her, your face is hardened, an unnerving calm seeping into your bones. “They enjoy it,” you mutter spitefully. “Breaking me to their will, knowing they do not need a collar to have their way with me.”

Something inside the witch hardens at that.

You seem to read the words on the tip of her tongue, the anger —the possession— burning deep within her. “I am just your bed warmer.” You remind her, remind yourself. Despite the fact she has not touched you in days, but refuses to leave your side nonetheless. 

“Do not trouble yourself with my mess.”

You rise from the sheets with a gasp, mind haunted by the depthless black eyes of your cousin, Roland. The ones that now rob the vibrant life from your own brother. Manon’s iron nails shoot out, as if sensing your distress, but she does not wake.

Quiet as the night, you slip from the bed, tip-toeing your way across the cool floors. You welcome the chill creeping up your spine, better than the eternal numbness. Finding your place by the large window, you peer out into the starry sky. You only wish it would swallow you whole, rip you from this nightmare.

A groan from the witch jerks your head to the side. Her eyes remain shut, but you know you have woken the beast. For her arm now lays outstretched; an offering, a command.

You wordlessly return to her bed; the only place you feel safe, it is a cage all the same.

When Manon tugs you into her side, so that your head may rest upon her chest, you are too tired to care of what it may mean. It is the kind of exhaustion that might creep within the cracks in your broken soul. And you no longer had the strength to fight it.

You wish to feel all and nothing at once. 

To forget the never ending storm wreaking havoc on your mind. So you absently hook your leg over the witch, moving to straddle her. Strong hands easily find your hips, burnt gold eyes flashing open.

She does not complain when your lips meet hers in a heated kiss, fingers trailing up your stomach and along your thighs. There is a hunger in her gaze when you pull away, but she remains hesitant, reluctant even. 

Impatiently, you fumble for her wrist, drawing it between your legs. Manon groans at the slick she finds, how easily riled up you are. But when she does not move, you begin to plead. “Touch me,” you urge, lips travelling from jaw to neck. The hand on your thigh squeezes in warning.

“Please,” you breathe, desperate, and the damn breaks.

Fingers weave into your locks, tugging, and then her lips are on yours again. You roll your hips, a moan ripping from your throat at the sensation. Manon bears a pleased grin when you continue to fuck yourself on her fingers.

But she cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss.

Even with your skin pressed to hers, lips locked, she has the overwhelming feeling that she has lost you entirely. 

True to her word, Manon takes you to the aerie a whole two weeks after she promised. And this time, you do not protest.

She watches for every twitch of your lips, seeming pleased with herself when you bear a grin that does not leave you from the moment you take to the skies above. When Abraxos roars, a laugh bubbles from your lips, and you cannot help but wonder if he does it for your amusement.

When you reach the clouds you know she is right. There is no truer freedom than the heavens above. “Thank you,” you murmur, unsure whether she hears. If she does, the witch does not respond, though you feel the tension in her shoulders ease.

Suddenly, Abraxos dips, and you're soaring between the clouds. A low chuckle escapes the witch when you yelp, tightening your arms around her waist. “Not so fearless after all, Princess,” she quips, voice carrying over the wind.

Rolling your eyes, you dare to pinch her side. The witch repays you with a threatening glare over her shoulder, iron teeth bared, but harmless. Your heart drops to your stomach when the wyvern lands on a mountain peak at her command, teeth snapping on impact.

She slides from his back with practiced ease, and you are almost surprised she offers a hand to aid you. A rare, true smile tugs at your lips. And Manon is confused to find it extends not only to the skies, but her as well.

However, once your feet hit the ground it is wiped from your features. As if the very step brings you back to a life never ceasing to haunt you, caging you. Her hand lingers on your own, for what purpose, she does not know, only that it feels right.

Her back straightens when it is you who slips your hand from her grasp.

A vulnerability shines in her burnt gold eyes, no longer dulled by years of familial oppression. Were you not so caught up in the winds of your past you may have noticed. Instead your back is to her, eyes clouded as you stare into the abyss below. 

“I was not always this way, you know.” The soft confession is so quiet only the breeze carries it to Manon.

When you continue, she listens. As you go on about the whims of your childhood, the fun, the hope, the love. And while she knows she is different, never has it struck her quite so hard as the words rolling from your tongue. 

“I was made to be this way, Manon.” 

There is meaning in your statement, the witch knows this much, but she is not sure she wishes to face it.

“But anything can be unmade, undone.” You say, and she refuses to acknowledge what that may mean for her. She is yet not ready.

She is even less prepared when you turn to face her once more. Tears line your cheeks, but a smile adorns your precious lips. She has never known a prettier sight.

“Thank you,” you smile. For everything.

The witch frowns. “You already said that.”

“Then I’m sorry,” you voice quietly.

“Sorry?” She takes a step forward. You take one back.

You smile wider, “that I will not be there—”

Her frown deepens, eyes flickering behind your.

“—to see you undo this cruel world.” You raise your arms, peace and longing drawn onto your delicate features. And then you lean back, giving yourself to the wind.

She is too slow. 

The last thing you see is the skies.

She does not reach you.

Abraxos roars.

She does not hear it. 

Your words echo in her mind.

“People change, Manon.” 

Your voice already fades.

“For better, or for worse.”

You wished for better.

So a better world she would give you.

Even if it was too late.

i am so sorry ya'll :(((

[shadowdaddies]

It would be so cute if Manon hisses and snaps at anyone who talks to her gf because she’s so protective but only feels okay if the thirteen do it. She only thinks her gf is safe if she or the thirteen are around. She smiles when she sees the thirteen make her gf smile and giggle

DO YOUR MAGIC

Roar of the Wind

Manon x Reader fluff

Your boots crunched against the hay as Manon led you through the wyvern warrens, a possessive hand wrapped around your waist. The smell of the large beasts permeated the air, and you subtly brought the sleeve of your shirt to cover your nose to keep from gagging. 

Manon gave you a sidelong glance, a soft laugh escaping her at your thinly veiled distaste. You passed by a stall where a Yellowlegs witch was feeding her wyvern, the rust-colored beast giving a pleased hum as it licked its chops. You giggled at the smile that seemed to show on the creature’s face, causing the Yellowlegs witch to turn and give you a smile. She opened her mouth to say something, shutting it quickly and backing away when Manon hissed at her, staring daggers as her arm tightened around your waist.

You bit your lip in an attempt to hide your amusement, your hand moving to find Manon’s on your waist, interlocking your fingers with hers. Pride flashed across her features, the witch queen standing slightly taller as you reached Abraxos’s stall. The wyvern bumped his gray snout against you, nearly knocking you over with the force as his chest rumbled in demand for pets. 

Manon rolled her eyes, patting the beast’s neck as she maneuvered past him to grab the saddle. You heard a squeal of excitement before arms wrapped around your middle and you were pulled back into a fierce hug. Your head whipped to where Manon stood, half-expecting the iron nails to rip the person to shreds, but Manon just smiled as Vesta pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

“Hi, lovely!” she exclaimed in a sing-song voice as she let you go, her red hair blowing behind her in the wind.

“Look who it is!” Asterin said, coming up to you as she slung one arm around your shoulders, the other around Vesta’s. 

“Hey Ster,” you greeted softly, relaxing into her touch as Manon smiled at the three of you. “We’re just going for a flight on Abraxos.”

Vesta and Asterin exchanged a glance before smirking at Manon. “Is this an exclusive, romantic flight, or might we join as well?” Vesta teased.

Manon shot her a playful glare, looking back and forth between the witches as if she were deciding whether it was worth putting up with them. You gave a slight nod of approval, smiling as Manon sighed in resignation. “Alright, you can come with us.” 

Vesta and Asterin left to mount each of their own wyverns, leaving you with Manon and Abraxos. Pressing a kiss to Manon’s cheek, you leapt into the saddle behind her, ready for flight. “I’ll make sure we get some time alone once we’re home,” you promised, pressing a kiss below her ear, reveling in the blush that crossed her cheeks just before Abraxos took off.

[nestaismommy]

Manon Blackbeak fan fictions please. I NEED MORE.

[aeyla]

No thought head empty… just the Thirteen

I am thinking of sitting on Manon or the thirteen’s (and Petrah’s) faces on this fine evening like-

It would definitely range from rough and overstimulating to soft and sweet but still overstimulating, you’re not walking out without wobbly legs

Just imagine being the Thirteen’s plaything. 😫

They keep you safe, provide food, shelter etc. And in return, you’re their toy. To use as they see fit. Though Manon keeps a tighter grip on your leash than the rest, wanting to have you to herself. But there isn’t a night where you’re not trembling and whimpering from the pleasure they bestow to your body.

Especially on a night like that. Having you move between them, planting your wet cunt on their faces, allowing the witches to feast on their favourite meal. Seeing how long you can last before you can no longer hold yourself upright. The rest would swoop in to help, of course.

Hands roam your body, you can’t keep up with whom they belong to. They leave taunting and teasing touches to your exposed skin. Nimble fingers tweak and tug your nipples before mouths are replacing them, biting and sucking your sensitive peaks. You can tell it’s Vesta from the way she swiftly flicks her tongue over your nipple, loves the sounds the action pulls from yours lips. Swollen and wet from the countless times your mouth has clashed with another.

With a whine, your head drops to Sorrel’s shoulder as Asterin continues to ravish your cunt from beneath you. Your hips rock against her mouth, sensitivity aside, you still want more. From the gleam her eyes, you know she’s getting off on how you’re grinding shamelessly against her tongue. You wish you could bury your fingers in her hair, tug on the golden locks. Yet your hands were bound behind your back the moment your cloak was stripped from you. The only clothing you’re allowed to wear in their presence.

Now with your head leaning against Sorrel. You’re giving Manon perfect access to that pretty neck of yours. She bites, licks, marks. Mumbling against your skin as those iron nails run ever so gently down the expanse of your throat. Freezing against the warmth seeping from you. You can’t help but whimper. Manon grins, continuing her exploration of your throat, her words drowning out the sweet praise coming from one of the other witches. You’re only focused on Manon’s voice as she taunts her kitten for breaking so easily.

I will forever be upset that this isn’t the life i’m living

[moonlitstoriess]

Heyy!! Could I request a Azriel x witch reader. Like Blackbeak clan (I’m reading the TOG series & loving Manon & the 13 rn) & maybe she’s like another spy or one of Amren’s friends from another world and he doesn’t trust her at first but she ends up helping the IC with koschei or something n he finds himself more interested in her

Touch Me and Bleed- Azriel x fem!witch reader (oneshot)

Summary: A Blackbeak witch, loyal to a distant queen and bound by blood and war, crosses into Prythian to hunt a death god. Azriel doesn’t trust her—but when shadows meet iron, loyalty and hatred blur into something far more dangerous.

A/N: This was a very exciting thing to write!! Thank you so much anon for requesting such an interesting idea. I hope you enjoy it🫶

Warnings: violence, blood, angst, some sprinkle of fluff? open ending (happy-ish?)

See masterlist

The rift pulsed against the quiet stone at the edge of Velaris, its shifting light painting faces with harsh, unnatural shadows. The Inner Circle stood close, watching.

Azriel arrived last, moving like a shadow melting into the crowd. His wings folded behind him, but the restless stir beneath his skin told a different story--unease, suspicion, something like anger.

Koschei had been creating more headaches for everyone in the past few weeks--his dark influence seeping into the mortal realms, twisting the dead into unholy servants and corrupting the very fabric of the Shadowlands. Villages near the border reported disappearances, strange creatures prowling at night, and whispers of a power growing beyond control. The Inner Circle knew time was running out. If Koschei wasn’t stopped soon, the entire realm would drown in his rising tide of death and chaos.

That is exactly why Amren had proposed to call in one of her "otherworldly strange" friends (Cassian's words). Of course, Rhysand and Feyre wouldn't allow anyone in without a proper briefing about them. Amren had insisted that there is no one better suited for this than her apparent friend, Y/N.

And Amren didn't shy away from giving all the essential informations about her to them.

Y/N Blackbeak. An Ironteeth witch--Azriel still couldn't understand how does one have sharp iron teeth and claws--part of the Blackbeak coven. Or was. Apparently, there used to be three different covens which were later on all united together with the Crochans under one queen. Manon Blackbeak. This great shift had happened during a huge war that they were all in.

Y/N is very loyal to her "sisters" and even more so to her queen. That part Azriel understood. Rhysand held his loyalty the same way: earned in blood, kept through sacrifice. But this witch didn’t come from their courts, their histories. She belonged to a different world entirely.

She was known for being one of the most ruthless among them. A hunter. A killer. Not gifted with elegant magic, but with precision, instinct, and a taste for blood. Her body was a weapon--iron teeth, iron nails, every strike calculated. Countless deaths were tied to her name, most of them earned in silence.

She had tracked monsters across war-torn mountains in her world. Killed gods, if the stories were true. But what made her dangerous now wasn’t myth--it was knowledge.

She had seen Koschei before. Fought things he made. Abominations born of rot and death-magic. And she’d survived. More than that--she remembered. She knew how he moved, how he hid pieces of himself. She knew the scent of his work. The feel of it in the earth, in the bodies he left behind.

“She doesn’t use shadows or spells,” Amren had told them. “She doesn’t need to. She finds things that don’t want to be found. And when she does, she ends them.”

After the death of "The Thirteen", she took the place of Asterin Blackbeak as the new second-in-command to queen Manon. Her "Wyvern" (whatever creature that is, Azriel still hasn't understood that part either) is the largest and most ruthless-just like her apparently.

"And what exactly happens when she walks in here? Do we just you know- greet her like a normal guest or-"

"Just because she is from another world and a witch, doesn't mean that she is an abnormal creature, Cassian." Amren hissed back, cutting off Cassians curiosity.

Azriel's head snapped back up, coming back to reality, his shadows whispering faintly at the edge of his senses like they’d felt something shift in the air. He narrowed his eyes toward the glowing rift, watching the edges throb and flicker--unsettled, like the veil between worlds was starting to tear.

"In any case, I believe she is very unique. I mean I know that your friends have all been quite unique but with the way you described this specific friend has me very interested. I mean, an ironteeth witch? drinks men's blood? wish I could do that sometimes. And I'm sure I'm not the only one excited, right Nesta?" Mor winked at the female beside her who only gave a small nod.

“She’s close,” Amren muttered, fingers moving in sharp, precise patterns as she worked the ancient sigils surrounding the portal. They pulsed faintly beneath her hand, reacting to her touch like blood answering a heartbeat. “The rift is thinning.”

“Great,” Cassian said, rolling his shoulders. “Because nothing says ‘safe and sane’ like summoning a death-witch with a wyvern from another dimension into Velaris.”

Feyre arched a brow. “You’re the one who wanted to spar with her, remember?”

Cassian threw her a grin. “I said I might spar with her. If she doesn’t bite.”

“She probably will,” Mor added brightly, brushing a curl over her shoulder. “Amren made her sound like a feral bat crossed with a blade.”

Amren didn’t look up. “She’s more refined than that.”

“Sure,” Rhysand drawled, his tone easy but his stance alert, shadows curled near his boots. “Refined in the way a storm is refined. Or a plague.”

“She’s not here to impress any of you,” Amren snapped, her eyes flicking briefly to Rhys. “She’s here because Koschei is getting smarter. Bolder. And she’s one of the only people who’s fought the things he leaves behind and walked away.”

Azriel said nothing, but his jaw tightened. That was the part that stuck with him—the walking away. He’d seen what Koschei’s creations did to people. The kind of twisted, broken things they left behind. You didn’t just walk away from that unless you were something worse.

Nesta finally spoke, quiet but firm. “And what happens if she’s not what you think she is?”

Amren didn’t flinch. “Then you kill her.”

A long silence settled after that.

Mor blinked. “Wow. Casual.”

Feyre stepped forward slightly. “Let’s assume she’s not a threat.”

“We don’t assume,” Azriel said, voice low. “We watch.”

Rhys nodded once in agreement. “The moment she steps through, we gauge her. Carefully. No grand welcomes.”

“She won’t expect one,” Amren said, almost amused. “She hates this kind of thing. Told me once that ‘warm greetings are for weak hearts.’”

Cassian whistled. “What a ray of sunshine.”

Azriel tuned them out after that. The voices blurred at the edges as his attention zeroed back in on the portal. It was changing now--deepening, folding in on itself, the color shifting from silver to blood-red, then back again. Whatever lay on the other side was moving closer.

His shadows recoiled. Not from fear--no, they didn’t fear. But they recognized what was coming through. A presence that wasn’t born of this realm. A presence used to war and silence and blood.

Azriel’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

And then--

The rift pulsed once, hard.

The air thinned.

The ground vibrated.

And something stepped through.

The pulse echoed like a drumbeat in Azriel’s bones.

The portal split open with a hiss--no thunder, no blaze of magic. Just a tearing sound, like skin peeling from flesh. The air went sharp with the scent of iron.

And then she stepped through.

Boots first. Blood-crusted, weather-worn. A slow, deliberate step. Then another.

Her leathers were torn at the seams in places, dark with dried blood and soot. Her iron nails caught the lamplight--glinting like small, wicked blades. Her eyes were pale gold, colder than ice, older than winter, and her mouth--Gods, those teeth--flashed in a quiet sneer as she looked them all over.

Behind her, the creature emerged.

Azriel had seen many beasts in his life. He’d fought through battlefields soaked in gore. But the thing that slithered half-formed from the fading rift, a massive wyvern, its wings frayed at the edges, claws curled into the stone, was not a beast. It was a weapon. A dying one, perhaps, flickering and insubstantial in this realm, but no less terrifying.

It let out a low, guttural noise--like a growl, like grief--and folded its wings as it took position at her back.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Then Y/N Blackbeak tilted her head, eyeing the group like she was picking which one she’d kill first if she had to.

Her voice, when it came, was rough like gravel. “This is Velaris?”

Cassian blinked. “I was expecting more screaming.”

“I’m disappointed too,” she said flatly.

Mor let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “Charming.”

Rhysand stepped forward, calm but cautious. “You must be Y/N.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

Rhys inclined his head. “High Lord of the Night Court.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Amren. The only one she seemed to acknowledge was Amren, who gave her the faintest nod.

Azriel watched her every movement. The way she stood--not like a diplomat, not like a soldier. Like a predator. Relaxed but alert. Ready to rip out a throat if needed.

He didn’t trust her. Not even a little.

But damn if he didn’t believe the stories.

“So,” she said after a beat, iron nails glinting as she flexed her fingers. “Which one of you is going to point me to Koschei’s rot?”

Azriel’s voice was out before he thought to stop it. Cold. Controlled.

“That depends. Are you here to help… or hunt?”

Y/N turned to face him fully for the first time.

And smiled.

There was no warmth in it. Only teeth.

“Why not both?”

Rhysand’s expression didn’t shift, but Feyre stepped closer, the edge in her voice barely masked.

“And what exactly do you want in return for this help?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly, as if she were listening for something only she could hear. Her wyvern gave a low growl in response--its translucent shape pulsing faintly behind her like it barely existed in this realm at all.

“I want nothing,” Y/N said, voice flat. “No gold. No favor. No alliance.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“I owe a debt,” she replied, finally looking away from Rhysand to glance at Amren. “To her. She saved my life once. This repays it.”

A beat passed.

Cassian’s brow shot up. “Wait--what?” He looked between them. “When the hell did that happen?”

Amren didn’t even glance his way. She waved a small, dismissive hand like swatting a fly. “None of your business, brute.”

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. Even Mor’s smile had vanished.

Azriel’s shadows stirred at his shoulders, quiet but tense. He didn’t take his eyes off Y/N, not because he thought she would strike, but because he could tell she could. Her posture hadn’t changed, but her presence filled the entire courtyard like a second sky pressing down on them.

Nesta, beside him, said nothing either. But when he glanced her way-

It startled him.

Not fear in her eyes. Not suspicion.

Admiration.

A subtle tilt to her chin. A slight parting of her lips. The faintest crease in her brow like something about the witch had unraveled a knot she hadn’t realized she carried.

Azriel had never seen Nesta look at anyone like that- not even Feyre. Not even Cassian.

It pulled at something in his chest, something he refused to name.

Then Amren stepped forward.

“As I told you, Rhys,” she said, casually brushing nonexistent dust off her tunic, “I would never bring someone here I didn’t trust.”

She gave the High Lord a pointed look.

“Well- actually, she only trusts me,” Amren added with a sharp smile. “And I trust her. Which should be enough.”

Rhysand exhaled slowly. He gave her a long, unreadable look. Then a single nod. Barely perceptible, but permission all the same.

That was when Feyre cleared her throat, wrapping her arms around herself like the temperature had dropped a few degrees. “Right,” she said, voice brisk, steady. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t smile. Didn’t thank them.

She just turned toward the House.

And the wyvern followed.

The doors to the House of Wind shut behind them with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the wide, vaulted chamber. It was quiet in a way only high places could be: thick with power, history, and something more fragile beneath.

Y/N walked with the same quiet dominance she’d arrived with. She didn’t gawk at the vaulted ceilings or the glowing lights that flickered overhead. She didn’t ask questions or offer comments. Her wyvern trailed a few steps behind, its form wavering, too large for the space and too ghostly to care.

Rhysand led the way, flanked by Feyre. Neither said a word as they entered the informal war room, but every step radiated the tension of two rulers trying not to snap the moment a guest said the wrong thing.

Cassian leaned against the long table in the center, trying too hard to look casual. Mor took her usual seat, legs crossed, eyes glittering with a mix of curiosity and calculation. Nesta moved silently to a shadowed corner, where she could observe everything without being in the middle of it.

Azriel didn’t sit. He remained standing, hands behind his back, shadows curling faintly around his boots. Watching.

Y/N didn’t sit either.

She stood at the far end of the room, her back straight, eyes scanning the windows like she was mapping exit routes.

Feyre spoke first. “Amren says you’ve seen Koschei’s work. What exactly did you encounter?”

Y/N’s response came without hesitation. “Plague-spirits. Hollowed corpses. Men turned inside out, walking on bones they didn’t grow with. Magic that smells like rot and sounds like begging.”

Mor blinked. “Sounds delightful.”

Y/N ignored her. “It was worse near rivers. He favors places that border things—life and death, land and water, flesh and memory. Thresholds.”

“That lines up with what we’ve seen,” Rhys said, glancing at Feyre, then back at Y/N. “And you’re sure what you saw is the same as what’s happening here?”

“I know his scent,” Y/N said simply. “You don’t forget that kind of rot.”

The room went quiet again.

“Why didn’t you kill him in your world?” Azriel asked, voice low.

She turned her head toward him. Not hostile. Not cold. Just… empty. Like the question was too simple for the weight it carried.

“Because he left before I could. Slipped through one of the last cracks between our worlds. I followed him.” A pause. “Eventually.”

“So this is a hunt,” Rhysand said, folding his arms.

Y/N didn’t answer. Just glanced at Amren.

Amren, lounging in her chair like none of this mattered in the slightest, rolled her eyes. “She’s not here for revenge or power plays, Rhys. I already told you.”

“Yes,” Rhys said quietly, “but it’s different hearing it from her.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “I am not your subject. I do not kneel to your throne.”

Feyre bristled, but Rhysand just nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll speak plainly.”

Azriel watched the exchange unfold in silence, but every word pressed at him like a blade against skin. He didn’t like her tone. Didn’t like her indifference. But something about it, the calm detachment, the bluntness, it rang true. She wasn’t playing them. If anything, she was already halfway out the door.

Nesta leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, eyes still fixed on Y/N. “You don’t care what happens to this world.”

“No,” Y/N said. “But I care what happens to Amren. And if she’s staying in this realm, then it’s in my interest to make sure it doesn’t turn into Koschei’s personal graveyard.”

Cassian let out a soft breath. “She saved your life?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly. “She pulled me out of a god’s mouth. You don’t forget that.”

Cassian blinked. “Holy- wait, an actual god’s-”

“None of your business,” Amren said, sharp as a blade. Her expression didn’t waver. “Let it go.”

Silence again.

Azriel’s gaze drifted--not to the witch, but to Nesta.

There was that same look in her eyes. Admiration, yes--but also a flicker of something like recognition. Like she’d found something of herself reflected in the Ironteeth woman standing so calmly across the room.

Nesta didn’t mask it. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were clear. Like she'd been waiting for someone to say the things Y/N had just said and mean them.

It unsettled him.

Not because he didn’t understand it.

Because he did.

Then Amren rose, smoothing down her tunic with a quick flick of her hand. “As I said, Rhysand,” she said, her voice taking on that ageless, steel-edged quality that still made the room hold its breath, “I wouldn’t bring someone into this court if I didn’t trust her.”

She turned to face him fully. “Well- she doesn’t trust any of you. Only me. But the sentiment stands.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Feyre cleared her throat, glancing at Rhys before offering the smallest of smiles. “Right. Well then… let’s go in, shall we?”

That was when Y/N finally stepped forward, calm and deliberate. She didn’t wait to be offered a seat- just took one, dragging the chair slightly apart from the others as if claiming neutral ground. From her small, worn satchel, she pulled out a thickly folded map. She spread it across the table in one sharp motion, weighing the corners down with nothing but her iron-cool presence.

It was a detailed map of Prythian, far more detailed than any Azriel had expected. But what caught everyone's eye weren’t the borders or mountains- they were the markings. Circles in black ink. Crossed-out towns. Arrows pointing to rivers, forests, patches of nothingness. Strange notations in a language none of them recognized.

"Amren was kind enough to have this sent to Erilea, my world, a few days prior so that I could get a good analysis and idea of what world I'm dealing with. I prefer to know what kind of battlefield I’m stepping onto before I start bleeding.”

Cassian let out a soft grunt that might’ve been impressed. Feyre leaned forward, brows drawn tight.

But before anyone could speak, Y/N turned her head and looked directly at Azriel--unflinching, sharp-eyed. Then, without a word, she raised both hands, slow and deliberate. The iron claws that had glinted moments before shimmered once, then retracted beneath her skin, leaving behind plain, clean nails.

She held his gaze as her jaw shifted with a soft click. When she parted her lips again, the iron teeth were gone, no fangs, no metal gleam. Just the unnerving stillness of a predator who had momentarily sheathed her weapons.

A show of restraint. Or a warning.

Azriel wasn’t sure which.

But it silenced the edge in him just a little. Not harmless. Never that. But perhaps… something else. Something controlled. His shadows recoiled and settled, just barely.

Then her voice cut through the quiet.

“I’m not staying long,” Y/N said. “Manon expects me to be back within forty-eight hours by our time. That translates to approximately three days here, give or take the way time bends between realms. Though I would say Erilea and Prythian are quite close. Hence the short time difference."

“You’re really just here to leave again?” Feyre asked, a mix of surprise and wariness.

“I’m not a diplomat. I don’t do tea and chatter. I was sent to deal with Koschei, nothing more.”

Azriel hated it, how direct she was. Hated how something in him respected it, too. No games. No fawning. Just teeth and strategy.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice low. “And what have you learned about his movements so far?”

Y/N leaned over the map, tapping one of the circles in the north. “Koschei doesn’t spread like war. He spreads like sickness. Slow. Precise. Rotting the foundation of whatever he touches until it crumbles from within.”

She moved her finger down the map. “He doesn’t take cities. He takes people. A village falls quiet, and by the time you notice it’s gone, the surrounding land is already turning.”

She pointed to a forest near the border. “This was your first disappearance, yes? And this-” she tapped an area far west, “is where your scouts found bones that didn’t match any native species.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. How the hell did she know that?

Cassian stepped forward now, tone sharpening. “So. What’s the plan?”

Y/N straightened. “The plan is to split into three teams. Exactly two per group. Koschei moves through mirrors-reflections, still water, glass--and he splits his attention. We need to do the same. Three fronts, three targets, three strikes.”

She looked around the room. “I’m leaving it to you to decide who goes with whom. I’m unfamiliar with your strengths, your tempers, and your… alliances.” Her eyes flicked to Mor, then Azriel, then Nesta.

“I assume your rulers,” she added, glancing at Feyre and Rhys, “will remain here to maintain court stability.”

Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys lifted a hand. “She’s right.”

Feyre scowled but said nothing more.

Y/N rolled the map to a smaller region now, tapping three points in a triangle. “These are the weak spots. I believe he’s testing them—probes, leaks, trying to open small rifts. We need to hit all three before he gets a foothold.”

“The groups will need a balance of flight, magic, and brute strength,” she continued. “One to track. One to strike. One to watch the shadows.”

Azriel felt her eyes flick briefly to him at the last one, but she didn’t linger.

Nesta, still watching from the edge of the room, finally spoke. “He’s drawing people in with promises, isn’t he? Not just killing--corrupting. Offering them something they want.”

Y/N’s expression shifted for the first time. Almost… approving.

“Exactly,” she said, tapping once on the table. “That’s how he breaks them. Promises them their lost lovers, their children, their second chances.”

She turned her head and pointed across the table. “Honestly, I’m starting to really like her.”

Nesta didn’t respond. But her mouth twitched.

And Azriel—

Well. He’d never admit it aloud. But he didn’t hate the sound of that either.

Then Mor clapped her hands together, breaking the moment. “Right, then. Who goes with whom?”

Cassian clapped his hands as well, eyes flicking around the room like he already knew how this would go. “Alright, we’ll need to be quick about this. I say we move at first light tomorrow.”

Amren snorted. “First light. Of course.”

Cassian leaned in, arms crossed over the table. “I’ll go with Nesta.” His tone left no room for argument. Nesta didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk or roll her eyes. She only nodded, sharp and sure.

“Mor and I will take the eastern flank,” Amren said, like the matter had been settled long before anyone else had opened their mouths. Mor raised a brow but didn’t argue. She merely winked and added, “You’re lucky I like danger.”

That left Azriel.

And her.

Y/N was still standing beside the table, gaze down on the map, not watching the others as much as sensing them. When her head lifted, her eyes met Azriel’s again--dark, quiet, measuring.

Rhys glanced at them both, something unreadable in his face. “That leaves Azriel and Y/N.”

Of course it does, Azriel thought.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Cassian’s brow twitched. “You two gonna be alright playing nice together?”

Y/N turned slightly, her arms folding across her chest. “I don’t need nice. I need effective.”

Azriel’s voice came quiet, colder than he meant. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

He saw it, barely, but it was there. A flicker of amusement behind her gaze. As if something about his retort pleased her.

She looked back down to the map. “Our target is here,” she said, pointing to the most remote of the three points: deep forest bordering one of the lesser-traveled mountain ranges.

Azriel knew it well. Dark, damp, prone to heavy fog and worse things hiding in it.

Perfect.

She tapped the ink with a clawless finger. “This was the first place I smelled his work. It’s old, but still warm. We’ll go there first.”

“And if he’s already moved?” Feyre asked.

“Then we follow the rot.” Her words were flat. Practical.

There was silence for a beat too long. Then Rhys nodded once. “We move at dawn. You all have until then to prepare.”

The meeting broke apart slowly. Chairs scraping, boots scuffing against stone. Azriel lingered at the edge, eyes still on the map. He could feel her beside him-- still, quiet, like the eye of a storm waiting to shift.

Nesta passed him as she left, but she paused only long enough to glance once back at Y/N.

Admiration. Clear and open. Azriel had seen Nesta sneer, seen her freeze people out with a look, but this was the first time he’d seen her… intrigued. Her mouth pulled into something faint. Respect, maybe.

And for some godsdamned reason, that unsettled him more than anything else.

Y/N spoke softly, without turning. “You don’t trust me.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Not right away. His shadows flickered, tense and restless.

“I don’t need you to,” she added, “but if we’re walking into something that’s already watching, I’d prefer we don’t bite at each other’s heels.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t trust easily.”

“Neither do I.” She finally looked at him again. “But I’ll watch your back, Shadowsinger. You don’t have to like it, but it’s true.”

Azriel studied her, his jaw tight. Everything about her was sharp. Edged. But something about her steadiness, her refusal to flinch or flatter, scraped against the part of him that recognized survival.

Maybe not trust.

But understanding.

“I’ll see you at dawn,” he said finally, and walked away.

Behind him, he thought he heard her say, quiet as a whisper, “Try not to be late.”

Velaris didn’t seem quite as bad as she’d expected.

When Amren had mentioned it was part of the Night Court, Y/N had pictured something darker. Bleaker. A city crawling with shadows and dripping with pompous fae magic. But now, as the sun began to bleed gold into the sky and the breeze carried the scent of sea salt and distant pine, she found herself… tolerating it.

Maybe even liking it. A little.

She stood on the narrow stone balcony just outside the guest chambers they’d given her, already dressed for the road, boots laced tight, leathers snug. She hadn’t slept, not that she needed to. Her arms were folded as she leaned against the railing, fingers tapping absently with normal, unarmed nails. Below, Velaris still slumbered, lanterns casting soft glows across misted rooftops, the city slow to wake.

Above, circling sluggishly against the pale sky, her wyvern drifted in lazy, slow arcs.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond, not with words. He never had. But his shadow passed overhead, his translucent wings shimmering like heat waves, a ghost of the beast he’d once been. In this world, he was weaker—his body flickering at the edges like smoke caught in wind. The magic here resisted him. Or maybe he simply didn't belong.

None of us do, she thought.

Firkhan let out a low, rumbling screech that had no business sounding so mournful.

Y/N exhaled through her nose, eyes scanning the horizon.

It had been a long time since she’d stood still like this.

The war back in Erilea had carved her open and left iron in the cracks. She could still hear the shrieks of the Valg, the clash of blades against darkened armor, the hiss of Maeve’s shadows as they crumbled under fire. She remembered standing beside her sisters—her real sisters—when the skies rained blood. She remembered the silence after.

The silence that came when the Thirteen fell.

She hadn't asked for Asterin’s place. She hadn’t even wanted it. But Manon had given it to her anyway. Just looked her in the eye one night after the dust settled and said, “It’s yours now.”

And that had been that.

Manon never needed to explain herself. Y/N had only bowed once and borne the weight ever since. And she’d worn it like armor.

It was Amren who had broken that stillness.

A letter. Sealed in blood and old magic, slipped through the rift by means Y/N hadn’t asked about. The words had been few. No begging. No threats. Just a reminder:

"You owe me."

She did. Amren had pulled her from the mouth of a god...literally. Not during the war, but long before it, in the ruins of a temple swallowed by something old and hungry. Not out of kindness, but out of something older. Something sharp and mutual. They’d looked at each other across a pool of blood and ancient bones and understood one another without speaking a word.

They were both creatures carved from hard places, bound more by debt than affection. But it had been enough. Still was.

So when the next message came—a name she recognized, a darkness she thought she’d buried—she didn’t hesitate.

Koschei.

Of all the cursed gods and rotting immortals, he was the one that lingered. The one she hadn’t finished.

Manon hadn’t argued when she asked to go. Just stared at her for a long time before saying, “Two days. Then you return.”

Two days, Y/N repeated silently.

Firkhan screeched again, drawing her attention skyward.

And then—

A voice behind her. Rough, quiet, unmistakable:

“You’re up early.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. That voice was etched into her mind now--low and razor-edged, like something dragged over stone. Y/N slowly turned her head, casting a sideways glance to where he stood just outside the balcony doors.

Azriel.

The infamous spymaster of the Night Court. Cloaked in shadow even when he wasn’t calling on them, quiet as death, and about as warm. She’d done her research, of course. Amren hadn’t sent her in blind, Y/N had asked for details. Files. Observations. Whatever the Night Court had been willing to share, she’d devoured it.

And Azriel… was the one she’d paid the most attention to.

Not because she feared him, but because she understood him.

He moved like someone who had once been caged. Who still wore the scent of blood under his leathers, even if the rest of them had grown soft on peace and pretty skies.

She met his eyes now, unbothered. “We’re supposed to be out in twenty minutes. I assumed punctuality was something your court still valued.”

His lip twitched, maybe irritation, maybe amusement. “It is. I wasn’t expecting you to be ready before sunrise.”

She turned her head back toward the view. “I didn’t sleep.”

He stepped forward, coming to stand beside her. A brief moment of silence passed as they both watched the wyvern circling above.

“That’s… your wyvern?” Azriel asked eventually, nodding toward the faint shimmer in the sky.

“Firkhan,” she said simply.

He waited, clearly expecting more.

“He’s not meant for this world,” she added after a beat. “Too much fae magic in the air. Too much softness. It's like trying to keep a blade sharp in a pool of silk.”

Azriel’s brow ticked up at that, faint amusement flickering in his gaze. “We don’t have creatures like him in this realm.”

“I know,” she said. “Closest you’ve got are the Illyrians and the Peregryns in the Dawn Court.”

That earned her a sharper look. He leaned his forearms on the balcony railing, the shadows around him twitching slightly in what might have been surprise.

“You’ve done your research,” he said.

Y/N smiled. Tight, without humor. “Wouldn’t you, if you were walking into a court of fae strangers with enough power to burn cities?”

His silence was answer enough.

She let her gaze drift toward him for a moment longer before adding, “And besides, if I’m going to kill alongside someone, I prefer to know whether they’ll be useful or deadweight.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched again, but he said nothing.

Not yet.

A scream shattered the morning quiet.

Both their heads snapped down toward the street below, just in time to see Cassian scrambling backward behind a thoroughly unamused Nesta. The General was pointing toward the cobblestones in front of the townhouse where a very large, very real wyvern had landed, folding its shimmering wings with calculated menace. Firkhan’s golden eyes locked on Cassian like he was a meal. Or a nuisance.

Possibly both.

Y/N let out a small, rare smirk. “Looks like someone found breakfast.”

And with that, she pushed off the balcony railing and strode back inside, her steps light but unhurried. Azriel followed silently, a shadow at her heels.

They had a war to plan.

By the time they stepped outside, the others had gathered in the courtyard, surrounding the wyvern with varying degrees of wariness and awe.

“He's massive,” Mor said, eyes wide, chin tilted up as she took in the full wingspan. “Like, bigger than a Illyrian war-drake. And shinier. What do you feed him?”

“Illyrians,” Y/N replied without missing a beat.

Cassian let out a scandalized noise. “I knew it.”

“He’s joking,” Feyre added with a half-smile, though it sounded more like a question than a reassurance.

“Am I?” Y/N murmured.

Rhysand’s gaze slid over Firkhan with an assessing sharpness. “He looks like he’s holding together better than I expected, considering the dimensional rift.”

“He’s managing,” Y/N said. “Barely. It’s a miracle he survived the crossing.”

“He’s... beautiful,” Feyre offered, still watching Firkhan as if she was trying to sketch him in her head.

Nesta, standing closer now, spoke softly. “Can I pet him?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want to pet a wyvern?”

Nesta shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten anyone yet.”

From the side, Amren clicked her tongue. “He still might.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh and nodded. “Be my guest. He likes boldness.”

Nesta stepped closer, hand extended, slow but sure. Firkhan lowered his massive head, sniffing her fingers, his breath warm and metallic. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then—he nudged her hand gently.

“He’s called Firkhan,” Y/N said, watching closely. “He’s been with me since before the final war in my world. Saved my life more times than I can count.”

Nesta’s hand moved along the wyvern’s scaled snout. “He’s… calmer than I thought.”

“He likes you,” Y/N replied, surprised at the truth in her own words. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got steel in you. Rage. Will. Maybe even a little magic that doesn’t play by the rules of this world.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked to hers. “Magic, huh?”

Y/N gave a small smirk. “You seem like you have a little witch within you too, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta gave a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing someone’s called me.”

A low, possessive sound cut through the moment.

Cassian stepped between them, gently but deliberately, inserting himself between Nesta and Firkhan...and Y/N by extension. “That’s enough fun for the morning,” he muttered, not quite glaring.

Y/N merely raised her brows. “Protective, aren’t you?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Cassian, I’m fine.”

“You say that now. Wait until he decides you look like lunch.”

Firkhan let out a chuff of breath, clearly unimpressed.

Y/N chuckled and stepped back. “He’s already chosen. You’re the one who keeps acting like prey.”

Before Cassian could reply, Rhysand clapped his hands, voice cutting through the morning fog. “Final checks. If you’re flying, make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Azriel, you’ve got maps. Cassian, try not to start another screaming match with a creature three times your size.”

“Ha ha,” Cassian muttered.

As everyone scattered to gather gear and double-check weapons, Y/N tilted her head toward Nesta. “Come,” she said, gesturing for her to walk alongside Firkhan. “I want to show him someone who isn’t terrified of their own power.”

They moved in silence for a few paces, Nesta still stroking the wyvern’s jaw, until Y/N added quietly, “There’s strength in softness too, you know.”

Nesta’s hand stilled. “You sound like Feyre.”

“I sound like someone who’s lost too many sisters,” Y/N replied. “Hold tight to the ones still breathing.”

Nesta didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

A breath later, Cassian was back, looming beside them with his hand brushing Nesta’s elbow. “We ready?” he asked.

Y/N gave him a slow nod. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

With one last look at Firkhan, she turned on her heel and strode toward Azriel, who stood waiting with a folded map in his hand and that unreadable expression in his eyes.

Let the hunt begin.

Y/N snatched the map from Azriel’s hand before he could so much as blink.

A collective pause rippled through the group at the sharp sound of paper being pulled taut. She didn’t bother looking at him. Her voice rang out, clear, cutting through the morning air like a blade.

“Now, listen up.”

The conversation and casual banter died instantly. Even Firkhan, coiled on the rooftop like a silent, glimmering sentinel, went still.

They all gathered closer around her. Illyrians, High Fae, and the strange quiet creature that was Amren. Y/N didn’t care what court they were from. What power they wielded. She only cared that they listened.

“As I said,” she continued, spreading the map across the stone garden table with a sweep of her hand, “we’re splitting into three groups of two. Each one will target a different pressure point. Koschei doesn’t leave openings. But like all things that rot, he seeps.”

She tapped her claw-not iron yet, but sharp nonetheless-against the eastern coastline of Prythian.

“Amren. Mor. You’re headed to the tidal cliffs along the Sidra’s curve. We believe one of Koschei’s old mirror-anchors lies buried there, used to siphon spirit energy from the ocean’s pull. If we’re right, breaking it will sever a part of his reach.”

Amren gave a faint smile. “I’ve always liked smashing mirrors.”

Mor only smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s just hope it’s not cursed.”

Y/N ignored them, turning to the next mark: near the border of the human lands, deep in the ruins of an old battlefield.

“Cassian. Nesta. You’re heading to the Forgotten Vale. The blood magic he’s been using, it’s rooted there. That place remembers the dead. There’s something in the soil Koschei is feeding from. You’ll need to burn it clean.”

Nesta’s chin dipped in acknowledgment. Cassian gave a grunt that could have been agreement or displeasure, likely both.

Y/N circled her finger over a third spot, one nearly forgotten in the dense wilds west of Velaris.

“And Azriel and I will be heading into the Wildmere. There's an old forest there, twisted by his influence. His shadows have grown bolder, breeding in the dark. If he’s hiding his heart, the core of his power, it’ll be there. Azriel can track what others miss. I’ll know when we’re close.”

She looked up at last, scanning their faces.

“No one is to speak of this beyond this moment. Koschei has ears in the cracks of reality. This plan doesn’t get whispered about. Not even to your mates.”

Rhysand’s mouth twitched at that. Feyre, wisely, said nothing.

“Any objections?”

There was a beat of silence. Cassian opened his mouth.

Y/N didn’t even look up. Her voice was cold and firm. “No arguments.”

Cassian blinked, about to protest. “I wasn’t even- ”

“No.”

Cassian shut his mouth. Mor snorted. Azriel might’ve smiled, but if he did, it was gone in an instant.

Y/N rolled the map closed with a snap and tucked it back into her satchel.

“Well then,” she said, straightening. “Now that that’s settled- ”

Her eyes gleamed. The wind stirred behind her, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Let’s go kill a god, shall we?”

“Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel’s voice broke the morning silence as they walked toward the far side of the garden. Y/N didn’t look at him. Instead, her nails tapped lightly against her thigh, a small, knowing smirk playing at her lips.

“Why? Are you scared?” she asked without turning.

He chuckled softly, a dry edge to his words. “You act like that’s something you do every day.”

She sighed, the weight of a grim past settling in her tone. “No, I haven’t. But an ally of ours did. She killed every god in our universe. She’s now a queen, and they call her the Godskiller.”

Azriel’s guarded expression shifted as curiosity sparked in his eyes. “A queen called Godskiller? That’s not a title you hear every day.”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “She earned it.”

They reached the clearing where the rift shimmered faintly. Azriel’s eyes dropped to Firkhan, the wyvern pacing with a restless grace.

“Is this thing coming with us too?” he asked, nodding toward the great creature.

Y/N corrected him smoothly. “His name is Firkhan. And yes, he’s coming. I don’t trust your High Lord and Lady one bit. Besides, Firkhan’s senses and ability to circle high above will give us an edge. He can smell death and rot, things even your shadows might miss.”

Azriel considered her words and nodded. “Fair enough.”

Y/N softened her voice and gave a quiet command. “Firkhan, come closer.”

The wyvern’s immense form swooped down beside her, shimmering faintly--still somewhat translucent in this realm.

Azriel glanced back at the pulsing rift. “Ready?”

She nodded once. Azriel inhaled deeply, the familiar shadowy mist beginning to gather around them. With a swift motion, he winnowed them away, the world blurring and folding as shadows swallowed their forms—carrying them instantly to the other side.

The world reassembled around them in fragments of shadow and cold.

Azriel’s boots hit soft earth, damp with rot. A canopy of gnarled, twisted trees loomed above, their blackened branches clawing at the morning sky. The air here felt… wrong. Thicker. Alive, almost buzzing faintly beneath his skin.

This was Wildmere. Or what it had become.

He scanned the surrounding glade, one hand instinctively brushing the hilt of Truth-Teller. The shadows slithered closer to his heels, nervous.

Beside him, Y/N landed with feline ease, already surveying the tree line. Her iron boots didn’t make a sound on the mossy ground.

"Charming," Azriel muttered.

“Better than what I imagined,” she replied flatly, adjusting a strap across her chest that held her curved blade. “I thought it'd reek more.”

“It will,” he said, eyes narrowing on the shifting darkness between the trees. “Give it time.”

A beat of silence. A low, reverberating thrum drifted through the earth like a pulse.

“Let’s move,” Azriel said, stepping forward.

“Wait.”

He turned just enough to glance back at her.

Y/N lifted her chin toward the sky. Then she murmured a string of guttural syllables, words Azriel couldn’t place. Not ancient Fae. Not anything he’d heard before.

High above, a shadow detached from the clouds.

Firkhan.

The wyvern gave a low shriek, answering her call, before rising higher and disappearing into the canopy overhead: circling, watching.

Azriel arched a brow. “That an Ironteeth spell?”

She smirked faintly, brushing past him. “Just a language. One your kind never bothered to learn.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “What’d you tell him?”

“To hunt. To scream if anything smells like rot or fear.”

Azriel fell into step beside her. “And what do we do in the meantime?”

She glanced sideways, expression unreadable. “We walk into a haunted forest ruled by a half-dead god, of course.”

He huffed a soft laugh, surprised by it.

They moved forward, deeper into the Wildmere. And above them, Firkhan circled silently, a predator beneath the rising sun.

They walked in silence for nearly an hour.

The deeper they moved into the forest, the more the light changed. It wasn’t just the thick canopy blocking out the sun, it was the shadows themselves. They clung to bark and roots like oil. And even the wind sounded… wrong. Too soft. Too deliberate. As if the forest was listening.

Azriel had tracked monsters before. He knew the scent of darkness, of unnatural magic. But here, in Wildmere, everything reeked of rot and memory. Of something old, curdled with patience.

Beside him, Y/N didn’t speak. She moved like she belonged here, her steps precise but unhurried, hand never far from the hilt of her blade. Her wyvern, though mostly out of sight, cried out occasionally above the trees--long, distant shrieks that echoed like warnings.

He cast her a glance. “You’ve been quiet.”

Her gaze didn’t shift. “You’ve been brooding.”

Azriel let out a quiet huff. “That’s just my face.”

That earned him the ghost of a smirk. Barely.

He tilted his head. “You don’t seem bothered by this place.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said simply, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

“Than a forest poisoned by a death god?”

“Have you ever walked through a battlefield of broken gods and still-breathing corpses?” she asked, voice low. “This is peaceful compared to that.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Mostly because he didn’t doubt her. And partly because the way she said it didn’t sound like a boast. Just fact.

Still--he couldn’t help it.

“Why did Manon send you?” he asked quietly. “Not that I’m doubting your skill. But you don’t strike me as someone who gets sent. You strike me as someone who chooses.”

She slowed, just slightly, and he almost regretted the question.

“She didn’t send me,” Y/N said after a moment. “Amren called in a debt. Manon allowed it.”

Azriel studied her profile, the way her jaw tensed when she spoke Amren’s name. “You don’t like being in anyone’s debt.”

“No,” she said. “And I repay them quickly.”

Another cry from above. Firkhan, a low snarl this time--long and deliberate.

Both of them stopped.

Azriel’s shadows rose instantly, curling around his shoulders like smoke. His siphons flared with silent readiness. Beside him, Y/N’s hand had already gone to her weapon.

“East,” she said softly. “Something’s moving.”

He listened. There--just beyond the curve of a withered tree, something shuffled through the underbrush.

Azriel didn’t draw Truth-Teller. Not yet.

Instead, he turned toward her. “You ready?”

Y/N’s eyes glittered. “You tell me, Spymaster. Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel allowed a slow smile. “Not yet.”

They moved together, soundless and sharp. Into the dark.

And Wildmere waited.

Azriel's senses were on high alert as they ventured deeper into the Wildmere. The air grew heavier, thick with an unnatural stillness that made every step feel deliberate. The trees, twisted and gnarled, seemed to lean in closer, their bark slick with a strange, iridescent sheen.

"Do you feel that?" Y/N's voice broke the silence, low and cautious.

Azriel nodded, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. "Something's not right."

Without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. The trees around them began to shift, their trunks bending unnaturally, roots uprooting and twisting in the air like serpents.

"Stay close," Azriel ordered, his voice firm.

But Y/N was already moving, her eyes scanning the shifting landscape. "It's the forest," she said, her tone a mix of awe and wariness. "Koschei's magic is warping it."

Azriel watched as the forest seemed to breathe, the trees pulsating with an eerie rhythm. The air grew colder, and a low hum resonated from deep within the ground.

"We need to find the source," Azriel said, determination setting in.

Y/N nodded, her expression hardening. "Agreed. But we must tread carefully. This place is alive with his influence."

They moved cautiously, the forest around them shifting and changing with every step. The path ahead was unclear, obscured by the ever-changing landscape. Azriel's shadows flickered nervously, reacting to the unnatural magic permeating the air.

As they pressed forward, the trees began to close in, their branches intertwining above, blocking out the light. The air grew thick with a palpable sense of dread.

"We're close," Y/N murmured, her eyes narrowing as she scanned their surroundings.

Azriel felt it too--a presence, ancient and malevolent, watching them from the depths of the forest. He tightened his grip on his blade, ready for whatever lay ahead.

But for now, they could only move forward, deeper into the heart of Wildmere, where Koschei's magic twisted reality itself.

"The deeper we will go, the worse it will get."

Azriel didn't look at her as he led the way, shadows curling around him like arrows, ready to be sent out whenever he commands them to. "How do you know that?"

Y/N only followed him, shifting her clean nails for iron ones "It seems like you know nothing about this place, Shadowsinger, the Wildmere was not always like this. It’s not just forest--it’s memory. What you see here? Twisted bark, blackened moss, silence that’s too loud? This place remembers what it used to be. And Koschei is feeding on that pain."

Azriel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look back, but his steps slowed slightly. "Memories don’t kill people."

"They do, when a god gives them teeth," she murmured. "You’ll see soon enough. This entire forest is a grieving thing. You walk long enough, it’ll show you what it’s lost. What you’ve lost. Then it’ll ask for a price."

Azriel didn’t respond at first. Shadows slithered along his shoulders, shifting uneasily at her words. But after a pause, he finally said, "And what did it show you?"

Y/N gave a low chuckle--hollow and without humor. "Nothing yet. But it will. The forest always finds a way in."

They walked in silence after that, the mist growing thicker around them, the trees leaning in just slightly more than they had a moment before.

Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath their feet, and a low, mournful wail echoed through the forest. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. Y/N's hand instinctively went to her blade, her posture alert.

From the depths of the forest, a figure emerged: a massive, spectral stag, its form translucent and shimmering with an ethereal glow. Its antlers were adorned with chains of sorrowful faces, each one contorted in silent screams. The creature's eyes, hollow and endless, locked onto them.

Y/N's voice was a whisper, barely audible. "The Forest's Grief."

Azriel's gaze remained fixed on the apparition. "What is it?"

"A manifestation of the Wildmere's sorrow," she replied. "A guardian of lost souls. It feeds on despair and regret."

The stag took a step forward, and the ground beneath them seemed to pulse with each movement. The air grew colder, and the wailing intensified, as if the very forest was mourning.

"We can't kill it," Y/N said, her voice steady despite the growing dread. "We must offer it something, an acknowledgment of its pain."

Azriel's mind raced. What could they offer a creature born of sorrow? What could appease a being that thrived on despair?

The White Stag’s antlers cracked the air like thunder, pure magic slamming into the ground at their feet. Azriel flew back with the force of it, wings snapping wide to steady himself before he hit a gnarled tree trunk. The bark hissed where the Stag’s power had touched it, blackened, rotting.

Y/N stood her ground.

Not because she was unmoved.

Because she was thinking.

Its eyes burned with a light too ancient to belong to this world. Azriel’s shadows shrieked in his head, tangled around his arms and throat like they were trying to drag him away from it. From her.

“It wants something,” he growled, stepping forward, siphons flaring.

Y/N’s iron nails gleamed as she bared her teeth. “No shit.”

Another blast surged toward them. Azriel dove in front of her on instinct, shield raised from his siphons, but the magic slipped through, not touching flesh, but memories. His knees buckled.

A flash, his training pit. Then Elain, eyes wide with something unreadable. Then the Blood Rite, Rhys’s body limp in a river of red.

Gone.

Azriel gasped.

“Azriel.” Y/N grabbed his arm, grounding him. “It’s not attacking the body, it’s taking.”

He staggered upright. “Taking what?”

“Weight. Pain. Regret.” She turned toward the beast, blade now in hand, her iron claws retracted. Not her nails, her steel, that curved obsidian blade she'd claimed from the barrows of her world. “It doesn’t want blood. It wants burden.”

The Stag’s eyes flicked to her, then him. Waiting.

Azriel’s heart pounded. “So give it something.”

“I don’t- ” She hesitated. For a breath. “It’s not a trade. It’s a toll. It wants what we carry.”

Azriel clenched his fists. “I’m not offering it my damn memories.”

Y/N stepped forward, still not lifting her sword. “What if we offer it something false?”

“It’ll know.”

The White Stag stomped once. The ground split open just behind them, roots writhing like serpents. A scream tore from the soil, as if the forest itself was in pain.

“You’re right,” she hissed, glancing back. “We can’t outsmart it.”

The air changed then. Sharp. Electric. The stag charged.

Azriel lunged forward, wings snapping out. “Move!”

But Y/N didn’t run. She pivoted, blade slicing the air, not toward the creature, but downward, across her own palm.

Blood met steel.

Magic pulsed, raw and bright.

“Old gods don’t want lies,” she snarled. “They want truth.”

She threw the blood at its hooves.

The White Stag froze, the spray hitting the ground in front of it, blood soaking the roots. The earth went still.

Azriel stared.

The stag lowered its head.

And stepped aside.

Breathing hard, Y/N turned to him. “We have ten seconds. Run.”

They did.

The woods twisted behind them, the stag’s magic lashing at their heels like wind made of bones. Branches grabbed, thorns sliced, shadows pulled at them, but they made it through.

By the time they stumbled out of the cursed clearing, sweat-slicked and gasping, Azriel’s siphons were flickering low.

Y/N collapsed to one knee, gripping her still-bleeding palm.

Azriel dropped beside her, eyes scanning her face. “You alright?”

She exhaled a slow breath. “That thing fed on grief. If I had offered it any more, I wouldn’t have walked out.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter. Protective. Watchful.

“Next time,” he said, voice quiet, “warn me when a mythical forest god might try to eat my soul.”

Y/N’s laugh was hoarse. But real.

“No promises, Shadowsinger.”

Then, as if just realising what he was seeing, Azriel looked at her palm in surprise, "You have blue blood? How- how is that possible?"

Y/N glanced at her palm, still glowing faintly under the streak of cobalt. She arched a brow.

“I don’t know, Spymaster. Maybe because I’m secretly made of frost and moonlight. Or perhaps it’s just a fashion statement in my world.”

Azriel didn’t so much as blink at the sarcasm.

She sighed and flexed her fingers, watching the blood thicken, already beginning to seal. “I’m an Ironteeth witch. We all bleed blue. Has something to do with how we were made. Something ancient. Unnatural, some say.”

He looked vaguely unsettled by that. His eyes dipped again to the wound--only to find the blood already drying, the torn skin knitting back together.

“That was… fast,” he muttered. “My wounds take at least two days to heal. Even with my shadows.”

She scoffed, rising to her feet. “Maybe that’s because I’m not a Fae.”

Behind her, she heard the sound of his wings folding in as he followed, close but never too close. “You got something wrong, at last,” Azriel said, his voice lighter than before. “I’m not a Fae. I’m an Illyrian.”

That gave her pause. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her periphery. “Is there a difference?”

He shrugged. “Illyrians are winged warriors. Fae in general aren’t born with wings. Or this,” he added, tapping a siphon. “We’re something... rougher. Less polished.”

Y/N kept walking but filed that away.

Why he was explaining it to her, she didn’t know. Why she cared to listen, she knew even less.

But the forest was growing darker around them. The trees closer together, their roots rising like gnarled veins through the soil. Firkhan circled above, a pale, faint shape against the thickening clouds.

She could still feel the residue of the stag’s magic trailing behind them, something old and heavy pressing against her spine like a ghost they hadn’t fully outrun.

“We’ll need to stop soon,” she muttered. “Even I can’t see what’s waiting in that dark.”

Azriel merely nodded, his shadows already fanning out ahead of them like scouts.

And still...still, Y/N found herself glancing at him again. At the siphons, the wings, the strange shadows that whispered things she couldn’t understand.

Not Fae. Not human. Not like anything she’d ever known.

Maybe she wasn’t the only weapon born in the dark.

They had found a small clearing, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. The trees here were spaced just enough to allow a semblance of comfort. Y/N dropped her pack, her senses still alert, scanning the surroundings.

"Seems as good a place as any," she muttered, settling down and beginning to unpack.

Azriel nodded, his gaze lingering on the shadows between the trees. "Stay vigilant."

Just as they began to relax, the ground beneath them trembled. A low, guttural growl resonated from the depths of the forest. Before they could react, the earth split open before them, revealing a massive, serpentine creature with scales that shimmered like obsidian.

Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and its maw dripped with venomous saliva. The creature hissed, its tongue flicking out, tasting the air.

Y/N stood, her expression hardening. "An Ironfang Basilisk," she said, her voice steady. "Rare, territorial, and deadly."

Azriel's wings twitched, ready for combat. "Can we fight it?"

Y/N shook her head. "Not unless you want to end up petrified. We need to outwit it."

The basilisk advanced, its massive body coiling and uncoiling with terrifying speed. Y/N's hand went to her belt, drawing her obsidian blade. "Get ready," she whispered.

Azriel's shadows flared, forming a protective barrier around them. "On your mark."

With a swift motion, Y/N hurled a handful of enchanted dust into the air, creating a blinding flash. The basilisk recoiled, momentarily disoriented. Seizing the opportunity, Azriel winnowed behind the creature, striking at its exposed flank.

The basilisk howled in pain, thrashing wildly. Y/N darted forward, her blade flashing as she targeted the creature's eyes. Another strike, and the basilisk let out a deafening screech, its body convulsing before it collapsed, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Y/N wiped the blood from her blade. "That was too close."

Azriel nodded, his expression grim. "We can't afford to be caught off guard again."

They gathered their belongings, moving deeper into the Wildmere, aware that more dangers lurked in the shadows.

The forest pressed in around them, thick and suffocating, but the small clearing they found was enough to catch their breath--for now. Y/N didn’t dare let them linger longer than thirty minutes. The Wildmere was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

Azriel kept his senses sharp, shadows coiling around him like watchful serpents. He glanced at her as she settled against a gnarled tree root, clearly still on edge despite the brief reprieve.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

Azriel’s head snapped upward, just as a flicker of movement slipped through the dense branches above. Then, like a ghost wreathed in moonlight, the wyvern descended--Firkhan’s translucent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light, his nearly invisible form momentarily solidifying. His golden eyes caught the glimmers of shadow and leaf, glowing softly.

Y/N leaned against him, her voice low and certain. “Firkhan says he’s sensed something… great. Something close. It’s why we’re here—the heart.”

Azriel watched the creature with quiet awe, the way it moved so effortlessly between worlds, half-seen, half-spirit. He wondered what this beast actually looks like back in his world. His gaze shifted back to Y/N, and something about the way she steadied herself in this hostile place made him respect her even more.

They sat in a tense silence for a few moments before Azriel’s curiosity overcame the quiet.

“So,” he started carefully, “how did you come to know so much about this place? This ‘heart’ we’re searching for?”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with faint amusement. “Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of dark forests and shadows. I’m sort of a spymaster too, born into war and betrayal. I come from a world where the gods are dead, and their shadows still haunt the earth.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “Your world... it’s different from ours.”

She nodded slowly, eyes distant as if recalling a lifetime in a single glance. “Very different. It’s a place where gods once ruled openly, but they were all killed--we have Aelin to thank for that.”

Azriel had no idea who this Aelin was but from the sound of it, she seemed to be quite the powerhouse.

Y/N then looked back at him. "Koschei has been slowly but surely infecting our world too and even though I had fought some of his creations, now I see how much more of a great threat he is in your world."

Azriel nodded his head, then, a question struck his mind. "You said Amren had saved you from a god's mouth. How and when did that happen? How do you even know Amren?"

Y/N smiled. Not a cold or cruel smile, but a real, nostalgic smile as she replied "Yes. It was a very long time ago and honestly, I would rather not speak of it. As for Amren, well, she doesn't just know me. She knows my sisters and my queen, Manon too. It's why Manon even allowed me to come here in the first place, because she trusts her and knew that if Amren calls, it's a serious issue because there is nothing Amren can't handle."

Azriel smirked slightly as his eyes drifted to Firkhan, watching the giant beast lay its enormous wing over Y/N. He hesitated, then found himself sharing a piece of his own story, the weight of his loyalty pressing on his chest. “My High Lord, Rhysand--he’s more than just a ruler to me as well. He’s fierce, loyal, relentless. We’ve fought wars, endured betrayals. He’s the reason I fight… why I keep moving forward.”

Y/N gave a small, approving nod, as if recognizing a familiar kind of pain. “Loyalty’s a rare currency in my world too. Trust is harder to earn than blood. Manon’s trust is the only thing keeping me grounded, reminding me there’s more than just survival.”

The forest around them seemed to close in, the shadows thickening as the conversation took a more personal turn. Their voices dropped lower, sharing fragments of childhoods marked by loss, hardship, and resilience.

“I grew up among shadows,” Y/N said softly, “raised to be a weapon, a spy. Not for glory, but to survive. It’s a hard life, but it teaches you to see what others miss.”

Azriel nodded, feeling the weight of those words. “I was born to serve in the shadows too. But my shadows aren’t just weapons—they’re pieces of me. I use them to protect, to hunt. Rhysand gave me purpose beyond the darkness.”

She tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “And what about your world? Prythian… it’s beautiful, but scarred. What keeps you fighting, if not loyalty?”

Azriel considered that. “Hope. For a future where the shadows don’t own us. Where people can live without fear. Rhysand believes in that future. I do too.”

Y/N smiled faintly, a rare softness crossing her features. “Hope is a dangerous thing. But maybe it’s what keeps the strongest alive.”

Azriel caught the subtle change in her expression--something almost like longing, buried beneath years of hard edges.

But then, Y/N chuckled slowly, "No wonder I knew the Night court would be the most troubled the moment I received the map from Amren."

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "And did you look into the other courts?"

"Of course I did. What kind of an idiot would go into a foreign world without researching everything from there? Personally, I would love to visit the Summer court for a much needed vacation but obviously that won't be happening so..." Y/N sighed rolling her eyes "It hurts my ego to says this but, I am slightly jealous of your world for having these nice courts. Even though I bet they are all posh and pampered."

Azriel couldn't hide his smile as he replied, "Well, if you do ever come back, just make sure to stay far from Autumn. You don't want to mess with them."

Y/N raised a challenging eyebrow. "Oh? and why is that?"

Azriel’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “They’re… complicated. The Autumn Court has its own rules and its own kind of darkness. Subtle, but dangerous. Like a web that traps the unwary.”

Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

He studied her for a moment, intrigued by how easily she adapted, how she seemed to carry the weight of two worlds without breaking. “You make it sound like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once.”

She met his gaze steadily. “Maybe I do. Or maybe I’m just a survivor.”

They fell into a thoughtful silence, the sounds of the forest pressing in around them--shadows shifting, leaves whispering in the faint breeze.

Azriel finally broke the quiet, “So, what exactly are we looking for in this heart of Koschei’s power? What does it even look like?”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Something ancient. Something that pulses with his corruption. Maybe a source of his influence. Destroying it might weaken him... or maybe even kill him. Honestly? I have never killed a god before either so this is a first for me too."

Then, she shook her head, sighing in frustration. "I should have asked Aelin for some tips, how on earth does one even kill a god?"

Azriel leaned forward, very intrigued. "Who is Aelin exactly? is she that Godskiller queen you mentioned last night?"

Y/N looked at him and just nodded, seemingly not trusting him at all to give any important information.

Fair enough. Azriel has been doing the same anyway.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and fragile understanding. But Y/N was quick to break the spell.

“Enough,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet, voice firm. Firkhan, as if already knowing his job, snuggled to Y/N one last time before flying back up.

Azriel watched her for a beat longer, curiosity sparking anew. She was more than the witch he thought he’d met. Something about her unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.

He stood, shadows coiling like eager serpents around his fingers. “Ready?”

She nodded, determination flickering in her eyes. Together, they moved deeper into the Wildmere, stepping quietly into the thickening dark.

The trees grew stranger the deeper they walked—twisting into near-impossible shapes, branches bending down like fingers to scrape at their shoulders. The air turned dense, humming like a living thing. Firkhan circled silently above, his massive form barely visible except when moonlight slipped across the translucent shimmer of his wings.

Y/N felt it before she saw it.

A shift in the world’s breath. A stillness too complete. Even the shadows underfoot recoiled, Azriel’s included.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmured.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. “You feel it too?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her steps slowed as they entered a clearing.

At first, it looked… harmless. A meadow nestled between craggy hills, dotted with faintly glowing mushrooms and blanketed in tall, silver-bladed grass. Too quiet. Too still.

Then-

A mirror rose from the ground.

Seven feet tall. No frame. No stand. Just a hovering pane of glimmering glass, and the faint shimmer of a thousand reflections dancing across its surface, not theirs. Strangers. Dead things. Nightmares.

Azriel stepped slightly in front of her. “Is that…?”

But Y/N had already stopped. Her jaw set.

“The Mirror of Maw,” she said flatly.

“You know what it is?”

“It’s not from your world. Or mine. It was pulled through a rift, I think. I’ve only seen a drawing. They say it shows your deepest fear… and then tries to break you with it.”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “Break you how?”

As if in answer, the glass rippled, and his mother’s face appeared, beaten and bloodied. Behind her, two Illyrian boys, children, chained to stone.

Azriel staggered back a step, inhaling sharply.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She knew it was coming.

Then the glass turned again, this time to her.

Not Manon. Not Asterin. Not even the Valg.

Her reflection turned into her own face—wild-eyed, monstrous, fully shifted. Alone. Blood-soaked. Surrounded by the fallen bodies of her coven. Her sisters. Manon. All dead. By her hand.

She blinked.

Azriel hissed, “We need to destroy it.”

“No,” she said immediately. “If we do, it’ll shatter outward. The shards will reflect us infinitely and... trap us.”

He turned his head sharply. “Then what?”

“We have to walk past it.”

Azriel stared. “Seriously?”

Y/N shifted her nails into long, gleaming iron claws. “Don’t look into it. Not directly. Don’t let it know you’re afraid.”

Azriel’s wings flexed, his face pale. “It already knows.”

“Then pretend.” She took a step forward.

The ground beneath them twisted, pulling them in different directions. Illusions bloomed, not just in the mirror, but in the air, hovering projections of past sins and private nightmares. The air sang with the sound of screams not their own.

Azriel clenched his jaw and followed, shadows thick around him, muttering, “What kind of god builds things like this?”

“The kind that never wanted to die,” she whispered.

They moved forward. Step by step.

Each footfall brought a new vision. Azriel gritted his teeth against a sight of his brothers drowning in tar. Y/N fought against a phantom image of Manon turning her back on her.

But then-

The mirror lashed out.

Not with glass, but with reflection. It warped into a massive beast of pure light and shadow, built from every fear it had shown them. It struck like a viper.

Y/N lunged with a snarl, dodging the strike and raking iron claws across its neck. The illusion beast didn’t bleed. It cracked like glass, shrieked like a violin.

Azriel shouted her name, his shadows tangled with the form, but they passed through.

“Don’t fight it like a warrior,” Y/N shouted. “Fight it like it’s a lie.”

Azriel paused, narrowed his eyes, then did the unthinkable.

He closed them.

And drove his knife into his own thigh.

The pain was real. Grounding.

The creature paused.

Y/N followed his lead, slicing her palm with her iron claws, letting the blue blood spill onto the grass. Her breath steadied.

“We are real,” she growled. “You’re not.”

The mirror-beast began to shake.

Then, it shattered in a silent implosion, collapsing into a pool of starlight, then into nothing at all.

Y/N and Azriel stood in the silence, panting, bleeding.

She smirked faintly. “Creative. I’ll give the bastard that.”

Azriel wiped his blade, glancing down at her hand. “Blue blood again.”

She raised a brow. “And you didn’t faint this time.”

He gave a breathless chuckle. “Progress.”

But they both knew, the forest was watching.

And the next trial was already waiting.

By the time the next challenge came, they were ready for it.

After the Mirror of Maw, neither Y/N nor Azriel had let their guard down again. Every step through Wildmere became a calculated risk. They learned quickly that brute strength wouldn’t be enough. This place demanded wit, patience, and endurance.

One moment, they found themselves navigating a river that whispered their greatest regrets in voices not their own—a siren-like hallucination that tried to lure them beneath its surface with promises of absolution. Another time, they were stalked by phantom duplicates of themselves, twisted versions that mirrored every move seconds before they made it—forcing them to fight with instinct instead of thought.

Once, they even found themselves in a grove where time reversed for everything but them—fruit rotting and unrotting on the branch, rain falling upward, Firkhan caught in a loop above them until Y/N used a sliver of her iron blade to slash the air and break the loop’s hold.

But none of it was enough to bring them closer to the heart.

They’d pushed through challenge after challenge, but the twisted forest still swallowed the path ahead in shadows. And worse—Firkhan hadn’t smelled anything yet. No pulse of dark magic, no sulfur, no blood-thick scent of Koschei.

The wyvern had descended three times, enormous wings stirring the trees like thunder. Each time, he’d only blinked those golden eyes and shook his head once before vanishing back into the sky, invisible against the dark clouds.

And now—

“I’m way past the time Manon had assigned for me.”

Y/N’s voice came low, clipped, frustration curling in every syllable as she leaned against Firkhan’s warm side. The wyvern lay curled in a hollow of moss and stone, his translucent wings tucked close to his body like an exhausted sentinel. His presence was the only steady thing left in the wild.

Azriel stood a few feet away, checking the perimeter, his shadows flicking with agitation.

“She’ll understand,” he said eventually.

Y/N scoffed. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” he said, turning slightly. “But I know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing someone who trusted you.”

That shut her up. For a breath.

Then- “We’re going in circles, Azriel. This place, this whole cursed forest, is playing with us.”

His jaw clenched. “And we keep playing back. That’s the job.”

“Is it?” She pushed off Firkhan’s side, iron nails catching the moonlight. “Because I didn’t come here to get toyed with by a dead god’s leavings. I came here to destroy something.”

“So did I,” he said, voice sharp now. “But stomping around like you’re going to slice your way through a thousand-year-old maze of magic isn’t going to get us there any faster.”

She met his stare. “What would you rather I do? Sit here and braid flowers into Firkhan’s mane while we wait for Koschei to start breathing down your High Lord’s neck?”

His wings flared slightly behind him. “I’m saying you’re not the only one who wants to end this.”

They stood like that for a moment—breathing hard, not from exertion, but from restraint.

Y/N turned away first. Ran a hand through her hair. “I just... I don’t fail. I can’t afford to.”

Azriel’s voice came softer. “You think I can?”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

His face wasn’t unreadable this time. The tension in his jaw. The shadows pulled close to his shoulders like a shield. He was just as tired. Just as haunted.

A long silence passed between them.

Then, Y/N sighed, letting her claws retract.

She leaned back against Firkhan, whose massive head nudged her gently, a low rumble of reassurance vibrating through the stone beneath them.

Azriel sat down beside her a moment later, silent.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

Only the forest did--breathing, pulsing, watching. Waiting.

And somewhere beyond it all… the heart still beat.

Waiting to be found.

Y/N turned her head to him. "You seem frustrated."

Azriel sighed letting out an angry growl "I have been trying to reach Rhysands mind, to talk to him, talk to anyone at this point, but it hasn't been working and I don't understand why."

Y/N looked straight ahead. "It won't work, so don't tire yourself out."

Azriel looked at her in confusion. "And why is that?"

Y/N didn't look at him at first. She simply leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as the low hum of Firkhan’s breathing rumbled behind them like distant thunder.

Then she said, voice level, “Because Wildmere was designed to be a prison. Not just for creatures or for gods, but for anything that might try to enter or leave without permission. Communication magic, winnowing, tracking, it all dies here. Gets eaten by the forest.”

Azriel stared at her. “You knew?”

She gave a small shrug, iron nails lightly tracing the ridges of her palm. “I suspected. The way the air feels… it’s thicker. Charged. Whatever magic was used to curse this place is ancient and primal. Older than either of our worlds can probably remember.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?”

Now she looked at him, her gaze flat and unapologetic. “What would you have done? Turned back? Panicked? Told Rhys to call it off?” A pause. “We’ve made it this far. Would knowing you couldn’t call home have changed how you fought through the last three trials?”

Azriel opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because no,it wouldn’t have. Not really.

“I’ve survived in places where even thoughts aren’t safe,” she continued. “You adapt. You stop relying on help that isn’t coming. You move forward.”

A beat of silence.

“You really don’t trust anyone, do you?” he said, not accusing,just observing.

Y/N gave a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Trust is expensive. I spend it rarely.”

Azriel looked away, shadows curling tighter around him as if shielding him from something unsaid.

Firkhan snorted, shifting beside them, his massive head lowering into the moss.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” she added after a moment, more quietly. “I just didn’t see the point of wasting breath on something neither of us can change.”

Azriel finally nodded, slow and grim. “Then I won’t waste breath on it either.”

They both sat in silence again, the moment heavier now, not angry, just worn. Both aware of how alone they truly were in this cursed, forsaken place.

Finally, Y/N murmured, almost to herself, “If he really buried his heart here… then he meant for no one to ever leave with it.”

Azriel’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Then we’ll make him regret underestimating us.”

Y/N’s smirk was faint, but there. “Damn right, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel didn't know where this came from but it seemed like his mouth didn't listen to his brain as he blurted out "Do you have a mate?"

Y/N looked at him, wide-eyed, and then bursted out laughing.

Azriel was confused. "What?"

Still chuckling, Y/N looked at him once more. "We are witches. We don't have any mates."

Now it was Azriel whose eyes widened. "What- I mean...how? Doesn't everyone have a mate?"

Firkhan’s head lifted slightly, golden eyes glinting in the dark. He let out a low rumble that raised the hair on their arms.

Y/N stood, brushing moss from her trousers. “Enough talk. Time’s up.”

So she didn't like this one. Maybe this was too intimate of a matter for her. Or maybe she thought he didn't need to know this information.

Azriel didn't push, he rose beside her. “Let’s move.”

And once again, the forest swallowed them whole.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped and turned around to look at Azriel, eyes wide, as if she just realized something.

Azriel's brow lifted in suspicion. "What?"

Y/N, opened her mouth, eyes lost somewhere else as if she wasn't even talking to him.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped mid-step and spun around to face Azriel, her eyes wide, too wide. Not with fear, but realization.

Azriel’s brows furrowed, instantly alert. “What?”

But Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her gaze wasn’t even focused on him. It was distant, like she wasn’t seeing the twisted forest around them but something deeper, some hidden truth unfurling at last.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “We’re being played.”

Azriel blinked. “What do you mean?”

She began pacing in a small circle, muttering mostly to herself. “We’ve been moving through challenge after challenge: endless, brutal. And they haven’t lessened. Not once. If anything, they’ve become more unpredictable. More desperate. But what if…”

Azriel stepped closer, shadows crawling silently across the ground. “Y/N.”

She looked up sharply, something wild and sharp behind her eyes. “What if the heart isn’t a place?”

Azriel stared at her. “Explain.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, gathering her thoughts, the pieces slotting together. “Koschei’s power is rooted in rot, decay, illusions. We assumed the heart was hidden deep within the Wildmere, that all this--the challenges, the madness--was just a wall we had to break through. But what if that’s the lie?”

Azriel tilted his head. “You think the heart is… everywhere?”

“No,” she said slowly, her voice gaining certainty, “I think the heart is within the challenges. Part of them. A piece hidden in every test, every horror we’ve faced. It’s like we’ve been walking through pieces of his soul.”

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, processing. “That’s why it’s been getting stronger, more chaotic. We’ve been stepping closer each time, not geographically, but… spiritually.”

“Exactly.” Y/N looked around at the ancient trees, the corrupted mist, the way the earth pulsed subtly beneath them. “This forest, it is him. It listens. It watches. We’re not searching for a location. We’re awakening it.”

Azriel let that settle for a moment. “Then what do we do next?”

She turned in a slow circle, iron nails flexing. “We speak directly to it.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Koschei?”

Y/N smirked darkly. “Oh, he’s listening. Has been from the start. I say… we stop playing by his rules.”

Then she raised her voice, sharp and clear, her tone cutting through the forest like a blade:

“I know what you are. And I’m done dancing for you.”

Azriel’s grin was slow, dark, and full of promise. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

From the trees above, a low vibration answered--something old and furious, stirred at last.

And as if Koschei had been waiting for this realization all along, the scenery shifted, pulling Y/N and Azriel into somewhere else entirely.

The forest screamed.

Not with sound,but with movement. The trees began to shift.

Azriel had seen countless battles, had faced terrors that would break the spine of any ordinary warrior,but nothing had prepared him for this. For the way the earth itself groaned beneath their boots, how roots curled like skeletal fingers to drag them under, how the sky had turned a deep, bruised violet above their heads.

They had found the heart.

Or… it had found them.

Firkhan roared from above, his massive body circling violently in the sky, wings slicing through the thickening clouds. The wyvern’s translucent body was flickering between visible and invisible, the magic in the air distorting even him.

Azriel’s shadows lashed out, trying to scout ahead, but they shrieked back into him,blinded, confused.

Y/N stood beside him, her eyes blazing silver. Her iron claws were already out, gleaming. “It’s here,” she breathed. “He knows.”

And then-

The forest exploded.

Not with fire. Not with weapons. But with bodies. They came from the trees. Not beasts, not soldiers. Specters. Hollow things made of bark and blood, faces frozen in silent screams. They didn’t speak. They didn’t breathe. They simply lunged.

Azriel met the first with a flash of his blades, shadows curling up around his arms like a second skin. He fought silently, efficiently, but even he felt the press of chaos. Every time one was cut down, another took its place. They didn’t bleed. They didn’t die easily.

Beside him, Y/N fought like a creature out of myth. Her claws shredded through the phantoms, her movements fast, brutal. And when one got too close, she snapped with her iron teeth, tearing through bark like it was wet paper. But for each one she felled, more came.

"This is endless!" Azriel snarled, kicking a phantom back into a tree, only for it to melt into mist and reform again.

“They’re not meant to be beaten,” Y/N hissed, spinning and driving her claws into one of the specters. “They’re meant to wear us down.”

A blast of dark magic burst from a tree’s core ahead. The bark cracked and peeled back, revealing the heart. Not a heart of flesh—but a pulsing core of black and gold light. It glowed like molten metal, rhythmically beating in the trunk of a tree that stretched impossibly high.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto it. “That’s it.”

But then, the air grew cold. So cold, even Azriel’s Illyrian blood shuddered.

Koschei.

His presence slid over them like a serpent winding around a neck. He didn’t appear physically--just a voice, low and ancient, curling through the trees.

“You are too late. The forest is mine.”

Y/N staggered, clutching her temple as his voice clawed through her mind. Azriel grabbed her, pulling her behind him with one arm while shadows leapt to shield them.

“I’ve got you,” he growled.

“No,” she rasped, pushing away from him, blood now dripping from her nose. “We need to end it. Now.”

She stumbled forward,right into the path of one of the phantoms. It slammed its twisted arm across her ribs and threw her into a tree.

“Y/N!”

Azriel moved before he could think, slicing through two specters and diving toward her. She was curled at the base of the tree, blood blooming from her side, gasping through clenched teeth.

He dropped to his knees beside her, shadows wrapping around them both. “Don’t move. Don’t- ”

“It’s cracked,” she hissed. “My ribs- ”

Azriel didn’t let her finish. His hands pressed to her sides, shadows curling protectively. “Stay down. I’ll hold them off.”

“You don’t have time- ” she gasped.

But Azriel had already stood, wings flaring wide, blades glowing with shadows that roared to life.

The sky above them split, Firkhan descending like death on wings.

And still, the heart pulsed.

Still, Koschei whispered.

Still, the battle raged.

And somewhere in that madness, Azriel made a promise, not aloud, but in the marrow of his bones.

She would not fall here.

Not in his watch. Not in Koschei’s cursed forest.

Not when he had anything left to give.

Azriel’s wings unfurled fully, casting long, looming shadows over the shattered ground beneath them. Firkhan roared above, his distorted, flickering form cutting through the bruised sky like a living thunderstorm. The phantoms surged closer, an endless tide of twisted bark and blood, their silent screams a chorus of despair.

Azriel’s blades sang through the air, shadows coiling like serpents with every strike. He moved with lethal grace, a dark storm in human form, but even he knew brute force alone wouldn’t shatter this nightmare. The heart, pulsing with molten black and gold, throbbed in the center of the ancient tree, a beacon and a curse. It wasn’t just power, it was the very soul of Koschei’s corruption.

Y/N’s breaths came shallow and ragged at his side, blood darkening her iron claws and the forest floor beneath her. Azriel’s sharp gaze flickered between her and the heart, determination hardening his jaw. I have to end this. For both of us.

The specters pressed in tighter, relentless as the dark tide. Azriel’s shadows whipped out, forming a swirling barrier that absorbed phantom claws and bark-like shards, buying precious seconds. He knelt beside Y/N briefly, fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that belied the fury in his eyes.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice steady but fierce. “I’ll end this. I promise.”

She managed a weak nod, her silver eyes flashing once more with that fierce, untamed light. You always do, they seemed to say.

Azriel surged to his feet, wings beating the heavy, cursed air. He pushed forward, moving as close to the heart as he dared, the twisted bark of the tree pulsing beneath his fingertips. The core radiated an unbearable heat, not warmth, but something corrosive, devouring from within.

Koschei’s voice slithered through the trees again, low and venomous, “Foolish shadow. You think you can grasp what is eternal? What I have bound in blood and bone?”

Azriel ignored the whispers, focusing every fiber of his being on the heart. He reached deep into the shadow realm, calling to the ancient power of his bloodline, the shadows that were more than darkness, but living essence, sharp as blades and deep as night.

With a roar that shook the forest, Azriel’s blades ignited in spectral shadows, glowing with a fierce light that cut through the murk and decay. He struck the heart, first once, then twice, each blow sending waves of black and gold rippling outward.

The forest screamed in agony.

The phantoms faltered, howling in silent rage as their source was wounded. But the heart fought back, tendrils of shadow and rot lashing out, trying to bind Azriel in eternal darkness.

He faltered for a moment, pain biting deep as the corruption tried to seep into his soul. But Azriel’s resolve only sharpened, this was not just a battle of strength, but will.

Summoning every shred of shadow and steel, he drove both blades deep into the core, channeling his fury and hope. The heart shattered in a cascade of molten shards, exploding into a storm of blinding light and shadow.

The forest convulsed, roots recoiling, the corrupted mist dissipating like smoke on a wind long overdue.

Koschei’s voice broke, fractured and fading, “This isn't the end, shadowsinger...”

Azriel stood panting, wings folding back slowly, the oppressive weight lifting from the air. Around them, the twisted trees began to straighten, the pulsating heartbeat of corruption silenced at last.

Y/N groaned softly beside him, pain etched deep but the fire in her eyes undiminished.

Azriel knelt, reaching for her again, a tired but triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

“We did it,” he said quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and relief. “It’s over.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the forest breathed free.

And Azriel, shadowed and scarred but unbroken, swore he’d never let darkness claim them again.

Azriel sank to his knees beside Y/N, his breath heavy but steady despite the toll the battle had taken. The pulsating black-and-gold heart was no more, but the wounds it left behind were still fresh, both on the land and on them. Y/N’s breaths were shallow, each one a sharp stab of pain radiating from her cracked ribs and the blood staining her side.

He shifted his cloak gently, carefully trying not to jostle her too much. Shadows coiled around his hands, soft and cool, weaving delicate threads of healing energy. It was a power Azriel had kept mostly for defense, but now, with grim determination, he called upon it to mend what the heart’s corruption had broken.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and firm. The shadows pressed against Y/N’s skin, knitting flesh and bone together like a masterful seamstress, sealing cracks in her ribs and staunching the bleeding. The pain didn’t vanish instantly--far from it--but it dulled, becoming a dull ache beneath the magic’s careful touch.

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open, meeting his with a spark of gratitude mingled with exhaustion. “You… you always come through,” she rasped.

Azriel gave a tired, crooked smile. “I’m not done yet. You’re too important to lose.”

He eased her into his arms, careful and protective, letting his wings envelop them both like a shadowed sanctuary. The forest around them was already beginning to heal, corrupted leaves wilting and new green buds pushing through the undergrowth, nature reclaiming what had been twisted.

“We need to get out of here,” Azriel said quietly. “Stay with me. I’ll carry you.”

Y/N nodded, eyes fluttering closed as the healing shadows continued their work, easing the sharpness in her chest.

Azriel rose, wings spreading wide to shield them from any lingering threats. His steps were steady but swift, moving through the forest with the grace of a predator, the shadows parting before him like a living cloak.

Every heartbeat was a reminder--this victory was hard-won, but survival meant moving forward. And he would carry Y/N through whatever came next.

As the forest’s twisted grip loosened behind them, Azriel’s resolve hardened. He wouldn’t just survive--he’d make sure the darkness they’d faced never rose again.

Once they were out, Azriel winnowed them back. The familiar air of the House of Wind wrapping around him like a balm after the suffocating, corrupted forest. He carried Y/N carefully in his arms, her weight lighter than he expected, though the bloodstains on her side told a harsher truth. The others were gathered in the main hall, the tension in the room thick—like the air before a storm.

Mor and Amren stood near the tall windows, exchanging hurried words. Nesta and Cassian leaned against the hearth, faces drawn and exhausted. Rhys and Feyre were by the stairs, eyes sharp, concern etched deep.

The moment they entered, voices rose in a chorus.

“You took so long,” Cassian’s voice was rough but relieved.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to him. “How long?”

Cassian’s grim smile faltered. “Five entire days.”

Feyre stood up from the couch, coming closer to Azriel. "We've all been trying to reach you but we couldn't get an answer."

Azriel sighed, "It was the damn forest, the air in the, it's magic, I couldn't reach any of you either because of that."

A murmur rippled through the room. Y/N stirred slightly, getting down but still leaning against Azriel for support. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

Rhys narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. “You’re injured. Are you alright?”

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open. “I’m fine,” she said, voice steady but faint.

She looked at Amren and asked, “When can you open the portal again? I need to go back home.”

The room quieted at her words.

Azriel’s mouth opened, then blurted out before he could stop himself: “Do you really?”

Everyone turned, surprised by his tone.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “I mean, you are injured after all.”

Y/N gave a small, wry smile. “Manon will be both worried and pissed. She already is. I’m way past the assigned time. I bet they all think I’m dead by now.”

Amren’s eyes glinted. “Give me a few hours.”

Y/N nodded, easing down onto the couch Feyre offered. Azriel never left her side, standing like a silent guardian.

Tea was brought, warm and fragrant, a sharp contrast to the cold metal taste of battle still lingering in his mouth.

The group settled, the fire crackling softly as they began to recount what had transpired in their separate quests. Mor and Amren spoke of the tidal cliffs, how the mirror-anchor shimmered beneath the waves, how the ocean roared with a power Koschei had tried to steal. Nesta and Cassian told of the Forgotten Vale’s haunted soil, the blood magic that bled from the earth itself, and how fire had cleansed the curse—though at a heavy cost.

Azriel’s mind wandered, watching Y/N carefully as she sipped her tea, the faintest flicker of pain crossing her face when she moved too sharply. He remembered the forest’s pulse, the way the heart had throbbed like a living wound beneath the bark, and the relentless onslaught of phantoms that had threatened to tear them apart. He thought of the shadows he’d summoned, not just to fight but to heal, to hold her together when the world had tried to unravel her.

In the quiet moments between their words, Azriel’s thoughts circled around a single, stubborn truth: they had survived, but the cost was far from over. The forest’s corruption was gone, but Koschei’s reach remained—fractured, yes, but dangerous.

"So, I guess my debt to Amren is paid at last."

And Y/N was leaving.

Azriel shouldn't care, after all, she did come here for the mission in the first place. But.... the moments they shared, the conversations they had....Azriel couldn't ignore that. His interest, his curiosity kept rising when he looked at her. She was everything and more that they said about her, yes. But she was also so different. He still had so many questions, so many conversations that he wanted to have with her.

Amren returned then, sharp-eyed and satisfied. “Alright, it’s ready.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

They all followed her into the garden behind the House, bathed in the violet hue of the setting sun. The Sidra shimmered below, and the distant wind caught in the high pines.

Firkhan was waiting, perched like a statue of obsidian and smoke on the cliff edge. The wyvern’s translucent wings had returned to full visibility, glittering faintly in the fading light. He huffed once as Y/N approached, nuzzling her side gently--carefully--where she was still bruised. She placed a hand against his snout, murmuring something in her own language. Something old and sacred.

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

Cassian, arms crossed but expression oddly soft, offered a nod. “You ever want to visit again, I’ll save you a sparring spot.”

Y/N smirked, the silver in her eyes brightening. “Only if you promise not to cry when I flatten you.”

Nesta arched a brow. “She’s serious.”

“I believe her,” Cassian muttered, half to himself.

Feyre stepped forward next. “Thank you, for what you did. What you gave. It wasn’t your war, but you fought like it was.”

Y/N inclined her head. “It became my war the moment I stepped into that forest.”

Rhys gave a small, approving smile. “And you walked out of it.”

“Barely,” Azriel murmured under his breath, but she heard it.

Amren was last. She held out a small, shining obsidian coin- an anchor token, Azriel recognized. Rare, dangerous, used for long-distance magical travel when gates were unstable.

“Send my regards to Manon,” Amren said. “Tell her I haven’t forgotten that bottle of blackfire she owes me.”

Y/N’s grin returned, sharp and wild. “She’ll pretend she has. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Amren gave a snort and turned, already bored with sentiment.

Y/N ran her hand along Firkhan’s scales once more, then turned to Azriel. The others, sensing something in the air, quietly stepped back. Shadows deepened in the corners of the garden.

He hadn’t moved.

“You’ll be alright?” he asked, voice low.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. Her silver gaze met his. “I’ll be alright,” she said again, gentler this time.

Azriel nodded, but his jaw was clenched. There were still a thousand questions clawing in his throat. Not about war. Not about magic. About her.

She studied him for a long moment. “You could visit, you know.”

He blinked. “I- what?”

Y/N shrugged one shoulder, casual and not at all casual. “We’ve got plenty of cursed forests too. Would make you feel right at home.”

His mouth lifted in the barest smile. “And a brooding spymaster with too many shadows won’t draw attention?”

“I think we’d survive the scandal.”

Another silence, but not uncomfortable.

Then she looked to the sky. “Firkhan’s ready. And… they’ve waited long enough.”

Azriel’s hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t stop her.

But gods, he wanted to.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, one last time.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder.

His shadows curled around his boots, uncertain.

“I meant what I said. Back in the forest. I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

Something flickered in her gaze. “I know.”

And then she stepped away. Climbed onto Firkhan’s back with the ease of a queen mounting a throne. No crown. No farewell.

Just fire in her blood and steel in her spine.

Firkhan launched into the air with a blast of wind and light, his wings cutting through the violet dusk as they entered the portal and vanished completely.

Azriel watched until they were gone.

Until the stars blinked open, silent and still.

And still he stood there.

Because the thing he wouldn’t say--the truth clawing quietly beneath his skin--was that he hadn’t expected to care.

Not for the shadows she had walked through.

Not for the strength behind her teeth.

Not for the ghost of her laughter when no one was listening.

But he did.

And now she was gone.

She came into my world like a storm with no warning. And left just as fast. But storms leave marks behind. And something tells me… this isn’t the end of our story. Not yet.

[moonlightazriel]

Chapter 1: Falling through the stars /// Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: When the four forces of nature are used at the same time in different places, their power resonates through the universe, connecting all of them together

Word Count: 3,1K

Warnings: Mentions of war, injuries and blood.

Notes: Welcome to the first official chapter of this weird crossover that came up in my mind, obviously this contains spoilers of both acotar and throne of glass, maybe a little crescent city spoilers but who cares? hehheheh

Main Masterlist

Worlds Apart Masterlist

Too much blood, so much that the metallic scent was making Nesta’s head spin. She watched the eerily silent baby in Morrigan’s arms, Rhysand’s pale face as he grasped his mate’s body. The silent plea in those violet eyes for someone to do something, anything to bring them back to him. 

All the wasted chances of apologising for years of abandonment, for letting her fourteen year old sister wander scared and alone in those cold woods, for letting her be taken to this world the first time, for allowing her back and for all the resentment Nesta felt towards herself crossed her mind. She never told Feyre how proud she was for everything she had become. A warrior, a High Lady, a mother. 

With a last glance towards the nephew she wanted to hold, the one she wanted to tell stories, the one she wanted to see grow and become a great leader just like his parents. The baby who had so much to live for, the baby who just needed a chance of a better life. 

It was for them and for them only that Nesta invoked that ancient power, prickling against her fingertips as she held the harp, the other two troves cold against her face and heavy against her head. And it was for them that she used them, no fear consuming her body, just the wish of saving her sister. And with that, Nesta stopped the time. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

The universe felt as that wave of power crashed against the horn, and the other three troves sang in answer to that powerful call. A profane melody resonating throughout the stars, enveloping different worlds with its song. The females didn’t know what they had done, two strangers using the four items in unison, their power echoing, ripping the folds of space and time open.  

The gaps started to form, growing in places long forgotten, lands no one has ever heard about, all of them connected by the troves. Alluring and calling like a siren song, the most curious beings crossed it, falling in between the worlds, just small glimpses of the vastitude of the universe they never dared to study about. 

And it was through one of these gaps, staining the night sky of the Witch Kingdom in a bright light, that Y/N Blackbeak and Meraxes, her black wyvern fell. The winds roared, like an agonising screech trying to stop her, like they knew something she didn’t. Like they knew she would never return home. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

When she woke up that morning, rubbing her eyes and jumping out of the bed to start her day, she had no idea what was about to happen. After the war and all the centuries of damage in their home, the witches, both Ironteeth and Crochans working together, had a lot to do.

Everyday she would force her body out of the bed, keep going on autopilot ever since everything she loved was ripped away from her. She tried hard to keep going, like Asterin would’ve wanted her to, be there for Manon, like Asterin would. But Asterin wasn’t there anymore, she would never return with that grin of hers, never see the progress they made and the union of her people. Asterin was gone and she was left behind to try to mend her broken heart. 

She blinked the tears away, resting her forehead against the cold tiles of her bathroom, the hot water making the skin of her back turn red. The burning sensation grounding her when the memories flooded her mind like a river. The sadness in her heart was an unwanted guest.

 Asterin flew by her, a smirk on her face as her yellow eyes landed on her younger sister, Y/N atop Meraxes felt, deep within the heart that she didn’t even know she had. She looked in horror as the Thirteen aimed for the witch tower, their wyverns clearing the way for Asterin, she jumped from Narene, landing in the middle of the tower. 

Y/N couldn’t see, but she tried to reach for her sister, reach for the only person that ever loved her, reach for that sisterly bond that lied within her soul ever since Asterin chose to keep Y/N under her wing, to train her and teach her what her duty was. Asterin, who despite everything they have been taught, chose to love Y/N like she was family. 

Meraxes was tired, tired of fighting and flying, but she forced him to go to the Tower, to save Asterin. But she was too slow and too late, the light coming from the tower wasn’t dark, it was the purest shade of white, so bright that her vision got blurry, the impact sending her and the wyvern flying backwards, with such force that they hit the ground with a loud thud. Where the tower and the Thirteen once were, nothing stood. 

Y/N wiped the blue blood that streamed above her eyes, a loud roar forming in the back of her throat, rumbling through her bones, she threw her head up, her lips parting as she roared to the skies, Meraxes roaring with her. Crying it was a weakness,  witches didn’t cry, but Y/N braced herself, ignoring her arm bending in a wrong angle, the pain in her sliced face, thanks to a Yellowlegs that jumped on her and tried to slash her face open. 

And she cried, cried and cried on that battlefield, cried as she got back on her feet, cried as she ripped a part of her riding leathers, wrapping her broken arm tightly against her body, branding her sword and marching towards the battle again. She would be strong, Asterin wouldn’t want her to give up. She would fight to protect what Asterin believed. She would fight for a better world, and die for it if she had to. 

She fought until exhaustion, her body collapsing on the dirty ground. Claws caged her, lifting her from the ground, she gritted her teeth as pure agony flashed from her arm, her face was completely numb at this point and she fought to keep her eyes open. She blacked out when Meraxes reached the walls that kept Orynth intact, his claws letting her go, her body hitting the floor and rolling to the side.

Hafiza found her, ordering that other healers carry her bruised body inside. But her wounds were deeper than the ones marking her skin.

She allowed her tears to fall, mixing with the water, where no one could see her. An hour later she was wearing her riding gear, the red cloak hanging from her neck, part of the official uniform they had to use, to symbolise the union. 

The witches watched her as she walked towards the Queen’s council room, as her wingleader and responsible for the remaining wyverns, she was always present in the morning meetings. As everything the Valg made was destroyed after Erawan died, they wondered how the wyverns belonging to the witches that decided to fight for Aelin Galathynius still remained, concluding that they were tied to this land by the bonds shared between them and their riders, not by the Valgs anymore. 

“Good Morning.” Manon Blackbeak greeted, her commanders just nodded their heads in greetens to their queen. “How are the wyverns in the Ferian Gap?” The heads of the witches present turned to her, she held her head high at the sight of the eyes lingering in her scar. 

“They’re being trained, I shall fly there today to see their progress, but I'm sure that soon they will be big enough to bond witches.” The queen nodded, her red lips smiling warmly at her, Manon was trying hard to be the best version of herself, the one her Thirteen believed she was before they sacrificed themselves for her. 

“I’ll go with you. I want to see them too.” And Y/N wondered if that sudden interest of going too wasn’t because it was weeks since she saw a certain handsome King in Adarlan. 

“Yes, my queen.” She dipped her chin in a silent bow of her head. Turning her mind off as the meeting kept going. Playing with her claws, scraping slowly the surface of the table, watching as faint lines marked into the wood. The morning meetings were boring as fuck. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

“Good boy.” She scratched the wyvern’s chin, the animal shaking its tail like he was just a very big dog. No wonder Meraxes and Abraxos were really good friends, they were two gigantic puppies, with mortal claws and teeth, just like her. 

“You want to place a bet that these two will wait for us in a flower field?” Manon asked, the two females walked towards the entry of Ferian a few hours later. Y/N laughed, the skin of her scar pulling a bit as she did so.

“It’s not even something debatable anymore, those flowers sniffling addicts.” Manon smiled.

“You remind me of her.” The white haired witch blurted and Y/N came to a stop. 

“We do not even look alike.” She tried to joke, with shoulder length light brown hair, dark blue eyes and the slightly more tanned skin, she couldn’t be any more different from Asterin, but she knew what Manon meant and she didn’t wanted to think about it, even if the witch just felt the need to speak it outloud. 

“You could be twins.” She joked, but her expression turned to a serious one very quickly. “You have the heart just as good as hers was, and that’s where you two are equals to me.” She didn’t answer, the tears too heavy to carry. Manon didn’t demand a response when Y/N stopped, leaving the younger witch alone for a bit. 

The Ferian Gap was as it usually was, damp and smelling like wyvern shit. The animals roared and flew around in the pit. Witches trained them and fed them. Not a single one chained, all of them free to go but they chose to stay. The younglings were still learning how to fly while the elders tried to teach them how, it was honestly really cute. She was leaning against a wall, Manon’s words still replaying themselves in her head, when a different scent filled her nostrils. 

“Aelin’s delivery boy, what a pleasure to see you again.” She spoke, not even turning back to know that Fenrys Moonbeam was walking behind her, he let out a low chuckle. 

“And here I was thinking I was an ambassador.” He stopped by her side. Eying the witch up and down, recognizing the grief lacing her features. 

“Just a fancy name, I like to call it what it really is, delivery boy.” She snickered and Fenrys rolled his eyes. 

“I hate you.” He nudged her with his elbow, his braid moving behind his back as he did it. 

“Yeah yeah, mean witch and shit, I know that.” The male chuckled and she turned face to face with him. “What do you need?” After the war, she and Fenrys had grown really close, working together as Ambassadors for both of their queens. Wingleader her ass, Manon used her to gather resources and talk to important people. 

“Actually, Aelin sent me here cuz she apparently has a very important meeting with the ladies of her court.” She knew what this meant, it was Aelin’s way to gather her friends and make sure they were alive. 

“Am I invited this time?” She joked. 

“Unfortunately no, but can I invite you for some beers?” He was the closest friend she had now.

“I would love to. Are you free to have one in the Witch Kingdom?” The male nodded.

“Just need to do my job real quick.”

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Fenrys held her waist, she could feel his shaking body against her back, caging her between him and the saddle. She smirked as she turned slightly to him.

“Can’t I go by foot?” He asked and she giggled.

“Too far away. You’re stuck with us, Meraxes will behave.” She promised and Fenrys nodded. She could feel his tense body during the three hour flight, the male squeezed his eyes shut, if that’s what Rowan had to deal with in his animal form, he was glad to be stuck as a wolf. Being that far away from the ground was a big no for him.

The wyvern landed, and Fenrys more than happily slid down his leg, grounding himself and thanking the Gods he was still alive. 

“Are you alright?” She sounded genuinely concerned, but when he turned to her, he saw that smirk. “A certain Lord of Perranth would love to know about this.” Fenrys pretended to be hurt.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He started to follow her towards the tavern.

“Someone has to help that poor dude, with you and your queen constantly mocking him.” Fenrys held the door open for her, following her to a more secluded table. 

“He deserves it.” He defended himself. “The usual?” The witch nodded, and he went to the counter ordering their drinks. 

“How are you?” She asked, and Fenrys watched as a trickle of blood ran down her chin. 

“I’m better, really.” He sighed. “How are you?”

“I’ve seen better days.” She joked, downing the goblet of blood in one go. “But I will be fine.” And for her sake, Fenrys hoped that she was right.

“I don’t know how you do that.” He changed the subject and the witch raised an eyebrow, the scar going up too with the move. “The blood, I mean.” He scrunched his nose. 

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” She raised the goblet in his direction but he knew she was asking for another round. 

The two sat there, for hours, talking. The sky was pitch black and the stars shone bright in the sky. He was telling a story about some drunk fae wanting to pet him when a witch burst through the door. Her cheeks were red and her cloak followed her like a river of blood. 

“Bronwen needs you and your alliance to check something up, it’s important.” She stated, when Manon was away, it was her cousin that took care of things for her alongside Petrah Blueblood. Y/N turned to Fenrys, opening her mouth to apologise.

“Go do your duty, delivery girl.” He joked and she flipped him off, following the witch outside and whistling loudly to call Meraxes. 

She was in the air before the witch had the chance to get on top of her broom. Flying towards the castle, where her alliance waited for her. She slid down, her feet hitting the ground with a loud thud. She glanced at Shearah, her second in command.

“What’s wrong?” She demanded, the witch locked eyes with her.

“The witches saw a gap to the west, they don’t know what it is, but we can hear its call.” Y/N focused her hearing, like a faint whisper being carried by the wind, she could hear, calling, lulling, inviting them to see what was waiting for them on the other side. 

“Let’s go.” She adjusted her sword behind her back, hidden by the cloak, and the dagger resting against her thigh. Mounting Meraxes again, she was running towards the gap, following the melody.

 ⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

The gap wasn’t that big, just a few inches, a slit like a snake eye looking at her, daylight peeked through it, interrupting the darkness in the sky. She had never seen something like this before. A chill ran down her spine. 

“Stay behind!” She warned, the alliance forming a wall behind her. 

She got closer, the thing looked like it was getting smaller by the second, she clicked her jaw, iron teeth covering her real ones, and her claws emerged from the tips of her fingers. Ready to attack in case something dared to cross. Just a closer look

The wind stopped its song, she couldn’t hear it anymore. The terrified faces of her alliance were the last thing she saw before she was sucked into the gap, watching with horror the night sky fading as it closed. She felt like she was falling, clutching the reins in the saddle with an iron grip. Her voice lost in the folds of space as she screamed. Falling, falling and falling. 

Until everything stopped, and she was dangling upside down, the parts of the saddle that held her in place caging her in, forcing against her skin, bruising the flash. Meraxes had fallen to the side, and she groaned as her head started to pound. She was struggling to get out of the saddle, but as she did, her body hit the floor. Pain started to appear from the point she had fallen on top of a rock and she huffed in annoyance.

She circled Meraxes, slapping its leathery nose, the wyvern was still breathing and she released the air she was holding, he opened its eyes, golden eyes meeting hers and she was never more thankful to see those big eyes curiously scanning her. 

The wyvern slowly got up, pulling her closer with a wing. She looked around, removing the pellicule that covered her eyes as she flew, a city was standing nearby, mountains surrounding it, the sight was quite beautiful but all she could wonder was. Where the FUCK she was? 

Things got even more confused when she heard the sound of steps against the fluff grass. Meraxes growled at the strangers approaching her. Stones shone in the two of them, one red and one blue. 

“What the fuck?” The male with the red stones yelled, his sword looking like a foolish attempt to protect himself from the really long teeth and sharp claws of the beast in front of him. She reached for her sword, armed and ready to attack. She was about to jump on them when they got closer and she could see their faces now.

The air was knocked out of her lungs and she wondered if she had gone insane, the achingly familiar face looked at her, the male was tall, beautiful big wings spread across his back, his hazel eyes studied her, trying to distinguish where to attack the threat. She felt like she knew him, her heart exclaiming that yes, she did know him, but her brain didn’t remember him, it wasn’t ready to remember him just yet. She shook her head and fixed her instance, the two stopped at the sight of her teeth glowing in the sun, ready to rip their skin apart.

“Where am I?” The female snarled and the beast behind her furiously stared at them, ready to rip them to shreds.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Taglist: @fieldofdaisiies @blackgirlmagicforever @a-frog-with-a-laptop @going-through-shit @asweetblueberry2

@roses-r-red54330 @mis-lil-red @sheblogs @hibye02 @impossibelle

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[qwimblenorrisstan]

Night-Terrors | Aedion x Reader

Summary: After the war is over, Aedion is still tormented by nightmares, leaving you to soothe him.

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: Mentions of death, yknow bc war, nightmares, but it ends good

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing for tog, so be patient with me, but I hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

Aedion Ashryver believed he deserved this.

Aelin had used the three keys to forge the gate, to lock the Gods and Erawan away, but she’d given her life for nothing. Erawan remained, and the Gods had betrayed them.

The battle at Morath raged. Gavriel was dead, Fenrys and Lorcan well on the way. Their army was depleted, and the scent of death and suffering surrounded them. The Ironteeth had slaughtered all the Crochans and Manon’s Thirteen. The Myceniens were gone. Whatever remained of the ruhkins beyond their rotting corpses that had fallen to the ground days ago, Aedion didn’t know.

The wild people of the Wolf Tribe hadn’t come, and Dorian had probably been slaughtered by now. Where the older Lords had gone, he didn’t know either.

The battle went on until the Witch Towers were up, and with the amplified blast of the Yeilding, their entire army was ashes. Maeve and Erawan smiled at him, pure wickedness in their faces.

It was over. They lost.

Maeve slipped into his mind, and he was too weak to stop those icy talons from digging in. She gave him one last vision before the Wyrdstone collar clamped around his neck.

A world with no fire or flame, not a whisper of Aelin’s power, a world with no magic, only possessed by the tyrants of the world.

No light.

Valg infested the streets, spreading their stain of darkness until that was all Erilea was. Aedion couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. There was nothing and no one there for him, not even you, inside that broken realm.

Because he had failed.

Any last inch of spirit he had was when he tried to struggle against it, against them, but too soon did he hear a resounding click of stone against stone, and the coldness of it around his throat.

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

You were half-asleep when you first heard his mumbling.

Sitting up and rubbing your eyes, your hair tousled by sleep, you saw Aedion writhing and struggling in his sleep. It wasn’t a sight that surprised you, not anymore.

The nightmares were a common occurrence for both you and Aedion, more so for him, and you’d slowly learned how to comfort him and help him through them, but never did he thrash this badly. And then he stopped, and you wondered if it was over.

You laid a gentle hand on his upper arm.

“Aedion?”

You whispered, and right after that, he jolted up. Before you could even move an inch, you were pinned forcefully against the bed, a hand around your throat and squeezing. He had a wild look in his eye, panic and fear flooded his scent.

“Stop—Aedion-“

You choked out, hands held down by him. You couldn’t move an inch, not beneath all his weight and pure muscle, especially with the hold he had you in. Muscle memory, most likely. Instinct too.

Right when your vision started getting splotchy, he must’ve realized what he was doing, because the pressure was immediately gone and he flipped onto his back beside you, sitting up, staring in horror. His chest was heaving as he panted for breath, silver lining his eyes.

“Oh gods, you’re-..you aren’t hurt, are you?”

He asked, his hands twitching as they went to go check you for any injury, before hesitating, knowing you might not want to be touched after what he’d done. You sat up, shakily taking in a breath, hands brushing over your throat before you took his in your own. They dwarfed yours, unsurprisingly.

“I’m fine, okay? Just..what happened?”

His eyes still shone with guilt, but he seemed more reassured by your hands in his. With a deep sigh, he squeezed your hands once. A few moments of silence passed, before he spoke, tears building.

“I don’t know, it was just a nightmare, but Aelin was gone, and we lost, and they put a collar around..”

His voice trailed off, and then the tears fell, and he was sniffling, his hands separating from yours to wipe them away. Your heart broke at the sight of your mate, terrorized by nightmares and tormented by them.

You scooted closer to him, arms sliding around his waist carefully, tentatively, until he leaned into you, folding into your arms and sobbing into your shoulder. Your hand soothingly ran circles on his back as he babbled nonsense against your skin.

Eventually, sobs turned to sniffles, and he shifted to lie down with you, pulling some of the warm blanket over you as his golden hair spilled onto the pillow. You moved your hands to stroke his hair, lightly scratching his scalp in a way you knew he loved. He opened his eyes again, peering up at you.

“You’re sure that you’re alright?”

He questioned quietly, concerned and guilty still. You nodded.

“Are you sure that you’re okay?”

You questioned right back, and he sighed, nodding. His arms wrapped tightly around you, as if he needed you to ground him back down to reality, so he couldn’t get lost in nightmares or dreams. His head buried right into the nook of your shoulder as he took a deep inhale of your scent, and relaxed further after that.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You drowsily asked, and he shook his head.

“In the morning.”

He mumbled, and you gave a little hum of acknowledgment. Both of you had a habit of putting things off till morning, the discussion of his nightmare only being another one of them as you both began drifting off to sleep.

It was safe to say that Aedion Ashryver slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

[danikamariewrites]

hi love!! hope you're ok and everything is fine 🫶🏻. i have a request;

Manon x reader (fluff to smut), where reader is fae (her animal form is anything you want ) , before the magic left they were already girlfriends , and just when the magic is gone she gets stuck in her animal form (reader).

Manon decides to take care of her in her animal form until the day the magic returns. when Manon returns with Asterin from helping Aelin in the Adarlan, she finds her in her fae form.

i think the idea of Manon taking care of her girlfriend who is stuck in her animal form, unable of talking or anything it's just so cute 😭😭

pd: take care, drink water, sleep well and be happy 💗 no pressure 🫶🏻💗

Back With You (SMUT)

Manon x reader

A/n: I love this idea! You always have the best requests and I love writing them 🧡 I hope you’re doing well too, love u! I also hope you don’t mind but I put this after the 13 rescued Elide.

Warnings: some anxiety and smut

You didn’t know magic would disappear that day. Had you known you would’ve shifted back into your Fae form while out with Manon. You were trotting along next to her feet in your black cat form, weaving between her legs and occasionally batting at her long red cloak with your paw.

The two of you were walking back to your cabin in the woods when it happened.It was your secret home, she discovered it abandoned on one of her Crochan hunts and thought it was perfect for you two. You had started moving things from Backbeak Keep to the little cabin for longer stays. The Keep made you uncomfortable, mainly due to Manon’s grandmothers dislike of the Fae.

Manon instantly felt the change. She gripped at her chest, her breathing labored as she leaned against a thick tree trunk. And then you felt it. Your connection to the magic in your blood that has been present for over a century was dimming. You felt weaker, like you didn’t have any strength left. You tried to shift but nothing was happening. The usual flash of white light wouldn’t burst from you. You didn’t get taller no matter how hard you pushed you paws into the ground, willing them to change back into your hands and feet.

You were stuck. You started to panic. Would Manon leave you? Would she help you? Gods, how would you survive this? Manon saw you pacing in circles while thoughts raced through your brain. “I’ll take care of you. I promise, y/n.”

Manon never broke her promise. There were good days and bad days. Then the really rough days. But with magic gone and the witches spread out it meant Manon had more time to spend with you at the cabin. There were days where you snuggled up on the couch together and she’d scratch behind your ears, reminding you of when she’d run her fingers through your hair.

But there were days where you two weren’t clicking and she couldn’t understand what you needed or wanted. And Manon being Manon she would get frustrated. Not with you, never with you. More herself. She felt like she failed you or disappointed you. It made you feel guilty when she got so upset. You felt like it was your fault you were stuck as a stupid cat. What was worse was that you couldn’t say anything. That’s what made you angry. Your voice was gone and you didn’t know when you’d have it back.

Manon was always there. It felt like nothing had truly changed between you. She got better at reading your emotions. She’d hold you when you were upset and always made sure to kiss your head. Never once did she break her promise.

She even pampered you. Giving you proper baths, letting you eat at the table and giving you eat real meals. Her grandmother sneered at Manon for that, always making rude comments like, “She chose to get stuck that way. If she wants to be a pet so bad start treating her like one.”

Even when the witch clans were called to the Gap to train as the Kings new addition of his arm. And even when they we’re moved to Morath. Manon took you with her. While she didn’t want you to get lost around Morath she still wanted you to have freedom.

You loved wandering with her or sitting on her shoulder while exploring the castle. You also liked that no one but Manon and the Thirteen paid attention to you. The last thing you wanted were the guards chasing you around or harassing you.

Manon even took you flying on Abraxos. She had the black smiths make a special harness for you that could attach to the saddle and her. When you first met Abraxos you had wandered down to the stables in the Gap, following the scent of them.

You jumped over the large gate and into the stall, keeping close to the door in case the beast decided you were food instead of a friend. You paced back and forth as Abraxos bared his teeth at you. Sniffing you he could smell Manon. He leaned his head toward you still sniffing. You rested your head against his snout and he purred. In that moment you knew Manon made the right choice in trusting him.

Over the months you had over heard Manon voicing her concerns about Erawan. How she didn’t trust the darkness in Morath. So you set out to spying. You overheard some things that would help Manon’s suspicions and had to find a way to tell her. You learned to write by dragging your paw on paper with ink. The letters looked awful and it took forever but it got your point across.

Before magic came back Manon brought you back to the cabin in the dead of night. Before Manon went back to Morath she held you, placing you on the bed and held your face. “I will be back y/n, I promise. Just please stay here.” You gave her a nod and she left, looking back at you before closing and locking the door.

Two days passed of you just lounging around the cabin. On the third day you felt it. The magic that left you over a decade ago rushing back to your body. You felt more alert and strong. Your Fae senses kicked back in. You felt like you could hear every creature, big and small, throughout Oakwald. All the different smells, the lingering darkness of Morath and Manon strongest in your little home.

With all your strength you pushed your magic to change you back into your Fae form. It took awhile for you to find that familiar feeling and then that beautiful white light that came with shifting flashed, blinding you for a moment.

You felt taller. You prayed to the gods this wasn’t just your mind tricking you. You slowly opened your eyes and looked down. Your hands were raised in front of you. You wiggled your fingers and looked lower. Your body was back!

A cry sounded from your mouth. You bolted to the bathroom stumbling a little, getting used to being on two legs again. You took in your reflection, touching and pulling at the skin on your face. You looked the same but different. A little older. “Wow.” You whispered. Your voice! You laughed. Gods it’s been so long since you laughed.

You took in the rest of your reflection backing up so you could see the rest of your body. You were still in the dress you were wearing over a decade ago. Your hair was a little gross and you could definitely use a bath. Not just to be clean for yourself but you didn’t want Manon to see you this dirty when she came home.

That night you took two baths. It was just so nice to sit and enjoy the warm water on your skin. To use real shampoo and soap and make yourself smell nice. You took a long time on your hair which was at your butt now.

When you got out you put on your fluffy robe which you missed dearly. You took your time brushing and braiding your hair. Now that it was long you could do all the intricate braids you did on Manon. You did trim it a bit with scissors from the kitchen.

———

Manon and the Thirteen had finally returned to Morath after dropping Elide at the edge of Oakwald Forest. She was anxious. She didn’t want to be back here, she wanted to get to you. When magic returned she felt it like a punch to the gut.

She wanted to see you again. Wanted to be with you through the change back. But she knew her presence was needed before she disappeared again. As Wing Leader, Erawan would want to question her. Manon would stay a day at most.

Before the sun could rise above the horizon Manon was on Abraxos flying faster than the wind.

You heard Abraxos’ wings before you saw them. You had been tossing and turning all night, far too excited to sleep. As they landed you stood at the front window and stared. Manon quickly undid the harness and jumped down.

She heard the front door creak open whipping her head to look. There you were. Standing in the doorway dressed in her clothes. Manon sprinted across the yard. You didn’t have a chance to move before she scooped you up into her arms spinning you around.

You cling to her and cried. “Manon.” You cried. At her name she dropped to her knees and cradled your head threading her fingers through your hair. “Gods y/n.” Manon pulled back to look at you with silver lightly lining her eyes. She cupped your face as she took you in. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m-fuck I’m just…are you happy?”

“To not be stuck as a cat? Yes I’m very happy to be myself again.” You laughed through your tears. Manon pressed her face against yours taking in your scent and the feel of your soft skin on hers. “Can I kiss you?” She breathes out. You attach your lips to hers in a heated kiss, wrapping your arms around her neck.

Manon kisses you back, grabbing at you. She picks you up and rushes to the bedroom crashing onto the bed with you. You undo her cloak and start pulling at her tunic. Your need for her growing by the second. She rips her tunic, boots, and pants off and then moved on to yours. Manon had no room for teasing right now. You both needed each other. Taking things slower and exploring each others bodies would come later.

You run your hands down Manon’s back and squeeze her ass. She moans into your neck, nipping at you and squeezes one of your breasts, tweaking your nipple. You let out a high pitched moan. Your body was so sensitive you didn’t think you’d last long.

“Fuck Manon, need you so bad.” She presses a hard kiss against your lips. “I know baby I need you too. I got you.” She runs her fingers through your folds collecting your wetness and rubbing circles on your clit. Her fingers come back down to your entrance and slips two inside you, curling and thrusting them in and out of you against that sensitive spot inside you.

You meet her thrusts and grip her shoulders sinking your nails into her pale skin. Moans stutter from your lips along with her name over and over again. You felt your orgasm build. Manon rubbed her thumb against your clit and gives you a few more thrusts and you come on her fingers.

You slump back on the bed as Manon kisses up your stomach to your neck. “Fuck, how did we go over a decade without each other.” Manon laughed, “Let’s not think about it now.” You hummed in agreement. You wanted more but you were spent.

You tried to sit up to flip Manon on her back but she could tell you were done for now. “Nope.” She grabbed you, gently laying you back down. You whined at her. “No y/n. I can tell you’re tired don’t even try to deny it.” You rolled your eyes and gave her a tired smile. Manon kisses your forehead, “Sleep. I’ll be right here with you.” She whispered.

[throneofsapphics]

forbidden fruit

Manon x f!Reader

Summary: Day 8, “If I see you again, you’re dead.” with Manon

Warnings: mentions of sex, nudity, suggestiveness 

A/N: this isn't very angsty honestly

angst/kinktober masterlist

Manon had uttered the words years and years ago. Long enough she forgot them. You fled upon seeing her, and soon as your eyes met. It triggered some predatory instinct in her, that desire to hunt and chase. So, she took off after you. Enemy? If so, she would find out. The hunt thrilled her, it had been so long since she had the chance to do something like this. 

Manon stalked you through the city streets, you were quick on your feet and switching through them rapidly. Any human would have trouble tracking you like this, maybe most immortals - even with your Fae swiftness and speed. But, her senses were honed over the years. 

When she caught up to you, you were almost at the entrance to an alley. Perfect. 

-

One hand pinned you to the wall, iron nails digging into your throat. There was no recognition in the witch’s eyes, and maybe that was a good thing. You had changed some over the years, growing into your features as an immortal. You knew running was a bad idea, it would trigger some kind of instinct in her, but your instincts took over, screaming danger. 

“Why did you run?” Her nails dug in further with each word. 

“You don’t remember?” You raised one brow. She blinked once and tilted her head, as if she was studying you from a different angle. A hint of curiosity flickered through her vision. Was it good or bad she didn’t remember you? Your ego took a small hit, but if she doesn’t remember you - she can’t break her promise. Then again, you did just give yourself away. 

Why the hell had you fallen in bed with a witch? Maybe it was some desire to live life on the edge, to court with danger. You had expected to die at the end of it, based on the hungry look on your face. She seemed to be debating killing you as well. When you disentangled yourself from her, heading right for the bathing room, clothes clutched in one hand, she chuckled at your naked form. You turned to face her. Normally people don’t laugh after seeing you naked. 

“I’ll let you live.” Her words were laced with amusement. “If I see you again, you’re dead.” You took one moment to study her body, the scar flecked pale skin, muscled thighs, firm breasts that felt incredible under your fingers, the moon-white hair and gold-burnt eyes. 

“Understood,” you said, your voice tight. You locked the bathroom door behind you, changing as quickly as possible and leaving through the window. You wouldn’t give her a chance to change her mind. 

The witch removed her hand with an edged chuckle, iron nails snapping back in. The same laugh as before. “I’ll break that promise.” She took a step back. You had heard she’s the Crochan Queen now, reuniting her people. You’d returned to fight in Orynth, and left as soon as possible, taking every effort to avoid any witches. 

The way she studied you made you feel just like that night, when she’d approached you. 

“I didn’t think Witches were known for their mercy.” Why the hell did you say that? Playing with danger. Again. The only reasonable answer is you lost your mind. “Do you want me to kill you?” 

For Gods sake, it was an honest question. She actually met it. 

“No, I don’t.” You said carefully and studied her every movement. Every inch the warrior and Queen. Terrifying and beautiful at the same time, like a forbidden fruit. That’s exactly what had drawn you in last time. Later on, you learned exactly who she is and couldn’t decide if you were horrified or proud of what you’d done. 

“Maybe I’ll need a bribe.” You swallowed harshly as she took a step towards you again. “I remember how sweet you were, how sweet your fear tasted.” Gods, you already putty in her hands - just with those words. If she wants a bribe, you’ll give her one. Maybe something in you is broken, if you like chasing danger this much, if you let your sense of self preservation droop this low. But, she was so gods-damned beautiful, every inch of her designed to ensnare people, to draw them into her web. And like any other fool, you fell for it. Again. 

You traced your finger across her jawline. “What kind of bribe?”

[zoyaofthegardvn]

The Queen's Maidservant

Manon Blackbeak x reader

CW: Smut! 18+ pleaseee

In which Manon requests for you, a maidservant, to assist her during a bath :)

You stand hesitant outside of your Queen's bathing chamber, head lowered, hand ready to knock. Asterin, the Second in Command to the Witch Queen, had fetched you from where you had been working in the kitchens. The girls you had been working with, laughing with, all giggled and mocked you with cries of "Ooooo's" when they'd heard that the Queen had specifically requested that you be at her service this evening.

They guessed that you were in some sort of trouble. The Queen rarely calls on servants and maids, being too independent, too private to desire any assistance. Instead, you and most of the servants were free to roam the castle, the lands, as you pleased, so long as some work got done.

When Manon Blackbeak had been crowned the Witch Queen, everyone had been nervous, at first. But she'd made the Witchlands a place to thrive, and be happy. That didn't mean that Manon was any less terrifying, though.

You had swatted at your girl friends with a wet rag, giving them a stern look for antagonizing you in front of the Second in Command, who you surely thought would deem the lot of you as immature. But Asterin just huffed a laugh, then left, knowing you were going to listen.

As you made your way to the Queen's wing of the castle, you racked your brain, wondering what you possibly could have done wrong. You had served the Queen before, many times, actually, more than anyone else. Bringing her food, mending the saddle she used for her mount, Abraxos. Sometimes, the Queen would send you to deliver a letter to another part of the castle. Or, she'd send you to find a book for her in the library. Once, she even had you choose what poor, unlucky man was going to be her meal for the evening.

She wasn't unkind to you. Impatient, curt, bossy, yes. But never unkind. You had certainly done more tasks for her than any of the other maidservants. You wondered if you had somehow, unknowingly, broken the sliver of trust the Queen seemed to have in you.

When you arrived at the door to her bedroom, you had knocked softly with a call of "My Queen?" When you didn't receive a response, you had gently pushed open the door that had been cracked open. She wasn't anywhere to be seen, until you noticed the soft light from underneath the door to the bathing room.

Your stomach tightened at that, thinking, surely she does not intend for me to assist her in the bath? There must have been a mistake, perhaps she needed me later this evening and Asterin had misheard.

And so now, here you are, at the door to where you know the Queen awaits you. You struggle with wanting to serve the Queen, and with wanting to respect her privacy. With curiosity about what she wants from you, and fear that you have done something to offend her.

Taking a deep breath in, you finally decide to knock. Just as you pull your hand back, prepared to lower it on the door, you hear a voice call out, "I know you're out there, Y/N. Do come in."

Your heart is hammering now. Of course she knew you had been standing outside the door, she'd probably caught your scent when you were halfway down the hallway.

Clearing your throat, you grasp the doorknob, twisting and pushing in. You briefly spot Manon's head resting on the back edge of her huge, clawfoot tub. Her eyes appeared to be closed, and you could see faint steam radiating from the tub before you dropped your head, lowered your gaze.

"M-My Queen, how may I assist you this evening?" You internally scolded yourself for stammering, not wanting to know how awkward you feel, being in the same room as the bathing Queen.

Manon releases a humming sound, and you can hear the water slosh as she moves around a bit, picking her head up from where she was resting.

"Why so formal, maidservant?" She sounds like she's teasing.

You grow flustered, confused. "I... My Queen... I do not mean any offense, and I do not wish to invade your privacy. I was fetched by your Second, she said you requested my services...?"

Manon gives a short, quick laugh. "I know why you're here."

When you don't respond right away, Manon grows impatient. "Look at me when I speak to you."

Your stomach drops, face growing hot and red. Finally, you lift your head. Manon is staring straight at you. Her white hair is wet, a few strands sticking to her face and neck. You can see her collarbones, glistening from the steam. But thankfully, the rest of her body is obscured not only by the side of the tub, by what you can tell is... bubbles. You hadn't expected to find the Witch Queen taking a bubble bath, but you suppose it does not matter if she is not going to allow you to leave this room alive.

"My apologies, my Queen. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable." You're sincere when you say this, not knowing what limits the Queen has with her servants.

One of Manon's hands, which is resting on the edge of the tub, begins to extend its claws. They're not at their full length, just slightly pointed. She clicks them against the porcelain, eyes trailing up and down your body.

"I've called you here so that you may assist me with my bath." Her voice is sharp, husky.

You try to resist the urge to screw your face in confusion, but your eyebrows furrow slightly, and you cannot help but say, "Why?"

Manon arches a pale brow, her jaw tightens. Before she can speak, you immediately attempt to counteract the damage you've done. "I-I mean, my Queen, you have not required assistance with a bath before," Manon's face doesn't look any less displeased, and so you continue, "And there isn't anything wrong with assistance, my Queen..." again, Manon just stares. "I just wonder if... you're alright. Or... why you requested that I assist you...?" Your voice trails off at the end, and you bite your lip in anticipation, expecting her to lash out at you for your insolence.

"Do you believe yourself to be in any position to question me?" Manon asks.

You swallow hard, eyes yet again returning to the ground. "No, my Queen. I am so, so sorry. I will assist you in any way you wish."

Manon does not answer for a moment, leading you to lift your head slightly, to see if she's preparing to strike. She hasn't moved from her spot, still staring at where you stand.

Finally, Manon gives one quick nod. "You cannot assist with my bath from over there, can you?"

You shake your head, "No, my Queen," stepping forward a few paces, until you're within arm's length of the tub, you ask, "Where would you like me to begin, my Queen?"

She scoffs, settling back into the tub. "I think you know what a bath entails, and stop saying 'my Queen.' I get so sick of it."

"Y-Yes, my Q-," you stop yourself before you can finish. "I mean, yes of course. My apologies."

You take just a few more steps forward, until you are standing at the edge of the tub, looking down at the Queen. Your cheeks flush red at what you can see of her body, though most is obscured by the bubbles. You can see the tops of her breast, just the very top edge of her pink nipples. Her knees are bent, her soft legs exposed, shining from the water. She's got her head resting back on the tub, a washcloth used as a cushion. Her eyes are closed, and she looks alarmingly relaxed and peaceful. You know that she's a predator, one of the most feared, but you can't help but note how vulnerable she appears.

You lower yourself onto your knees, a bit hesitant to reach out and touch her. You dip a hand into the water, testing the warmth. It is quite hot, warmer than you would make your own bath, but not unbearable.

"Shall I start with your hair...?" You speak so quietly, unwilling to disrupt the calm in the room.

Manon gives a grunt of approval, sitting up and moving forward to allow you access to her moonlit strands.

When she sits up straight, her breasts are nearly entirely exposed. You suck in a sharp breath of air, diverting your eyes elsewhere. Her breasts are full and perky, nipples soft and pretty. They glisten from the wet, stray bubbles clinging on.

After a moment of composing yourself, attempting to tame the fire in your belly, you reach a shaky hand to her long hair sticking to her back. You're sure to keep your eyes on the back of her head, resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder.

Her hair is thick and soft, and when you reach both hands forward to pull it all back from her face, you swear you hear Manon hum in content.

Grabbing the shampoo from a glass jar on a small table nearby, you dump a small amount in the palm of your hand before returning your touch to her hair. You start at her scalp, working the soap into her roots. Using your nails, you give gentle scratches to her head, starting at her temples, working until you're at the base of her neck. She bends her head forward a bit to give better access, and you move the suds down the rest of the length, hands brushing against the skin of her back.

When you're satisfied with the cleanliness, you softly ask, "Will you lean your head back, my Q-," you stop yourself before you can disobey her order, "You will you lean back, so that I can rinse?"

Manon chooses to not address your almost slip up, instead, scooting forward even more, her eyes still closed. She grasps the sides of the tub, then lays backwards until nearly her entire head is submerged. The water line dances around her face, her cheeks a bit flushed from the warmth.

At her actions, though, her entire chest has become exposed. At the sight of her breasts, you feel your stomach tighten, your arousal begin to grow. You have always found the Queen beautiful, have always been attracted to her. You never imagined you'd see this much of her.

You shake your head, fearing you have stared too long, that she'll notice where your gaze has fallen. You cup some of the warm water in your hands, careful to avoid the bubbles, and bring it to the top of her hairline. Once the top of her hair is thoroughly cleaned of shampoo, you run your hands through the hair submerged in the water. Manon's eyes flutter throughout the process, but they do not open.

Finally, when you're satisfied, you pull your hands away, eyes falling to her breasts again briefly before you clear your throat and tell her she can sit up now.

This time, when she moves, she does open her eyes. The water sloshes as she sits up, and she turns to face you.

"Is my naked body distracting you, Y/N?"

You feel stunned, caught and scared. 'I-I.. no, not at all. No, I-I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I ju-"

Manon cuts you off with a roll of her eyes, clicking her tongue. "Relax, maidservant. I'm not going to kill you for seeing something you clearly desire."

Your heart is pounding, eyes are wide. You sound terrified when you ask, "What?"

Manon just smirks at you, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Continue with the bath." She closes her eyes again, turning her head forward.

You feel confused, and nervous. Unsure of what exactly just happened. But of course, you do what the Queen says.

Reaching for the conditioner, you repeat the process you followed with the shampoo. Except this time, you're more conscious of where your eyes fall. When the conditioner is fully worked in, you pick her hair up, resting it on her shoulder so that it may sit, and not wash away in the water.

At this point, most of the bubbles have dissolved. Her body is nearly entirely exposed and you're struggling to not let your thoughts turn lewd, inappropriate.

"Shall we let that sit? I can return in a few moments, to wash it out." You ask her, already rising to your feet.

Manon grips your wrist where your hand rests on the side of the tub, preventing you from standing. "And what of my body? Do you not wash your own while your conditioner sits?" Her jaw is clenched, an eyebrow raised.

"Y-Yes of course, I just thought that you may want to do that part yourself."

She looks properly angry now, and her tone is tense when she speaks. "I called you here to assist with a bath, I thought you were entirely competent. But, perhaps I was wrong..."

Your heart sinks at her words, you feel mortified and desperate to make it right. Terrified that the Queen will see you unfit for duty, that she'll banish you from the castle, from work and your friends, you scramble to say, "No, of course not. My apologies, it won't happen again. We'll wash your body."

Manon gives you a sharp nod, and you know that this is it, you cannot mess up again.

You settle back onto your knees, leaning to grab a washcloth and the lavender scented bar of soap. You wet and lather the rag slowly, putting the soap back on the table before turning back to Manon.

You raise the washcloth to her back, rubbing gently in small circles. You bring the suds up to her shoulders, the back of her neck, before running it downwards. To your surprise, she releases a small groan.

"Are you alright, my Queen?" Your voice is quiet, and shaky.

Manon doesn't acknowledge the title, only saying, "I'm fine. Just sore, you try riding a beast for nearly three days straight."

You smile a bit, knowing how much she adores her Abraxos. "It seems very taxing, I'm sure a hot bath feels nice, then."

Manon just hums, her muscles becoming visibly more relaxed.

You continue with her back, your hand had momentarily paused its movements. When you reach the waterline, though, you still.

Manon can feel where you've stopped, and so she rises to her knees, allowing you to wash the rest of her.

You take a deep breath in, eyes settling on her backside. She's slim and muscular, her ass firm and round. The water drips down her back, running across her cheeks. You want to lean in and lick it from her.

You reel your thoughts back in, attempting to concentrate. You trail the washcloth further down, coating her in lavender smelling suds. When you finish, you get to work on her arms. You start at her shoulders, working down to her hands. Once satisfied, you know that the next step is to wash her front.

You bring a hand up to rest gently on the back of her waist, signaling that you're moving on now. She turns a bit, and you meet her halfway.

It's nearly impossible to not get distracted by her chest, her toned stomach, the hint of abs. But you manage to keep your eyes on her collarbones as you bring the washcloth up, running over her chest. The water and soap drips down, the lavender smell almost too good to resist leaning in.

You work down, working the soap over her chest gently. Her breasts bounce a bit as you clean them, her nipples harden when you trace the washcloth over them. You can't help but wonder how'd they'd feel in your hand.

You imagine how soft they'd feel, how they'd spill over your cupped hands because they're so full and plush. You imagine how beautiful she'd look with red and purple marks coating her pale skin, how she'd look with her chest heaving while you sat on top of her. How'd they look swaying in your face as she rode you.

You push the thoughts from your head, working the cloth down to the underneaths of her breasts, then down her stomach. You swallow hard when you reach her thighs, the water and soap clinging to the patch of white hair at her core. You run the cloth over it quickly, gently.

Finally, you pull away, looking back up at her face. She's staring at you intently, the corners of her mouth threatening to turn into a smile.

"You may sit back now, and bring your legs up if you'd like me to wash them, too." You say to her, knowing the redness of your face is obvious, the cause of it, too.

She sits back down in the tub, leaning against the back to raise one of her legs in the air. You start at her foot, working the cloth in circular motions on the bottom of it, then the top, then her ankle. You run the cloth up her smooth calf, the bottoms of her thigh that isn't under the water. When you finish, you push her leg down gently, signaling that it's time for the other one.

When the entire process is finished, you note that the water has begun to grow cold. "Let's wash your hair out quickly now, I don't want you to have to have a cold bath."

Manon gives a soft "Hmm" in agreement, sitting forward so that you can wash her hair.

You try and work quickly, but her hair is so long and thick. When her hair finally feels void of conditioner and soap, you stand up. Reaching for the drain, you pull it up and allow the water to begin to escape.

You can feel Manon's eyes tracking every move you make, and you work hard to not look at her, knowing your eyes will stray.

"I will grab you a towel, shall I also find you a nightgown to wear, my Queen?"

"The gown won't be necessary." Her voice is husky, and you shiver a bit at the thought that Manon prefers to sleep naked.

You nod politely, and scurry off to the chest of drawers in the bathroom. While finding a large towel, you hear what's left of the water splash as Manon steps out of the tub.

As you settle on one soft to give her, you recognize the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. Her bare feet are padding the hard ground softly, audibly dripping wet.

You finally turn to face her, towel clutched in your hands. She's looking directly in your eyes and it's difficult not to flinch under her gaze.

She nods to the towel in your arms, "Well, are you going to dry me?"

You swallow the lump in your throat, nodding your head rapidly. There isn't much distance between the two of you now, but you take the rest of the steps required to close it.

Shaking hands reach out, placing the towel on top of one of her shoulders. She watches you closely, and you keep your eyes trained on her body as you move the towel down, collecting the water droplets. You do the same to the other arm, then you bring the towel to her chest.

As you rub the towel into her skin, you can't stop the desire in your gut from forming as you feel her breasts through the towel. Working your way down, your mouth almost waters at the sight of her cunt and her strong thighs.

You're breathing hard by the time you step around her, drying her back and her ass, too. Her hair is heavy and wet, and when you're done, you wrap the towel around her hair and squeeze, ridding it of the access moisture weighing it down.

When done, you take a step back, admiring her backside for one more second before you bring your eyes back up. "All done, would you like me to clean up the bathroom before I take my leave?" She had dripped a fair amount of water onto the ground as she had approached you.

Manon turns to face you and furrows her brows in confusion. "Leave? Why would you leave? I am still wet, maidservant."

Now, it's your turn to look confused. "I'm sorry, my Queen, but I'm not sure what you mean..."

Manon steps impossibly closer, the two of you nearly chest to chest. She's a head taller than you, so you crane your neck to look up at her. The towel drops from your hands at the sudden proximity, and you wonder if you've done something to really upset her.

Manon moves faster than lightning, her hand darting out to grasp your wrist. You gasp at the suddenness, wondering what she plans to do.

Her grip is tight as she pulls your hand closer to her body, lowering it until your fingers are brushing through the white hair on her cunt, until they're making contact with her wet heat.

"I said, 'I'm still wet, maidservant.' What are you going to do about it?"

Your heart is hammering, wetness immediately beginning to gather between your thighs. Your chest is heaving from where you're breathing heavily, and your hands are trembling. "M-My Queen, I'm so confu-"

Before you can finish your sentence, Manon is surging forward and kissing you passionately. You don't move for a second, too shocked to react. But she's pushing you back until you hit the wall, never releasing your lips from her own.

After a moment, you let your desire take over. Though still muddled with confusion, you close your eyes and give in to the kiss.

It's hot and feverish, desperate and uncontrolled. She's released your hand so that her own can grip your face, and she's pressing her body into yours.

Her tongue begins working at the seams of your lips, and you open them so that your tongue can dance with hers.

She pulls back for a second, letting both of you catch your breath. "Are you still confused?"

"Yes, entirely," Manon laughs at your statement, at the fierce red blush of your cheeks and the confusion in your eyes, "Are you sure that you want... this? To do this with me?"

Manon smirks before speaking, her eyes flitting down to your lips before looking back up at you. "I've found you attractive for a long time, and I see you stealing glances at me when you think I don't notice. Why should we not?"

Your mouth gapes open in shock, unable to form a sentence, you just stutter and make a fool of yourself. The Witch Queen desires... me?

Manon doesn't need a response, though. She knows that you want this.

Her lips attach to yours once again, and she bites on your lip before making her way down. Her lips trail across your jaw, to just underneath your ear, where she takes your earlobe in between her teeth, giving it a gentle tug.

You can't help the moan that escapes you, your hands coming up to grip her upper arms. She continues her descent, sucking harsh marks onto your throat and collarbones.

She peers up at where you've tossed your head back on the wall, where you've let your eyes flutter shut. She grins when they dart open at the feel of her pulling away.

She takes a few steps back, and you let your eyes roam over her naked body in earnest now.

"Beautiful," is what you whisper under your breath at the sight.

"Go into the bedroom, stand at the end of the bed." Manon's orders are direct and leave no room for argument. Not that you would, anyway.

You nod your head, then turn to open the bathroom door, pushing it open and entering the bedroom. You cross the room to stand at the foot of the bed as she instructed, turning to face where she now stands in the doorway.

Her eyes rake over your clothed body, and you grow a bit insecure. Your hair is a bit damp with sweat from the heat of the bathwater, and your plain dress is stained from working in the kitchens.

Manon doesn't seem to mind, though, as she begins walking closer.

You watch how her thighs move with every step she takes, how you can see wetness on the insides of them. You watch her abs flex, her tits bounce, and her face turn wicked.

Then, you spot how she extends her iron claws on her right hand. You swallow hard, eyes zeroing in on the sudden appearance of her natural weapons.

When she's finally close enough to touch you, she brings her hand up, trailing a claw from just underneath your eye, down your throat, and to your collarbone.

She doesn't really use it, though, until she's at the top of your dress.

Quicker than you can blink, she's slashing your dress down the middle. You gasp as it falls to the floor, body instantly struck with the cool air. You bring your arms up, attempting to cover your now bare chest.

Manon will have none of this, though. "I think it's only fair that you're undressed too, no?"

You shiver from the exposure and just stare at her, not responding.

"I asked you a question, maidservant. Do you think it's fair for me to be naked, and for you to not?" She takes another step forward, not breaking eye contact.

Finally, you stutter, "N-No, I-I suppose not."

Manon smirks, it's all malice and no warmth. "Good. Now, drop your arms."

You hesitate for a split second, but you cannot deny that you want her to see you. You want many, many things from the Witch Queen.

You do as she says, bringing your arms back down to your sides.

Instantly, Manon's eyes drag to your chest.

You try not to be insecure. They're large, and gravity has not been kind to them. They're covered in stretch marks, and you cannot help but think of all the teasing you endured growing up, as you filled out your body, growing thick and full.

You wonder if Manon minds, the angry red marks. The fact that your stomach is not flat, that your thighs are dimpled and touching one another.

As if sensing your negative thoughts, Manon places her iron claw, which she's shortened, underneath your chin. She tilts your face up, forcing you to look at her.

"I've wanted to fuck you for a long time, Y/N. Tell me, do you want to fuck me, too?"

You swallow, hard. Your heart is pounding, skin flushed with desire.

"Y-yes, my Q-," you stop yourself, remembering how she dislikes the title. "Yes, Manon."

Her grip tightens on your chin, her eyes narrow. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want to fuck you, Manon." Your voice is a near whisper, laced with lust. Your eyes flick downwards, to her lips. Lips you very much want to kiss again.

And so, you do. Leaning forward, Manon drops your chin as your lips meet, instead choosing to wrap her arms around your bare frame. Your plush body meets her toned one, and it feels like a fire's been lit in your belly at the feel of her nakedness against your own.

Manon's hands wander down your body, claws shredding your flimsy underwear, the last item on your body. Her hands knead your full ass, and you moan into her mouth at the touch. She takes the opportunity to push her tongue into your mouth, taking your make out further for a few moments, before she's pushing you down onto the bed.

You hit the mattress with a small huff, and Manon pulls away from your lips to trail kisses downwards. Her lips begin sucking a mark under the curve of your jaw, leaving small red and purple splotches in her wake as she covers the expanse of your throat and collarbones.

She continues, leaving open-mouthed kisses across the top of your chest. Her hands come up, pushing your large breasts into cleavage as she kneads and toys with a nipple. Her mouth occupies the other one, sucking and lightly nibbling with her teeth.

You're writhing on the bed underneath her, quiet pants of her name falling from your lips as you tangle your fingers in her hair. She releases your nipple with a pop, bringing her eyes up to meet your gaze.

"What do you want, kitty?" Her mouth covers your other nipple, removing her hands to give it the same wet attention as the other breast.

Your chest arches into her mouth. "More, please," you moan, aware of how pathetic you sound.

She smiles against your breast, it's devious and it makes your wet heat throb. She pulls away, sitting up and pinching at your nipples with both of her hands, aided by the wetness her mouth has left.

Her eyes take in your body, your swollen lips, red and parted as you pant. Your chest, covered in her marks, full breasts bouncing as your chest heaves. She bites her lip and smirks. "You're fucking hot, Y/N, do you know that?"

You shake your head no, and she growls a bit in disappointment. She shuffles down your body, gripping your thick thighs and pulling them open. She groans at the sight of your cunt, your pubic hair glistening with your arousal. The smell hits her, and her mouth waters with the need to taste you.

One of her hands travels the large expanse of your stomach, squeezing the flesh of your hips and curves. She trails across your bellybutton, and brings her thumb down to the hood of your clit. She places pressure there, but not nearly enough. Nevertheless, you whine at the jolt of pleasure, bucking your hips.

She hisses, her other hand grabbing one of your thighs, digging her nails in just a bit. A warning, for you to stay still.

She spreads your legs even wider, then settles onto her stomach between your thighs. Your eyes go wide at what she's about to do, and she makes sure to make eye contact as she spreads your lips apart with her thumbs, purses her lips, and spits right onto your clit. You gasp at the dirtiness of the action, and Manon grins in wicked delight.

"I'm gonna make this cunt mine, understand?"

You nod your head rapidly, wanting nothing more than to belong wholly to Manon.

Clearly, this displeases her. She lands a smack to your pussy, and you jump at the sting, whining at the pleasurable pain. She glares at you, "I said, do you understand?"

You groan in frustration, "Yes, yes, I understand!"

She hums, finally satisfied. "Good, and don't you dare move too much."

And with that, she's lowering her mouth to your cunt. She licks a few stripes with her tongue, from your sopping wet hole, to your swollen clit, and back again. Her strokes are light and teasing, and they have you biting your lip at the gentleness of it.

Then, she flicks her tongue along your clit, hard, up and down motions. You jerk, and again, she's digging her claws into your thigh. This time, you get the faint sensation she may have drawn blood.

She pulls back, and you look down, just to see her lick her lips and mumble against your lips, "Whose pussy is this?"

She sucks your clit into her mouth, hard, but slow sucks on the bundle of nerves. Your head falls back and your eyes flutter closed, "Yours, Manon, it's yours."

She sucks faster at your response, then brings an unclawed hand up, pushing her middle finger into your entrance. Despite how wet you are, you're still so tight, so she pushes slowly, eventually burying her slender finger into your contracting walls.

She holds still, focusing on working your clit with her mouth, until she slowly starts to gently thrust. Her pace is torturous, and when you finally moan out a cry for more, she begins to thrust faster. Her mouth hasn't left your throbbing clit once, and a coil is winding in the pit of your belly.

She can feel you clenching, hear your moans grow louder and louder. When she adds a second finger, curling in a come-hither motion, your arching off the bed, hands flying to her hair, pushing her deeper into your pussy. You expect her to scold you for it, but she moans against you, alternating between sucking your clit and flicking it.

When you become dangerously close to falling over the edge, you moan Manon's name, "I'm gonna cum, Manon, fuck."

She nods slightly against you, fingers fucking you wildly, mouth sloppily working your clit.

You cum all over her face, tightening around her fingers, chest heaving and a loud cry of her name falling from your lips. You're moaning with reckless abandon, uncaring if someone were to hear how well she's fucking you.

You're coming down from your high, but Manon isn't stopping. She pulls her fingers from your cunt, only to move her mouth down, choosing to fuck you with her tongue, now. You gasp, and try to push her head away due to the oversensitivity. She growls a warning into your heat, swatting your hands away, then using her fingers on your throbbing clit.

Quicker than before, you're on the edge of yet another orgasm. You're panting her name like its a prayer, mumbling, "'S'too much, fuck, Manon."

Manon doesn't care. Her plan was to show you who your pussy belongs to, and she continues to do exactly that.

Between her wet muscle rapidly fucking in and out of you, and her fingers rubbing harsh, tight circles on your clit, it's no surprise you don't last long. For the second time in just a matter of minutes, you're climaxing all over your Queen's face and hand.

This time, she relents, allowing you to come down, slowing her pace, before pulling away from you completely. You sigh in satisfaction, raising your head to look down at her, still laid between your spread legs.

She looks to your thigh, and you follow her gaze, confirming that she had, indeed, drawn blood with her clawed grip. You don't mind, it's not much of anything, just a few trickling droplets.

Your mouth drops open, eyebrows raising just a fraction when Manon leans in and licks the drying blood from where it's ran down the expanse of your thigh. And even though you'd just had two very intense orgasms, the sight makes your lower belly ache, full with desire for her all over again.

Manon rises to her knees, climbing back up your body. She braces herself on her hands, hovering above you, just barely out of reach. You huff at the tease, reaching up to grab her and pull her down.

She chuckles into your mouth as you kiss her, tasting your desire still on her tongue. Your hands roam her back, feeling the toned muscles. She sits herself on your lower abdomen, and you move farther down, kneading her ass and hips.

When she moans, you take the opportunity to pull back, tugging on her lower lip with your teeth.

You work your way up, until your hands land on her perky breasts. You massage them, rubbing your thumbs back and forth over her pretty pink nipples.

"You gonna let me make you cum, now?" You ask, husky and thick.

She smirks, biting her lip at the stimulation to her nipples. "Hmm, I suppose so."

You quickly rise to a sitting position, Manon leaning back to allow you to move easier. You lean forward like a woman starved, desperate to taste her skin.

You pull a nipple into your mouth, tugging it with your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. Manon's hands fly to your hair, urging you deeper into her chest. One hand works her other nipple while the other squeezes her ass.

Manon's pants and sighs urge you on, bringing your mouth to the other nipple to give it the same attention.

Eventually, Manon pushes you back down by your shoulders, shooting you a grin before she starts making her way up your body. You realize exactly what she's planning, and your stomach flutters in excitement. While she's adjusting herself, you give her ass a small smack, hoping she likes that. When she shoots a glare down at you, you grin, knowing she's not truly upset you. You file away that information for later, that Manon likes a bit of hitting, because you are truly hoping that this happens again sometime.

When her knees are on either side of your head, you place your hands on her thighs, bracing her and urging her to lower herself down. She sees how you eye her wet cunt, and she grabs some of your hair in her hand, making you look up at her.

"Are you gonna make me cum, kitty?"

You nod enthusiastically, licking your lips in anticipation. She hums, then finally, she lowers her hips.

You waste no time, licking through her lips excitedly. She jumps at the contact, then settles back down. You work through the length of her cunt a few times, one hand moving to her ass, squeezing it and pushing her deeper into your mouth.

Your tongue begins working quick circles around her clit, and she starts moving her hips back and forth along your tongue. You hum into her heat, encouraging her to ride your face like she clearly wants to. You pull away for a brief second to catch your breath and mumble, "Make me yours Manon, use me however you want," before you're burying your face into her wetness once again.

Manon doesn't need to be told twice, grinding herself down, riding your pretty face the way she'd been wanting to for so long. You moan into her, and the vibration quickly brings her closer to the edge.

You slip your tongue into her entrance, your nose nudging her clit with each roll of her hips, encouraged by the firm grip you have on her hip and ass.

"Fuck, Y/N," Manon moans, her head tossed back and eyes closed shut. You can tell from her voice that she's so close, and you pull your hand back and land another smack to her ass to encourage her. She gasps, and after a few more rolls of her hips, she's gushing all over your face. You lap at her cunt softly as she comes down from her high, eager to continue if that's what she wants.

But, Manon sits herself back up, panting at the intensity of her orgasm. She moves back down, then she bends so that she can connect your lips once more in a kiss. This time, the kiss is softer, not as full of heat as the others had been.

She moves to lay beside you on the bed, but hovers above you, pecking your lips several times before you speak. "Are you done already?" Your voice has a teasing tone to it, and you bite your lip to hold back a smile. "I think it's only fair you get to cum twice too, yes?"

Manon grins, clearly pleased that you care so much about her pleasure. "Maybe I wanted this to be more about you than it is about me?"

Your eyebrows scrunch in a bit of confusion, wondering why she seems to care so much for you.

She senses the question you don't dare to ask, and she tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear before speaking. "You've always caught my eye, Y/N, since I met you. And in more ways than just your looks. Is it so surprising someone would be interested in you?"

You want to say, yes, it is surprising someone could be attracted to me. But that isn't what confuses you the most. "Y-You're the... Queen..."

Manon raises an eyebrow at you, as if to say, "So what?"

"What does that matter? I'm still a person with desires, like anyone else."

You can tell by her tone and the look in her eye that she's sincere, if not by the attention she'd just paid to your body. You nod, not sure how to respond with words.

She kisses you again, then wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her still bare chest.

"Get used to this, maidservant, we will be doing this again."

[aesthetic-solar-space]

Empire Of Storms - Spoilers

Elide and Lorcan in a carnival troupe and posing as husband and wife... the fun, the discomfort... AHHH I LOVE IT.

[wrinniewrites]

Cruel Intentions | Manon Blackbeak

SUMMARY ↣ for as long as you have lived, danger has yet ceased its chase. so when manon blackbeak dares walk your lands with a tempting offer on her tongue, it is you who heeds all warnings to seek the old friend.

WARNINGS ↣ smut, blood, injury, threats, death— the usual fun stuff.

WORD COUNT ↣ 8.1k

PAIRINGS ↣ manon blackbeak x fem!reader

“Stay away from them.” Bronwen’s stern command startles your watchful gaze away from the thirteen iron-teeth witches who deign to walk your lands. Never had you seen anything quite so blessed by beauty.

A frown wrinkles your forehead. “Why?” You complain, ever the curious child. The answer is plain; they have hunted your kind for centuries. It does little to dampen your interest, however.

The older witch softens, ruffling your hair. “You know why,” the coven leader rolls her eyes, amused, but her shoulders remain tense. She does her best to conceal it, to protect you from its meaning. It is a pity you have never been a good listener.

“But—”

“Just trust me on this one, will you?” She urges, pleading you to concede. Despite the years spent in her company she has little faith you will obey, for your curiosity followed you long into adulthood.

Huffing, you swat her hand away. “Fine,” you grumble, willing yourself not to turn, she will catch the lie in your eyes should you face her.

Your words draw a pleasant smile to her features. “Good.” She hums, slinging an arm over your shoulder. And when you feel a gaze of burnt gold seer into your skin you swallow thickly, daring not to look.

Bronwen’s sharp gaze flickers to you knowingly. “Come along, little witch, we have much to do.”

You shadow your leader with an obedient nod, fighting the flare of your nostrils, which plead to drink in the intoxicating scent of the passing witch. Your throat constricts with effort, but the softest of inhales proves fatal.

Bronwen’s nails dig into your skin as you still; a warning. But it is too late, for you have forgotten your own name, the ground on which you stand. Your neck cranes reflexively, knees buckling with the force of which her stare strikes you.

The witch’s back straightens, alabaster skin gleaming in the sunlight. It feels as though you are being burned from inside out, it hurts as much as delights you. A chain of gold is clasped around your neck, drawing you closer and there is naught you can do to stop it.

A bruising grip on your arm is all that keeps you tethered, and the world comes rushing back. Recalling yourself, you stumble into Bronwen, allowing her to lead you away hastily.

But even she is not fast enough. For you wish to run, far from the witch who has seized command of your mind, body and soul, far as your feet will take you.

The sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon by the time you slip from your tent.

Hours pass before Bronwen is convinced you might cope alone. Whether she fears your own treacherous mind or the guests which wander this land, you do not know. Either way, she was a fool to leave you unattended.

Taking care to remain unnoticed in your ventures, your steps are silent on damp soil. It is why Adarlan’s King does not hear you follow, keeping well within the trees. Curiosity however, draws you dangerously close, barely concealed by shrub as you watch him draw odd shapes in his own blood. Still, you are too far to see, to understand.

One wrong step has a traitorous branch snapping beneath your careful foot.

The King twists, but does not see you.

Exhaling softly, you retreat to the forest. It happens faster than you can blink. Your back hits a cold body, a rough hand clamps over your mouth, another at your neck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A voice drawls lowly, one that burns with familiarity, but not one you have yet heard. You struggle in the unyielding grip, but to no avail. Panicked shouts go muffled by a calloused palm.

“Ah, ah,” Manon tuts, “careful, darling.” Still, you writhe. She frees her iron nails, sharp points digging into your skin. A shiver crawls up your spine, her breath fanning your neck. “Be a good little witch and I might just let you live.”

When you nod, frantic, the hand is released from your mouth. You wrench free, but not so much as a peep passes your lips when you turn to face her.

The witch hums in approval before her face hardens.

“Who sent you?” She demands.

Eyes wide, you shake your head in rapid dismissal.

Pathetic. She could smell the fear on you leagues away.

“No one—”

“Do not test my patience.”

She raises a perfectly sculpted brow, watching you glance over your shoulder fearfully. In search of help, or danger? Perhaps you heard something she could not. Impossible.

Either way, Dorian Havilliard is long gone, and no one will come to your aid.

She made certain of it.

Curiously however, when your gaze returns to her, concern is replaced by an unnerving calm. A taunting smile rests upon your pretty pink lips.

“Perhaps,” you begin, eyes glinting, “I came of my own volition.” There is no trace of a lie in your voice.

“Or maybe,” you continue, “I wished to have the King for myself.” You pause, watching her jaw clench with idle fascination.

“He is rather handsome, after all.” You feign a dreamy expression, twirling your hair around your forefinger. Alert as her hands curl into tight fists, you raise a brow. A snarl escapes her. She is jealous, you realise with a pleased grin. Of who, you do not yet know.

And when you dare to step closer, she does not stop you.

“Perhaps, it was not the King I wished to see at all.” When her brows pinch ever so slightly your smile widens.

“Maybe it was you I intended to catch alone.” You whisper, face to face with a witch who has hunted your kind for centuries. Yet you show no lack of courage. Your warm breath tangles with her own, and her eyes fixate on your lips, distracted.

You lean closer.

Manon stiffens.

“I suppose we might never know.”

Your shoulder brushes hers as you stroll past her, careless of the consequences. But the white haired witch is rooted in place. The scent of jasmine and honey lingers on her riding leathers, and she drinks it in hatefully. Manon is paralysed by want.

It is seconds, minutes, hours even, before she musters the strength to leave. And when she does, it is towards your tent.

Manon walks with a calm confidence as she weaves through the maze of tents, trailing your scent.

Despite her intentions for being amongst the Crochan’s, she does not care who she might anger with her next decision. She moves with mind so clouded by impulse she cares for little beyond carnal desire.

Though just as she ruffles the thick canvas, the smell of jasmine and honey fades. Not a soul inside.

Remembering herself, Manon blinks. Why had she followed you anyway? Decidedly, she turns in her heel, returning to her own tent unsatisfied.

Inside, she finds you waiting for her.

“What took you so long, Blackbeak?”

You lie atop her bed roll, stretched out, boots kicked to the side. A scoff passes her lips at the sight. Her desire turns to irritation, but she will not give you that satisfaction, for you have robbed her of her own.

“What do you want?” She asks boredly, reaching to unbuckle the layers of her riding leathers. Her mind is clear now, despite your intoxicating scent crowding the small space, clear as can be, at least.

It is too bad yours is anything but.

You watch, captivated, but unmoving. “It is you who scoured these lands in search of me.” You remind her, and Manon’s glare hardens when you grin. “I simply made the task easier.” You shrug, careless.

She will not kill you. Or so you believe.

The witch does not dignify you with an answer, nor does she oust you from her tent. Though you expect neither from her pride, nor lust.

“You did not answer my question.”

“What do I want?” You echo her words, an amused expression painting your features. “There are many things I want, things even you might not dare know, Blackbeak.”

And once again she is intrigued, but bristles at the way you speak; as though you hold all the cards. She will have none of it.

“Do not hold back on my account, darling.” She purrs, reaching for the last of her garments. Her lips quirk when pink dusts your cheeks.

“Go on then,” she urges, finally stripped, slinking down beside you. She requests a boldness you lost possession of the second she bore herself to you bare and willing.

“I wish to be entertained,” you manage to regain your footing. Her eyes follow each quirk of your lips greedily. It is thrilling, to have someone so prideful be the exact opposite. “Will you entertain me, Manon Blackbeak?”

“Not in the slightest,” the witch rasps, shameless as she drinks you in.

And you know for certain that she will.

There is no greater sound than the ones passing your lips with each caress of her fingers, Manon decides. There is no more pleasant a feeling than the smooth skin of your legs circling her hips, back arched so that your chest might meet her own. There is no taste finer than the sweetness which coats her lips and fingers.

You are a mess and she revels in it. Hair in knots, cheeks burning red and sweat glistening on your forehead. She is drunk. Intoxicated by jasmine and honey, the whines which part your pretty mouth. Hands soft as silk grasp at her hair, shoulders, back, crescent moons left in their wake.

“Manon—” You gasp in a whisper, breaths short, sharp and tangled with her own. A vulnerability shines in your eyes as you writhe beneath her, one she would lose herself were she not careful.

She dislikes the feeling it stirs within her chest.

Tears glitter the corners of your eyes, your warmth seizing her fingers. A featherlight touch skims her throat, tracing her jaw, and then finally reaching her red lips. The pad of your thumb swipes across them, and she is mesmerised.

She hates it and she cannot get enough.

Mirroring you, a clumsy hand which first presses to your throat before fingers find your own lips. Only you part them for her, sucking earnestly, sharp teeth prick her skin. Burnt gold eyes reflect a spike in euphoria as they gaze upon you —your eager mouth— begging to be claimed.

She does not kiss you— cannot kiss you.

Pleasure rolls through you in waves, the witch studying your twisted features with keen interest. She almost trembles from the sight alone, the way you give yourself to her entirely.

When you finally collapse beneath her, Manon is breathless as you.

The sun does not yet peer from the mountain peaks when Manon awakes to rustling. Jerking upright, burnt gold eyes find you slipping into your boots.

“You are leaving,” she observes, and with you your warmth will follow.

You face her with a smile, “and I will see you again tonight.” You wink. She does not protest, narrowing her eyes when you deign to turn your back on her once more.

Only for you to press closer to her, unexpectedly. “Lace me up?” There is a smugness in your voice as you gesture to the leather corset atop your linen tunic. Manon obliges you begrudgingly.

Better that than another stumble upon you half dressed.

“Does it amuse you?” She inquires, tugging firmly at the strings. You furrow your brows even though she cannot see your face, awaiting elaboration. The witch merely uses her strength to tighten the corset until it becomes difficult to syphon air to lung.

Craning your neck breathlessly, you are surprised to find her so close that her lips might brush upon your skin. “Does it amuse you,” she repeats, “to tangle with that of your enemies?”

“I thought you came to declare peace,” you quip, drawing away before she can ensnare you. “That makes us allies, does it not?” You rise on steady feet, sparing a glance over your shoulder.

“I have never known one so eager to make an alliance as you,” Manon’s eyes rake over your body, and you feel bare beneath her gaze. “I cannot complain,” she licks her lips, “your desperation certainly amuses me.”

The words sting.

It is her intention, and you know it, but they strike their target.

Your jaw tightens before you can force a faux smile onto your lips. “Yes,” you say, and she raises a brow. “It does entertain me to tangle with the likes of you,” you answer, venom on your tongue.

“So perhaps I shall choose another enemy to lie with tonight.” Manon barely bites back a possessive snarl, but you are already in the wind.

And once again she is left alone in the cold.

Talking to Glennis is easier than Manon dared expect. There is much she is both glad to know, but more she wishes to forget by the end of their conversation.

Her sister— she does not wish to dwell on mistakes of the past.

Manon is no stranger to stares of hatred, they have followed her all her life. But the ones of the Crochan’s, her people, carry a weight like no other. For the wrongs she has committed against them, for the favours she asks in return.

The blissful smell of jasmine and honey however, outweighs it all.

Her burnt gold eyes dart left, expecting. You appear not a moment later, and the air shifts. She realises it is not her traitorous mind, but the watchful stares of every Crochan which leaves the crowd tense.

You, unaware, or simply ignorant, meet her gaze, chin raised defiantly. The witch at your side, one of Manon’s own, stiffens.

“So perhaps I will choose another enemy to lie with tonight.”

Your words ring in her mind; not a threat, but a promise.

Manon is powerless to stop her iron nails from shooting out, digging painfully into her own palms. She rises stiffly, and Vesta, who’s shoulder brushes yours, drops her smirk.

Her steps are slow, dominating the silence.

All eyes are trained on her, save for yours, which blink prettily at the red haired witch, a playful grin donning your lips. Blue blood drips from her hands. She grits her teeth, vowing to make you regret it.

The witch manages another step before Bronwen intercepts her, blocking the path to you. So fixated by the anger dwelling within her, Manon does not hear the swarm of Crochan’s narrowing in on her. The witch pauses, assesingly.

This was an alliance she could not risk, she must remember.

But she cannot think.

Then Asterin is at her side, Dorian jumping in front of her. And when she can no longer see the enamoured look you give her fellow, Manon can finally breathe.

She does not apologise, only sauntering towards her tent with the eyes of every witch on her. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she spots Bronwen with her hands upon your face and regrets turning.

Perhaps you need not search the beds of your enemies for a lover after all.

Sleep does not find Manon that night.

Dorian lies beside her, bare chest rising and falling softly in the darkness. She looks at him and feels nothing, for her mind lies on you. You with eyes so pretty she lost herself in them. You with a self assured smirk and lips she longed to taste. You with the scent of jasmine and honey, one she would drown in, were she able.

Manon grumbles, searching the king for an out, a way to free herself of you, but to no avail. With eyes closed, she sees only Vesta’s arm brushing yours, and ponders having the offending limb cut off. Too bad a witch was useless without her claws.

She turns away from the king restlessly, but is plagued by visions of yourself and Bronwen. Her jaw clenches as she tosses again, but then she thinks only of your lips. It is as though a chain of gold brands her mind, urging her to you.

But she refuses to seek you out.

She finds you in your tent mere minutes later, sitting alone, cradling a pendant in your hands. “What took you so long?” You ask, and Manon scowls. Your voice prickles her ears, so gentle it’s almost unpleasant. Almost.

“So you do not deign to lie with another?” Straight to the point.

“One enemy is enough for me.” You answer coyly.

There is something different about this, something unsettling about the feelings it invokes within her. Manon has had many, but this— you are different.

Her nostrils flare, and then her eyes narrow. “You smell of her.” Manon can hardly bear to think of it, let alone speak the name aloud.

“And you smell of him.” You retort bitterly, nose wrinkling.

Manon frowns. “He is nothing.”

“He is the King of Adarlan,” you correct.

But he is not you, she thinks. A look of surprise ripples on your face, as though you read the words on her tongue. Your knowing stare weighs heavy on the witch, she dislikes the understanding that shines in your eyes.

“You—”

“They are protective of you.” Manon interrupts. “More than most.” She dares not know of the words you may speak, for she fears she will drown in them. You will vanquish her walls and nothing will remain.

“They are overbearing,” you clarify, referring to your coven.

“It is different.” The witch asserts, “I have not seen anything like it.” The way they had each been so acutely aware of your presence, as though you were something to be put on a pedestal and kept hidden all at once.

You lie back on your bedroll as she settles at your side. “I did not take you for a talker,” Manon bristles at the comment. “But I suppose it’s only fair to explain the reason you were almost beheaded today.”

Burnt gold eyes meet yours, unimpressed. “I was hardly in any danger,” she grumbles, and you hold up a hand. The white-haired female glares at you, but you hold her stare, unflinching.

“Do you wish to hear the story, or not?” You ask, raising an expectant brow. Manon purses her lips, albeit begrudgingly. “It is a rather simple one, I’m afraid.”

“I was separated from my family young,” you say as if it is the simplest thing in the world. “There was a human girl,” you say. When Manon frowns, you spare her a knowing smile.

“She was rather pretty, enough to keep me enamoured for the better part of a week.” Manon growls; a warning. You roll your eyes, “when I returned, they were gone.” You complete, and the witch knows there is more to the story when you refuse to meet her gaze.

“And then Bronwen found you?”

“And then Bronwen found me.” You echo, nodding. “My family was without coven, I wandered the woods for weeks before that.”

“And Bronwen,” you roll onto your side, a lazy smile drawn across pink lips. “She was so very attentive,” there is a mischievous glint in your eyes. You feel iron nails where Manon’s hand comes to rest on your thigh, daring you to continue.

She is jealous. You hum, pleased.

Deft hands reach for Manon’s exposed alabaster skin, fingertips tracing scarred flesh. When you are close enough, the witch’s own fingers tug at your braid, playful, but firm.

You raise a brow, and her lips curl. “You still smell of Vesta. Of Bronwen. Of all of them.” Wordlessly, you straddle her hips, a strong grip already at your waist. You grin when her burnt gold eyes grow bright.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to fix that.”

"They do not take to me as you have? Why?"

"Why they do not? Or why I do?" You ghost your lips over her bare shoulder, a teasing smile pressed to her skin.

Manon remains silent.

Sighing, you retract, balancing yourself on both elbows. For a moment, you pause, considering. “You have killed their only hope.” Your words hold no malice, but she feels their weight no less.

“I did not know any better.” She admits; a poor excuse.

“I know that,” you speak softly. She dislikes the understanding that shines in your eyes, as though you see right through her. “But it is worse for them.”

Her forehead creases, a wordless question.

“Your kind has hunted ours for centuries” Your words only seem to confuse. “It is not so easy to forgive as you might think.”

“And yet you have.”

“It is not the same. I was not raised on their rules.”

The witch frowns.

“I am an outcast just as you.” You confess, and Manon finds herself at a loss. “They love me as their own, but it will always be different. We do not share the same mind.”

“And—” You stop, catching the words in your throat.

“And what?” She questions.

“And nothing.” You lower your gaze.

“What do you think then?”

“I think you will find what you seek.”

“But?”

“But it will come at a cost, just as everything does.”

“And what is your cost?”

“I paid for this family with the life of my own.”

For the first time in her life, Manon is speechless. She knew you had lied, but not the extent. You mistake her silence for scrutiny, pulling the blankets higher.

“They were killed?” She asks grimly.

Despite the time spent in your company, she knows nothing true of you beyond that which you chose to bear.

“By the iron-teeth witches.”

There is no room for sadness in your words, only acceptance. Manon does not understand how you have not yet held a blade to her throat for every night spent in the small tent.

She finds herself wanting to apologise, but does not.

“It is not your fault,” you speak knowingly, reflexively.

But maybe it is.

By the day’s end, Manon's body is near limp with exhaustion, yet she feels better for it. She is for once pleased the dead might rest, even when she cannot. It feels right.

The weight of the fallen still rests heavy on her shoulders however, and the impending war with allies she is yet to rally. Still, she finds herself seeking you, near collapse as she follows your scent to the woods of Eyllwe.

She finds you kneeling in the dewy grass, humming softly. Only when she grows closer she realises you are in fact singing, in a language so ancient she does not recognise it. Even the forest seems to crawl with life at the sound of your voice.

Manon observes you silently, gaze intent as she leans upon a tree. Wind carries the tune to her ears, and she knows you sing for the dead by the pain in your voice.

When the harmony lulls to a gentle end, there is a quiet so striking she dares not breathe until she can hardly bear it. You remain still for a long while, and just when she is about to leave you crane your neck to meet her curious stare.

The ghost of a smile tugs at your lips, and tears glisten in your eyes.

Manon is unmoving as you rise, ensnared by the rawness of your beauty.

When you reach her, you bring a flower with you. The stalk curls into your hand, and then she watches, compelled as it blooms, white petals illuminated by the dull glow of the moon.

Slowly, you raise it to her, and she allows you to tuck it behind her ear. Your fingertips follow, weaving into her hair, craving comfort. Only she cannot give it.

You lean forward, close enough that you might breathe the same air as her. Though where you find contentment, she is seized by a feeling that grips her chest so tightly she can hardly move.

“Why is it that you refuse to kiss me?” Your voice is low, soft, and she feels the warmth of your body so acutely it almost hurts.

And Manon does not know the answer, so all she can do is shake her head.

Your lips curve into an almost sad smile, and then you are leaning forward, pressing a tentative kiss to her cheek.

Only she wants nothing more than to claim your lips for her own.

Manon returns from the Ferian gap with little hope.

The Crochan do not yet trust her, and the legion of iron-teeth witches are much the same, perhaps worse. And now Dorian will leave her too.

She will fail. She has only the thirteen. Her thirteen and you.

Even you she does not truly have, will not let herself have. But still, she seeks you in the woods where Glennis tilts her head knowingly. She offers the crone a curt nod before slipping between the trees, unnoticed.

This time the witch finds you by the stream, hair damp and hanging loosely at your shoulders. “I suppose I missed quite the show,” Manon quips. Only you do not laugh, nor even turn your head.

The silence lingers between you, and for the first time in her life Manon wishes she were better with words. “Do you truly think they will join me?” The question leaves her with little thought, because if she cannot believe it perhaps you will.

When you turn your eyes rimmed red, she wonders if you still cry for those lost in Eyllwe. Oddly, Manon is not repulsed, but rather curious. Enough so that she might wish to reach for you, to hold you as she has not dared.

“I hope so,” you whisper, hollow stare returning to the flowing water. “For Aelin.”

The witch frowns, “you are familiar with Terrasen’s Queen?” She questions stiffly.

Your lips quirk, but no amusement lies in your features. Suddenly you shift, so that you might face her, the witch mirrors your actions. A vulnerability shines in your eyes, one that begs her to look at you, to look at you and truly see you. And so she does.

Manon is stunned by the force of which your stare strikes her. It reflects in her burnt gold irises, and her calloused hands which grip your waist to keep her afoot.

You smile now, widely, but it feels wrong. She is unused to the feeling it stirs in her chest. “Have you come to care for me, Manon Blackbeak?”

She cannot find the words which rest so readily at the tip of her tongue, and the witch feels you beginning to slip through her fingers. Her body acts before her mind can stop her.

When her lips crash against yours, everything else fades away.

Your mouth is soft as silk against her own, and she wonders what she has done to deserve something as precious as your lips. Her mind races when soft hands curl around her neck. Manon is breathless when you part, eyes closed as her nose brushes your own.

And then, she feels something cool press against her throat.

All at once the world crashes around her.

Her burnt gold eyes flare with anger, but she cannot move, for your blade pierces her skin, blood of blue pooling at its sharpened edge.

“Kneel.” You command, but the witch raises her head defiantly, dagger cutting deeper. “Kneel as you made my mother,” you repeat venomously.

“I—”

“Kneel.” You grit out, pressing harder. “Kneel, or I will make you.”

Manon shakes her head, in denial, or disbelief. “I did not know.” The witch gasps, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Do you not see them in my eyes?” You seeth, “do you not remember how they sounded— begging for their lives?!” For the first time in her life, Manon understands what it is to feel true fear. And it is not because she might die tonight.

The Wing Leader makes a clumsy pass at your wrist. Wild fury remains untamed, however, and the witch is seized by a blind panic.

“Do their screams not haunt you?” Your voice is raw, “because they do me.” She cannot bear the weight of your words. “All I see when I look at you is them— all that you have taken from me.”

“You will not kill me.” Manon’s claims, to convince you, or herself?

But then the weeds at her feet begin to curl around her boots, then her knees, and legs are swallowed whole. “Kneel.” You reign control of your temper, words cool as a sea breeze.

“You— You are part fae,” Manon breathes, roots tugging no matter how hard she resists.

Face a mask of stoicism and eyes depthless, you speak. “And you are dead.” It is a hatred so pure there is a strange beauty in it. Still, she finds herself slipping further under your spell.

And so Manon Blackbeak kneels. Not for fear, nor force, but for you. Because she deserves it, and because so do you. If you wish her dead, then so shall she be.

“Be done with it.” She commands.

Only your hand shakes, not with the might of your anger, but something far worse. At once the dagger slips from your grasp, the witch dares not move. “I will kill you, Manon Blackbeak, and I will make you suffer pain greater than you’ve ever known.” You whisper, throat constricting, “but not tonight.” Not a threat, but a promise.

Her anger flares. “Have you come to care for me, little witch?” Manon taunts, echoing your words.

You rise on steady feet, trembling hands tucked behind your back. “Make no mistake, Wing Leader,” the forest carries quiet words of ire to senseless ears, “the only reason you live to tell this tale is your worth.” She burns with rage as you look down upon her.

“You live for Aelin,” burnt gold irises dance with wrath, “that is all.” You complete coolly.

“You show me mercy!” The witch spits, still bound by earth. “Pathetic,” she sneers, but you do not turn, do not deign her with acknowledgement. A thorn, one of your own, pricks her calf and the witch has half a mind to laugh.

“You will regret this!” Manon yells after you, but the winds which rule the woods ensure she is unheard.

You are at Bronwen's side when cries of warning fill the camp.

The coven leader starles to her feet, gaze drawn to the sky, where three ominous shadows swoop from the clouds. “Stay put.” She orders, charging into the clearing.

You do the exact opposite, weaving through the forming crowd until there lies only one body between you and the iron-teeth matrons.

Apart from the rest stands Manon, and you bite down the surge of panic gripping your chest. You tell yourself it is because if she dies here it will not be at your hands. It was Bronwen who told you that of who killed your parents, a confession she kept secret with intentions to protect.

Only she was too late, for the gods had cursed you to lie with your adversary, and perhaps more than that.

Now your foe stands alone, engaged in a dance of gibes with those who raised her to be a ruthless killer. You swallow your anger, at Manon, at her grand-mother, at the gods. Still, someone must claim fault.

But as you look upon the matron, a cruel understanding, pity even, dawns on you, for the same witch who slaughtered your family.

As though you speak the words into existence, black eyes flecked with gold narrow on you, and then dark lips quirk. “I know you,” the Black Matron’s features flicker with interest, Manon bristles.

“You have your father’s eyes,” your fists curl in anger, leaves rustling in the trees overhead. “It is a pity we had to kill him for creating you,” the Matron’s eyes are alight with amusement. “A filthy half-breed,” she sneers, nose wrinkling at you.

The ground hums with life beneath your feet, lips parting to speak, only Manon beats you to it.

“I shall have your tongue for that,” she hisses, brandishing Wind Cleaver as she charges at the Matrons.

The fight commences in an imperceptible blur, and Manon is quick on her feet, but not quick enough to avoid the claws of the Yellowlegs Matron. Your heart stutters, feeling the pain as if it were your own.

Not a soul moves, no one daring to help her, the roots at your feet curl in protest.

In a swift blow, the head of the Matron rolls, a Crown of Stars loosed from her brow. There is strange beauty in every lethal blow the white haired witch delivers, and soon the battle is at its end.

A hush falls over the crowd as Manon lifts the Crown of Stars, glittering to life in her hand. Murmurs arise when she offers it to Glennis with a curt nod. In turn, the old witch takes the crown, only to place it upon the witch’s head with an approving smile.

One by one, Ironteeth and Crochans alike drop to their knees, but eyes of gold follow only you. Kneeling with a bent head and a bitter frown, you do not meet her gaze, for conflict reflects in the eyes gifted to you by your father.

Dorian, who stands tall, proud, smiles broadly. It does naught to soothe the hollowness swelling within her, threatening to draw her into an ocean of darkness.

She is Manon Blackbeak, Queen of Witches, and you are her price.

Stars glitter in the sky above, but they hold no candle to the crown upon her brow.

A blazing fire crackles in the centre of camp, and she thinks of the hearth, of every endless responsibility which now burdens her. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. They were words you once spoke to her in the dead of night.

Powerless to stop it, her own mind betrays her. She thinks of you, of your soft lips, ones she might never gain the pleasure of touching again. Her thoughts turn then to whispered words shared on windless nights, of how she felt the absence of your warmth greater than anything.

Summoned by longing, the scent of jasmine and honey floods her nostrils, the witch wistful as she drinks it in. A distant rustling breaks her from memories which will soon be forgotten.

She rises, forehead wrinkling when Dorian slips from his tent and you follow, hand at his arm.

“You are leaving.” The witch observes, not once having seen you speak to the king. And yet you are willing to follow him to Morath; the one place she cannot protect you.

Stilling, you turn, donning a pendant, one she now recognises as your mother’s. A bitter pang thrums in her chest, the mother she had taken from you. One she had relished hunting, for the obscurity of the relationship between Fae and Crochan and the creature created by way of love.

Dorian squeezes your hand before slipping from your grasp and disappearing into the cover of night. A heavy silence lingers, and Manon takes a wary step toward you. “Stay.” The words are soft on her tongue, pleading.

“I cannot.” Your voice lacks the spite she expects— deserves.

“And if you are to die?” Manon asks, risking another step.

“If the gods will it,” you look to the stars intently. “Then die I must.”

A wild panic seizes her heart, one so violent she almost collapses at the force of which it grips her.

Another unsteady step. “You vowed to kill me.” The witch reminds, she would spin a thousand tales so that she might convince you to stay, to remain at her side.

A look of amusement passes your features.

“You would break that promise so easily?” She feels as though the chain of gold which tethers her to you begins to crack when she reaches you at last. The shackles you surrendered your freedom for no longer bind you, only she is still in chains.

Calloused fingertips brush silken skin, and burnt gold eyes flicker to yours. As if to say, one last time. It is all too soon when you draw back, features tainted with regret.

“I must do this for my family.” A cryptic smile tugs at your lips, ones she might never see again. “Goodbye, Manon.” You whisper, hand darting to your pendant as you turn, willing her not to see the tears which burn your eyes. In a flash you are gone, a wise eyed raven replacing you.

Dorian leaves, and you with him. And so too, goes her heart.

The days pass in a blur, and Dorian’s success with Maeve can hardly be attributed to you, but he is thankful no less. There is an odd comfort that blooms in sharing near death experiences.

And now, at last, you might finally return to your rightful place, should the heir to Terrasen’s crown wish it.

You are perched atop Dorian’s shoulder in animal form from the moment he shifts, wary as you behold the glory of your Queen, who gallops for the clearing.

“Where’s Manon?” Aelin questions, the sound of the witch’s name alone is enough to send you spiraling.

“Terrasen,” Dorian pants, “with the Crochans.” The Queen parts her lips in surprise, but then another rider charges into the clearing. Finally, her gaze flickers to you, head tilting in recognition.

In a flash you stand at the king’s side, head bowed as you sink to your knees. “My Queen,” you breathe.

“Rise,” Aelin commands, eyeing you appraisingly. “I thought you were dead,” her brows furrow.

“And I you.” You respond, tears of joy shining in your irises.

The Queen observes you intently. “It is truly you, then?”

“Yes,” you nod quickly, “my father was—”

“My uncle.” Aelin finishes, and then a frown wrinkles her forehead. “I would have searched, had I known—”

“I know,” you smile, “but I have found you at last. The rest matters little.”

Her arms are around you not a moment later, holding you tight for fear you might disappear. “It is good to have you back,” she murmurs, feeling you shake in her grasp, tears wetting her shoulders.

And then, as she draws back, you feel it. A pain greater than you have ever known thrums to life in your chest and you gasp, dropping to hands and knees.

“Cousin?” She calls, alarm in her voice.

Something is wrong, something is terribly wrong.

A muffled cry is all that leaves you, and at once Dorian is on the damp soil with you, hand at your back, rubbing soothing circles. “What is it?” He inquires softly, magic humming at his fingertips.

Wheezing, you claw at your chest, only one word on your lips.

“Manon.”

The witch kneels in the bloody battlefield, flowers surround her. She feels nothing and everything all at once. Sees only their faces, the light which they had radiated as they left this world.

For her. They had done it for her.

She does not know what to do, with that thought, with herself, with their memory. She will never see them again. Her thirteen. Gone forever.

Manon remains there so long there is no one left when she comes to. It is only her, her and her sisters. Then she smells it. Jasmine and honey.

She whirls, and there you stand. A sob wracks her body but no tears follow.

Your steps are careful, and she does not turn you away as you sink to your knees. Instead, you both look to the plain, your presence alone brings her a comfort she cannot put into words.

“I do not know what to do.” The confession is broken on her lips.

Silently, you reach for her hand, bringing it to your lap, where your thumb draws senseless patterns on her palm. And for a fleeting moment, she is able to forget every pain which plagues her.

She watches as twelve flowers of equal beauty and sorrow blossom from the battlefield, and at last, the tears come.

You are helpful as you are able amidst the battle, but the chaos quickly sweeps over the scene when Aelin, Erawan and Maeve arrive.

Useless in battle, you keep watch in animal form, doing best as you can to distract the remaining wyverns which have chosen to fight on the wrong side of this war. Still, you wish to do more, but the fear which shines in Manon’s eyes whenever you mention as much is enough to deter you.

At least this way you are never far from the witch.

This, alongside running endless messages between battalions leaves cracks for exhaustion to fill. And soon you can only find strength to glide through the skies, wings beating against the wind only when you must.

It happens all too soon.

A shriek from Abraxos has you dipping between clouds, soaring towards your— Manon. You are just within reach when you see it, an archer who’s arrow points to you. She draws the bowstring back and lets it whistle through the air.

It will hit you, you are certain, and the iron tipped shot will be fatal. With no time to change your path of flight, you shift instead, just as the arrow sinks into your stomach, one which would have pierced the heart of your animal form.

Manon’s head jerks at your cry, watching in horror as you tumble through the skies. Abraxos roars as she digs her knees into his side, urging him towards you, willing him to fly faster than ever before.

But it is not fast enough, for you kiss the ground just a hair’s breadth from his talons, and she is already jumping from his back, Wind Cleaver slashing brutally through anyone who dares walk her path, Abarxos at her back.

The blood which splatters her face is no match for the crimson dripping from your skin. Eyes of burnt gold glow with rage, and if it weren’t for you the archer would already be dead. You are still, deathly still when she reaches you, and sickly pale.

The witch falls to her knees, Wind Cleaver clattering to the ground as her hands frantic at your shoulders, shaking you with a desperation otherwise unknown to her. “Please,” she begs, for what must be the first time in all of her immortal life.

You do not move.

Manon plants her fingers beneath your head, cradling it softly as she brings her face to yours. She listens for a breath, feeling the faintest brush of air against her skin. “Must I lose you too? Have the gods not taken enough?” She questions the skies, agony in her words.

“Do not leave me alone in this world, little witch.” Manon pleads, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I am lost without you.”

The rest of the world falls away when a meek cough passes your lips, a sob of relief wracking her body. “Please live, you must live.” She pushes the tousled hair from your face, the tightness in her chest easing when a faint smile is revealed. When you speak, words strained on your tongue, she almost cries with joy.

“I was not to live forever, Manon.” You remind weakly.

The witch looks upon you as though you have struck her. Your eyes are barely open, fatigue weighing down upon your eyelids with the force of a thousand bricks. Still, you persist, if not to look at her one last time.

“But I still had time,” her voice is soft as a whisper. Pain, raw and unyielding, reflects in eyes of burnt gold.

“Manon—” Blood bubbles from your lips with her name.

“Do not speak.” She commands, “do not waste your breath on me.”

You shake your head, “I must—” your breaths grow shorter with every word “I must tell you something yet.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and she releases one hand from where it cups your jaw so that she might hold it once more. “I—” Face contorting as you heave a cough, Manon winces.

“I forgive you.” You whisper, squeezing her hand with what little strength you possess. “I forgive you,” you repeat again when she jerks her head in denial.

“I do not deserve it.”

You look upon her with eyes glazed by sadness, and she cannot bear it. “It was never your fault.” The whisper is lost on her ears, anger now, infecting her mind.

Your eyes begin to droop. “I do not blame you, Manon Blackbeak.” Soon they will close forever. “In fact, I—”

“Why won’t they take me?” She shouts now, at you, at the skies above, at the gods who doom her. “Let them take me instead.” The witch grips you tightly, as if she means to tether you to this world through strength alone.

“You are a Queen now, your people need you.”

“But I need you!”

A smile remains on your lips even when your eyes flutter shut, one so infuriating she wishes to curse you. But the words which roll from your tongue draw her world to a schreeching halt.

“I love you.”

And then you slip through her fingers and into the arms of death.

Abraxos unleashes a cry so great it echoes throughout the battlefield and leagues beyond. But Manon is still, so still the beast nudges her when a flare of light flares from afar.

She does not move, for if she does she will lose this moment. If she moves it will be real and you will be gone.

It is the sound of footsteps that draws from a time where you were once with her. Still, she does not move. Perhaps they will take her too, then she might be with you again. With her thirteen.

Only the gentle footfall stops, and finally she turns. It is a healer who stands before her. A healer who was a minute too late.

“Please, help her. Do something. Anything.” She does not care for the weakness it shows, but only for you, who lies cold in her arms.

The healer looks solemn, but obeys.

Gone. You will be gone. Forever. And she never got to tell you— It did not matter now. Would never matter.

She loved you, but it did not matter.

Tumbling through darkness, memories of old and new draw you in all directions. But it is only a voice, rough and broken which keeps you tethered to this world.

“Do not go, I am finished with you yet.”

You are falling, but a chain of gold holds you steadfast, and at the other end awaits your love. Still, you cannot reach her, for the distance between life and death is too great.

“Please, little witch.”

But if you cannot find her in this life, you will in the next.

“Come back to me.”

You feel her still, hands on your own, lips at your crown, but the touch prickles your skin. As though you are drowning in a vast sea and only the ghost of her keeps you afloat. Even so, the feeling grows faint, and then disappears entirely, along with it goes your hope.

She has given up.

Your fingers twitch with a flicker of life, and the calloused palm is returned once more. If you cannot reach her, she will reach you.

“Manon,” her name breaks free from your lips.

Eyes heavy with death, you force them open so that you might look upon her face, if not one last time. Burnt gold irises are the first thing you see, a faint shine reflecting in them.

“I am not dead,” you smile, lips dry, and cracked with thirst. The witch shakes her head softly, fighting a frown. She cannot seem to find the words on her tongue, so instead she tightens her grip on your hand, to which you offer a weak squeeze in return.

“I will live?” You ask plainly, and Manon nods, swallowing thickly. Iron nails weave into your hair, and the witch takes a moment to drink you in. Her shoulders sag, riding leathers torn, and moonlight hair a mess. Still, she finds it in her to smile.

“Come with me,” Manon’s fingers curl around your own, “to the Wastes.”

A weak grin quirks your lips, “one condition.”

The witch narrows her eyes, and you raise a brow, daring her to deny you.

“Anything.” She finally breathes, and it is worth it for the grin you grant her.

“You must kiss me.”

“That is all?”

“It is everything I desire and more.”

And so Manon does.

i'm just gonna leave this here 🤭

[shadowdaddies]

Hello can you write Manon x female reader where she is very short so she’s always making Manon help her reach something it’s funny

Lift Me Up

Manon Blackbeak x short Reader

With a grunt, you jumped towards the open cabinet, fingertips brushing the basket of leather hair ties Manon had stowed just out of your reach. As much as she  teased when you were too short to do certain things, you swore the witch placed everything so high so that you had to ask for her help.

“Manoooon,” you called in a sing-song voice, a meek smile accompanying the doe eyes you gave her as she strode into the bathroom with an amused expression. 

Long white hair fell around her sharp cheekbones as she towered over you, arms folded expectantly as her gaze flicked from the open cabinet and back to you. “Yes, love?”

Gesturing dramatically to the high cabinet, you huffed, “I can’t reach the ties, and I need to braid my hair before we leave.” 

Manon’s amusement turned darker, a mischievous smirk spreading across her face as she leaned against the edge of the counter. “That’s a little pitiful, don’t you think? What do you do when I’m not around to do everything for you?” she teased, brow cocked at you in challenge.

You huffed indignantly, gaze flicking up to the wicker basket. “Fine,” you muttered, pushing yourself up on the countertop until your knees hit the marble. Stretching your arm, you felt the pull on your muscles as your fingertips fumbled for the edge of the basket.

A sharp smack to your ass pulled a gasp from your lips, back arching as you fell against Manon’s chest. “Thank you for this view,” she murmured against your waist, hands kneading your backside.

Giggling at her antics, you turned and leaned down to give her a chaste kiss. “Will you just help me please?” you breathed out with a laugh.

“Of course, little one,” Manon cooed, hands moving to your hips as she lifted you up where you could easily grab the basket. Guiding you back down to the ground, Manon’s chest pressed against your back, the witch brushing your hair to the side as she kissed down your neck.

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” she murmured, licking up the shell of your ear. A vulpine smile graced her lips as you shivered under her sensual touch, nodding eagerly as your eyes fluttered closed. Long nails lightly grazed your scalp as Manon pulled your hair back in a neat braid, one hand moving to wrap around your waist as the other grabbed the basket, effortlessly putting it back on the shelf.

With a scoff, you wiggled out of her grip and headed towards the warrens. 

“Where do you think you’re going? You know you can’t even get up on Abraxos’s saddle without my help,” Manon teased, closing the cabinet as she followed you down the hall. Greeting Abraxos, you smiled as he craned his neck down so you could pet his snout. 

“She’s bullying me again,” you whispered to the beast, giggling at the scathing look in the wyvern’s eyes as he snorted disapprovingly at Manon. With a roll of her golden eyes, the witch walked around you, amusement in her expression as she locked her fingers together, crouching slightly as she held her hands out to help you jump into the saddle. 

Sauntering over to her, you placed a kiss on Manon’s cheek before hopping on Abraxos’s back where she joined you. You smiled peacefully, settling back against her warmth, grateful for your tall witch who was always there to help you.

[se-ono-waise-ilia]

After Party - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Summary: The organized and dignified celebration of winning the war shifts once some of the older crowd leaves in the middle of the night, and the children of the Khaganate introduce some party elements that lead to a more raunchy affair.

Warnings: mature content, alcohol & drug use

Multiple POVs, many ships included: Manon x Dorian, Aelin x Rowan, Elide x Lorcan, possibly more!

Music & Dance inspiration for Manon: Stampede - Alexander Jean Ft. Lindsey Stirling and Derek Hough - Kairos Ft. Lindsey Stirling

Genre: some angst, partying, romance, hints of smut (ooh), and actual smut in later chapters (ooooooh)

Why: Because Nesryn’s memory of the party left a lot to the imagination.  So let’s dance…

—-

The night was progressing as Manon noticed some people start to leave. Although Manon was older than most of those present, she could sense that it was mostly the old humans and exceptionally old fae and witches leaving.

This party was a bust for her.  While watching Aelin and her mate dance an actual fiery waltz was something she would never forget, the style of music and dance wasn’t of interest to Manon.  The merry string music and cheerful waltzing and line dances clashed with her brooding mood.

Yes, they won.  But the cost…

Manon continued to nurse her bottle of liquor.  She had given up on cups soon after the initial dance, due to the fact that every time she left her dark corner, a certain king tried to make eye contact for a dance.  So she shamelessly took three bottles of liquor from the bar, and kept her eyes down as she claimed a large bench for herself.  She sat right in the middle, and used the many layers of her black skirt to take up the extra space.  No one sat next to the Crochan Queen, which was how she wanted it.

She kept hoping Abraxos would make a surprise appearance and stick his head through the nearby window.  But Manon knew he was mourning the loss of his mate in private.

Manon didn’t want to be at the party.  Nor did she want to be with Abraxos, where she would feel prompted to face her grief.  Nor did she want to be alone, where she would be forced to face all of her emotions in sad solitude.

So, she would stay at the party for as long as it lasted to avoid confronting her feelings.  She did have one more bottle to consume before she needed to go to the bar again, but she did need to relieve herself.

Gathering up her gauzy black skirt in one hand, and her final bottle in the other (she wasn’t going to leave it unattended), she made her way to the toilets.

Her path was blocked by a familiar attractive male body.  She swayed a little from being prompted to stop so abruptly.  She kept her focus pinned on a button on his formal jacket, but he lifted her chin with his finger, “Dance with me Manon.”

Manon looked up at him.  She noticed him during the party confidently conversing and dancing with a variety of people.  He was very good at it.  But she couldn’t picture herself dancing merry dances to dreadfully cheery music. She could tell he was also uncertain, as he had a hesitant look on his face.  She would decline, and he wouldn’t be surprised.

“No.  This music is bad,” and she stumbled around him.  He didn’t seem at all rejected as he swiped the bottle from her hand, and took a slow swig as he stared her down.

Manon slurred, “Hold that for me,” as she continued her trek to the toilet.  She heard him chuckle as she swayed.

It was after she relieved herself that she understood how drunk she was.  The room spun around her.  She just leaned against the wall for a few minutes.  She wished she had brought her bottle with her….and Dorian.  She smiled at the thought of how they would use that wall.

After an unknown period of time, she made her way back to the party.  The cheerful music had thankfully stopped, and someone was talking.

Manon eventually found a place to see the speaker, one of the female royals of the Khaganate.  She had the room’s attention, so Manon chose to listen.

“…the side effects may make the evening a little more…intimate,” the woman indicated to the little smoking bowls being placed around the room.  Manon sniffed a tendril of smoke, drugs.  

Manon observed a bowl being placed near her, and she moved to stand directly next to it.  As she inhaled it, she felt herself let go of her miserable emotions somewhat.  The room wasn’t spinning anymore, so much as it was growing hazy and soft looking.  She went from disgruntled, to numb, to simply present.  Manon intentionally inhaled some more.

“As is tradition on our continent, the first dance of this particular portion of the evening goes to the oldest royal with the greatest title in the room.” Hasar! That’s her name…

The whole room looked towards someone, but Manon was simply hoping for different music. The princess continued, “The title must be from bloodline, not marital relations.”

Manon liked drums.  They were fierce, and the tone was more primitive.  Guitars also had a sense of power and authority she liked.  And the strings…when played right, they were just sensual.  

She felt eyes on her.  The eyes of Hasar, the room, and she instinctually found Dorian’s.  Oh…me…that’s interesting.

The princess gestured to the middle of the dance floor, “Queen Manon, our Khagan musicians will play music based on your dance style.  No one else will dance until you command the room.”

Manon looked to Dorian again, who straightened up as if she expected him to ask for a partner. She noticed he was still holding her bottle of booze, which she very much wanted at the moment.  She huffed, lifted her chin, and managed to not stumble on her way to the dance floor. Alone.

The room remained silent.  Manon looked to the new musicians from the Khaganate, and was pleased to notice a variety of drums.  And a guitar.  She pointed at them, “No fucking waltz or overtly happy music.”

They nodded, and Manon felt thrilled at the idea of control over the vibe of the room.  She looked around, and noticed everyone was fuzzy looking.  She cackled, completely aware of how drunk and high she was.

She lifted her arms and hands above her hands, and the drums started.  The beat was powerful and sensual.  She swayed accordingly with her hips, ribs, and arms.  But she found her arm movements constricted by the shoulder sleeves of her top.  She stopped, and the music stopped.

She heard many gasps as she took off her top to reveal blood red bindings around her breasts.  She decided to keep her skirt on.  She liked how the many layers of fabric moved like black smoke.  

She laughed again and continued to dance. The musicians continued with her. This music was far superior to the damn ballroom music. She rolled her shoulders, quickened her hands, flipped her hair, shifted her ribs, circled her hips, grazed her feet across the floor, moved her whole body to the floor, and more.

Why is no one else dancing?  She wondered after an unknown amount of time. She felt eyes on her, but the only face that came into focus was Dorian’s.  She smiled upon seeing him.  I think it’s time for him to have his chance with me on the dance floor, she thought as she pointed to him while continuing to sway.

--

Next up: Dorian’s POV

Chapter 2  

This is my first multi-chapter post on tumblr, and I understand the protocol is to give the option for interested readers to be tagged.  So feel welcome to ask for a tag if you like :)

[gothicbabydollz]

Okay but imagine jealous!Manon and jealous! Petrah post war 😳

Maybe both Manon and Petrah have a special interest in you, causing a sort of rivalry between them over you. Do you know about it? Maybe, maybe not. But either way you’re reaping the benefits.

Petrah trying not to openly glare at Manon as she flirts with you in front of her. Manon barely not growl when she smells petrah on you because the witch cornered you in the hallway earlier to kiss the living daylights out of you 😩

Will they eventually fuck you together or fist fight? Who knows

I love this. It would be so fun to sit back all pretty and perfect while they fight over you. You’d catch on soon and enjoy their quest to win your affection.

Maybe you catch them fighting. And in your attempts to break it up, you find yourself backed into a corner by two terrifyingly beautiful witches demanding you choose right then and there. But come on. You can’t choose only one. Intimidated, you let out a quiet whisper, “Both…I want you both.” You’re surprised when they look at each other in silent agreement, anger and jealously still blaring in their eyes. “Fine,” Petrah smirks, taking your hand and leading you towards the nearest chambers, “Maybe you’ll come to a better decision once I have you screaming my name.” Your startled response is cut off by Manon’s snarl as she stomps after you both. “We’ll see about that,” Is all Manon says before you’re locked in a room with them and ordered to strip…

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

Sarah J. Maas Accent Challenge

Alright, finally got it under the 10mb post limit! :D

This challenge was invented by @ilikebigbooks-and-icannotlie , and it’s really really fun!!! Thank you to @dorianthekinkymf for tagging me in this (your accent is so cool too!)!! 

Also, I totally missed it until I was looking for people to tag, but @aelin-and-feyre tagged me too and said such nice things about my fic!!!!! OMG, you totally made my night!!! xoxoxo

The questions:

Name and username:

Where are you from?

Pronounce the following words: Archeron, Rhysand, Cresseida, Thesan, Rhoe Galathynius, Illyrian, Manon, Abraxos, Prythian, Lucien, Ianthe, Suriel, Bryaxis, Carridwen and Nuala, Elide, Velaris, Rowan Whitethorn, Chaol Westfall, Yrene Towers, Nehemia Ytger, Rifthold, Adarlan, Crochan, Kaltain Rompier, Sorscha, Dorian Havilliard, Lyria, Asterion horse, Valg, Eyllwe, wyrdmarks, rowaelin, feysand

How did you find out about the books?

When did you start reading them?

Favorite character from TOG?

Favorite character from ACOTAR?

Have you read The Assassin’s Blade? 

Do you plan on reading the ACOTAR Novellas?

Favorite ship/s?

Read a page from your favorite book from TOG (or ACOTAR):

Which scene destroyed you the most?

If you read fanfiction, name your favorite or some of your favorites: 

As promised in the audio, here’s the fic I was talking about!!! As predicted, I got the name wrong, it’s “The Declaration of a Crochan Queen” (”Confession” was her Dorian one)

Also, i said another favorite fanfic writer is @sebstanmoviesandtv, but she keeps her fanfics on @sscejm4afanfic!! It’s a mix of x-readers and non x-readers, focusing on Marvel and marvel actors mostly (especially sebastian stan & his characters!) :)

Fave headcanons?

Favorite quote/s?

If you could choose any piece of media to readapt the Maasverse in, what would you choose? (e.g: movie(s), tv show(s), animation, a musical, videogames, etc)

TOG or ACOTAR? Why?

Which would be your ACOTAR Court? Why?

And last but not least, say 3 unpopular opinions. Do it, go off

I tag (and apologize if you’ve been tagged already): @feyre-archerons-scrapbook (told you so), @rhysand-peanut-butter-cups, @the-devils-own, @and-re123, @empressravenrose, @carrnnam, @madiemo, @feysandaddict, @seeliequeenofprythian, @tntwme, @fck-tamlin, @goody-two-shoes-but-also-rebel, @louzaylinarry

Also- here’s the link to the Tamlin ficlette I couldn’t shut up about