#resulting in a stalemate

[sesshy380]

Day off, can finally work on WiP's...would rather lay facedown and end my turn for a whole week.

[paintingskyblutf2]

just had a 3 hour long game on powerhouse omg im never playing that map again lmfao /hj first we had about 4 stalemates in a row before blu(my team) won, then stalemates again, then red won, then another one or two stalemates before blu finally won i played as medic the whole time and it was crazy. i couldnt keep up healing everyone so sometimes others switched to medic to help me, but im the only medic who stuck to my class. red team sometimes had a medic or two too, we both were strong as hell. though, more often than not, blu managed to cap the middle point so red had to spend the whole time defending their last one(or the entrances to red building)

at some point(about an hour and half or two hours into the game) the spy who kept spamming chat with "just give up already"(neither of teams knew if he said it to us - blu team - or red team) called me a useless medic, which did give me a bit of heart shock. but in retrospect, all that spy ever did was crying in chat + bullying some red player(and as i checked later, that spy is also an alleged cheater so take it as you wish lmao; i assume he raged at me for either not healing him specifically or dying during crossbow shooting cuz he said i "picked a med and wasnt healing anyone"), so im very happy he rage-quit later as demo lmfao

quite a bit of people left on both teams since the game just could not end(and some players got autobalanced lol), but that meant other good players were able to join. some of them were a very good soldier, pyro and engineer, i believe they changed classes a few times but generally played as those. god tier players tbh, another shout-out to the players who stuck for all 3 hours(one of them played as soldier/pyro during first games and as sniper/engineer during last game iirc) and the guy who got autobalanced and played as medic + other classes. the enemy team had great engineers, heavies, demos and soldiers too(also spies who kept disguising as me xd). all players everywhere were great(except that one spy)!

for a "useless medic" i did a very good job and always pushed to victory, my team called me the best and an mvp when we won. im super proud of my team! if only i was good at crossbow shots, we'd have had an easier time xd (<- said the guy with almost 500 hours in game, 124 of which are on medic,,, i still have so much to work on)

(note: this is a victory screen after the game ended. i do not know anyone here personally and the screenshot does not include the guy who rage-quit obv)

i spent most of my days goofing around on 2fort so playing an actuall game of tf2 was a great change of pace but omg my whole body hurts afterwards xdd

[kaurwreck]

I think you're right that it's significant, and I think Mori is clever to recognize that Akutagawa is a rook.

Like a rook, Akutagawa is powerful, but generally contained and often undercut by his predictability. However, because he's keenly aware of his own constraints, and because others often aren't (especially regarding variables they've internalized as known), he's able to play into and against his own predictability to paradoxically surprise them.

He moves within the confines of his rigidity to shape outcomes, sometimes more effectively than his more dynamic opponents and peers. Rooks do that too, if you let them.

Me, knowing nothing about chess, probably overthinking the significance of referencing akutagawa in this scene, but is going to look it up later anyways

[foldingfittedsheets]

My best friend growing up was a matter of convenience over compatibility. The boy across the street was only a year older than me. We had some common interests but our personality types were a terrible clash. I remember fighting with him just as vividly as any peaceful activity.

We were stuck in the same boat though. There was no other kids to socialize with except our odious older brothers, and being together was slightly less wretched than being alone. Most of the time. Our parents joked that we were like an old married couple, always fighting. We’re both gay now.

His family was better off so he brought more toys and video games to the friendship table. My family had more land so we had animals to play with and secret forest clubhouses. We hung out most days but he refused to acknowledge me at school for the sin of being both a year younger and a girl.

He was a terribly sore loser though. When playing fighting games he’d win four out of five rounds but if I won the fifth he’d turn the console off before letting my character do a victory dance. I was fairly prosaic about this. He liked to play them and I went along. When I won I got to suggest other activities.

Now, I mentioned we both had older brothers. His older brother was only three years above him. They scuffled in a normal sibling manner but the older brother was cognizant that he was bigger and stronger and these fights were more what I would characterize as fencing. There was rules and treaties in place.

My older brother was five years older than me. When we fought it was a no holds barred pit fight. I went absolutely feral. Significantly younger and weaker I unleashed my greatest weapon which was absolute berserker tactics. I bit, scratched, went for the balls, I was a menace. I paid no heed to any injury done to me if it let me land another strike. Most of our fights ended in a stalemate of me pinned or him bleeding too profusely to continue harassing me.

I never considered that I was getting more fighting experience than my friend. When scuffles broke out between us without a controller in hand I won every time. He’d jokingly smack me and we’d go down in a ball of flying hair and monkey screeches, but I always ended on top.

The trouble was, I found, that afterward he was no fun at all. His fragile childhood masculinity couldn’t take these defeats from someone younger and more female than him and he’d always sulk home afterward. I didn’t care for that, especially because fighting him was much more fun than my horrible brother.

Then one day I found the secret. I’d whapped him far too hard upside the head and he began to cry immediately. Full of guilt I whimpered that he’d really hurt my knee. He stopped crying. He hurt my knee? Then we were even! He’d hurt me just as badly and therefore the fight was a draw.

I was delighted by this logic. Every fight thereafter I saw no shame in playing up some injury he’d dealt me retroactively. I had no pride to lose and shamelessly acted beaten to avoid hurting his feelings. Our fights were milder as a result, and we both went away feeling elated by the childhood violence rather than defeated.

[jinlin-at-the-moon]

so a few days ago i was thinking about this post+comic, and i thought that while svsss luo binghe probably wouldn't try to Actually kill liu qingge, pidw luo binghe absolutely would. ergo, imagine, if you will. an au where peerless cucumber doesn't transmigrate in as shen qingqiu, but airplane still becomes shang qinghua. due to plot differences, airplane-bro doesn't really care about what the hell kind of drama the other peak lords are getting up to, but still somehow happens to knock over a book or something- something that, through bullshit plot contrivance butterfly effect, somehow manages to let shen jiu actually save liu qingge in the lingxi caves.

some years pass, years where liu qingge is going through a fantastical knightly enemies to ??? where he slowly learns he may have initially misjudged this man who may not be the paragon of virtue but is nonetheless a person worthy of respect with a possible sordid past that resulted in a difficult disposition and now has to kneel down and admit then make up to his failures, as shen jiu is like "what kind of fucking scheme is he trying to pull", which results in like a weird strained kind of coworkers who Don't Talk About It type relationship. the immortal alliance conference still happens, everything proceeds as in canon, except- when bingge comes back from his 5-year internship in tartarus and does his pidw-canon-typical "destroy shen jiu's reputation and lock him up in the water prison" shenanigans, it turns out that liu qingge Can and Will try to break shen jiu out -not because he really likes the guy all that much, necessarily, but he has a life debt to pay back and also has already dragged his one (1) braincell through the grinder in order to realise his assumed-evil coworker is probably not actually one-dimensionally evil, so he feels complicated enough about it to try and get some actual answers in here - and if that involves kicking demon ass that's just a fun bonus. normally, all this would not be an issue for demon emperor luo binghe who has recently basically come into nigh full power if you discount xin mo being grumpy, because, as established he would not hesitate to kill his former shishu! in fact, he'd be very glad to do that! however, for item out of designated boundary reasons, liu qingge Will Not Fucking Die.

...cue clown music.

liu qingge has already sacrificed his last braincell to trying to comprehend his shattered worldview of shen jiu as a person and therefore he does not examine why he is Actually so determined to break him out, and also doesn't have enough brainpower to feel torn by the fact that duelling luo binghe every week is actually kind of fun (and also why he kind of has a boner about it). shen jiu has a moral crisis about the fact that the man who he's first hated then avoided for like over a decade is now the one guy who keeps trying to legitimately come back for him and is willing to risk death over and over in order to do that, and also that somehow this pisses the beast off enough to distract him from the whole revenge/ripping off limbs thing- except now he's for some reason coming down to the water prison to rant about it? luo binghe, for his part, does not know why he's ranting about it to shen jiu of all people (it started as taunting! then it became some kind of weird routine because that one guy just cannot cease being alive and what is UP with that) and while he does have enough braincells to question why fighting liu qingge every week feels more stable than any other relationship he's had in his life since his mother died, he absolutely refuses to examine it. none of them are making it out of this normal. the clown music gets louder every time they're in one location. huan hua keeps having to dish out more and more repair funds for the bai zhan war god's going ham most destructive. the three clowns are locked in a mario/peach/bowser dynamic stalemate none of them actually want to be in, but it's what fate has dealt, and some god is probably laughing at their miseries.

(meanwhile, god is not laughing. god is wondering what the fuck happened here and how it got to this point and also if this means he might put some of his fake-his-own-death plans on hold just to see what kind of bullshit happens next. ...god also really wishes he could invent popcorn.)

[ramshacklerumble]

got him doing the eel equivalent of giggling and twirling his hair

aight i finally get to talk about the fucking earring, context under cut:

at the beginning of sophomore year, gia asks floyd to indulge them a full-on magic duel. not now, but sometime later in the year before he leaves for his internship. floyd is…confused by the request, especially since they’re both given to just get into it at any moment, why ask when he can just hand their ass back to them right now? and honestly, gia doesn’t even argue with that, i wouldn’t even be surprised if they do fisticuff right there and then.

but gia insists on challenging him to a magic duel, which floyd finds funny, especially since gia seems so sure they’ll beat him. and for those keeping score, up to this point, gia hasn’t been able to get a definitive win on their own— they’re stalemates at best. but they say, when they win, they want his earring as a prize— having heard the story of how the twins got them from jade.

floyd blows them off until gia gets a one up and gets him indebted to them (i haven’t quite figured out what this is yet), they force his hand into accepting the challenge. floyd is all okay fine whatever, get out of my face, and generally just doesn’t think much of it. he’s aware gia has some piddly little homebrew type flower power magic, but it’s nothing to write home about in the grand scale of things. he’s actually more convinced that they can give him a better run for his money in a straight physical fight than a magic duel. but whatever, if the shrimp wants to get smeared across the floor, fine.

insert the rest of sophomore year, gia goes absolutely into overdrive into honing the development of their flora magestone. this time it’s less about gia getting roped into shenanigans and more about them actively seeking it out in pursuit of knowledge, power, and even just the outright thrill of it…and it’s starting to yield results that floyd can’t ignore.

he starts to get a little prickle of excitement as he starts to believe that maybe, maybe this silly little shrimp might actually have way more fun in store for him that he thought they would.

and at some point after that, we get this little scene.

taglist:

@cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind @tixdixl @winterweary @thehollowwriter @jovieinramshackle

@theleechyskrunkly @skriblee-ksk @boopshoops @the-trinket-witch @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @kimikitti

@s-t-y-x @nightwingshero @water-writings @beneathsakurashade @oya-oya-okay @scint1llat3 @welcometomypersonalhell098

(dm to be added)

[tadc-harlequin-au]

New Puppet Unlocked: Caine, The Puppetmaster!

Caine's character description:

For the longest time, Caine believed that he was the only Puppet left who hasn't gone insane, and has spent living in near complete and total isolation for it (if it weren't for Bubble, his robotic Butler Blimp), drowning himself in booze for what seemed to be the remainder of his days.

That was, until Pomni suddenly arrived at his office out of nowhere and challenged him.

Her sudden appearance, her fierceness in battle and various other reasons, Caine sought to get Pomni to see the dire situation after a stalemate in their duel; That they're the last remnants of sane minds remaining in this forsaken lands and he needs her help for what must be done next, if they are to improve the world's conditions. Thankfully, the Harlequin was not actually cold-hearted, just hot-tempered.

Reinvigorated in his self-assigned purpose, The Puppetmaster now spends his time either indoctrinating reawakened Puppets and teaching them how to become "human" once more, tinkering/inventing new machines, having friendly debates or sparring with Pomni just to satisfy her urge to battle, and various other things.

Though, he still likes to drink.

Fun facts about Caine:

He is a massive drunkard.

He passes out in the most random places if he drinks too much. One of the most outrageous locations Pomni has found him in was at the chandelier on the main lounge, which even he can't remember how he got there.

Caine still acts boisterous and speaks mostly formally; though there are ways you can break his way of speech, the easiest way to do it is to surprise him.

He avoids using swears, says it's a gentleman's code. Though, some get past his mouth on a rare occasion.

He created Bubble out of loneliness, initially just wanting someone to talk to.

In a comedic parallel, he tends to limit Pomni's cravings for battle by holding her sword hostage as much as possible, of course to the Harlequin's frustration.

His second gold tooth on his bottom jaw was a result of his and Pomni's first meeting/duel. She ended up kicking him so hard in her rage, one teeth cracked in half and flew off.

He tends to look at everyone with a positive mindset and the want to see the best in them; although Jax seems to be a rare exception. Still, he lets the automaton be.

Most of his time is spent hanging around in his office. The only time you'll see him outside is if there's a task he needs to attend to, assembling Pomni back together in the cellar, another sparring match with the Harlequin, or when he talks to Z and/or Kingr, since they are both too big for the insides of the mansion.

Like almost every ADHD-person, he is prone to getting distracted easily.

He has a strict "no fighting in the premises" rule; instead, he tells them to literally take it outside (even if it means being on the neighboring lawn), as long as it's not on the INSIDE.

He keeps his shirt opened because he feels discomfort and suffocated when he buttons it up.

He doesn't like to talk about his past.

When asked what's his classification, he'll avoid and switch topics. His rare anger (but eerily-calm way of speech) comes out when you ask about it too much.

He does admit that his entire body was self-modified.

You can hear his arrival in a scene by the sounds of ball joints slightly cracking in place.

Aside from Pomni, he likes Kingr the most, finding the chess piece's presence calming. This has lead to jokes about a bromance happening between the two.

And just like Pomni as well, Caine fixes Kingr the most because the Helpful King tends to use himself as a shield for the Harlequin.

He's rarely seen without his cane.

He HEAVILY dislikes it when Pomni dies. When he is aware that Pomni is at the brink of death, he'll start panicking and telling her to go back and abandon the mission for now, through Bubble.

After Pomni's surprise arrival (and proof that he could still be hunted down if he wasn't careful enough), he took the manor up to the skies to ensure that the manor remains a safe haven.

Quotes:

"Greetings! I am Caine, and I am here to help you. That's all you need to know."

"I think we can arrange that."

"This is not part of the plan!"

"No fighting! Take it outside."

"Perhaps we can reach to a sort of agreement..."

"Hmm... quite intriguing."

"Why, I must say, this is quite the predicament..."

"Will you be mindful of your own sake next time, pretty please?"

"... I don't-... think that's how-... you know what, do whatever you want."

"... Okay, you don't need to go that far."

"You know what this calls for? [...] A CELEBRATION! [...] BUBBLE, TO THE LIQUOR STORAGE"

"You know, I haven't really thought this through enough--"

"BUBBLE! Did you chew through my latest project again?!"

"Oy vey..."

"I am aware of the effect that alcohol has on me. And quite frankly, I don't care."

"Strange, where am I? Who am I? What are we, but mass-produced products catered to extending one's stay on a desolate, abandoned realm? Are we even human anymore, or are we machines that think we're human in order to save ourselves from the pain of a fake existence? Hm? Oh right, I haven't eaten my dinner."

"Must we really resort to this method?"

"Oh, I just fixed that!"

"Apologies, I blanked out for a second. What were we talking about?"

"Bubble here can help you out on your dilemma. Just don't listen to him for any advices. Personally, I think sometimes he can make you jump off a cliff."

"What do you mean "I need to stop drinking"? I'm perfectly fi- *passes out*"

"Am I aware that it is an unhealthy coping mechanism? Yes. Do I plan to stop? Not exactly, there aren't a lot of options left."

"That is outrageous! Me? With her? That's... It's... *sigh* I can't. She'd never."

"May I just say, for once, what the actual fuck."

[capnsaltsquid]

Something I find fascinating about Slay the Princess is the way in which it's determined that a route is "complete" and Shifty can yoink the Princess. In theory, Miss Mound can see the vessels as soon as they step outside the construct, but that doesn't mean she will automatically grab them. Instead, she seems to wait until the thread you end the Princess wove together is complete.

In some cases, it's when you reach a mutually satisfactory conclusion (fight the Adversary or Eye of the Needle, leave the cabin with the Damsel or any permutation of the Spectre) or reach a stalemate (refuse to fight Eye of the Needle, fall forever with the Wraith, Witch locks you in the basement).

In other cases, she intervenes to avoid premature destruction of the construct that might result in her being forever incomplete (Apotheosis and Networked Wild).

Whatever the case, the truth of the situation goes far beyond the Narrator's simplistic understanding of "world ends when she leaves the construct." Does Shifty have insight into each vessel's perspective that allows her to know when to act or can she simply not see them, inside or outside the construct, until their threads are fully woven?

I like to believe it's the former and that when you leave the cabin with HEA, she decides to give the two of you a little extra time together to fulfill the Princess' wish for a starlit dance. She's waited uncountable eons after all; what's another few minutes?

[coddda]

Everyone knows that Light and L matched each other's freak but I think their dynamic in the musical (the Japanese ver specifically) is underrated. Like it's not super different from canon but they just had this extra edge of Violence that we never quite saw from the more methodical and careful mindgames in canon death note and I think it's great. Like, yes, they did declare in canon that they will bring each other to justice, yes L says he wants to send Kira to his execution, but in the lyrics of the musical they both outright say multiple times that they just want to straight up Kill each other. It's direct the whole way through. There's more mutual contempt. This game is about nothing more than simply being the first one to Kill the Other (they actually use the word "殺し合い" (koroshiau) or "to kill each other" to describe their game (translated as "murderous ... game")).

(Sidenote but all those references about wanting to send each other to Hell?? Beautiful)

Yeah this is a battle of justice and ideals, yes that clash is a key part of their final confrontation at the end of the musical, but throughout their duets (or even songs like The Game Begins where they're singing by themselves) there's this near singleminded desire to just fucking End each other. It's fucking Raw and it's great.

Also THIS FUCKING SCENE?? THIS SCENE FROM SECRETS AND LIES. Iconic. Actually Insane. My jaw dropped. Light looks like a crazy bitch it's beautiful.

Um. Also. Obligatory Playing His Game (yknow the gay sex song) lines dump. It basically says everything I just said above in like 9 lines. You see what I mean right.

In canon they're playing a game of mental chess, trying to use everyone around them to finally catch the other as their end goal, but in the musical you really do feel like all they see is each other. They would probably beat each other to death with their fists if it came down to that. Idk they're just so excited and fired up about their little game in the musical and it's so unhinged and fun and special and I love it. It's like the writers for the musical decided to kick their murderous intent up a couple notches and the result is absolutely Beautiful.

I also think that the intensity of their rivalry in the beginning just makes the wind-down of The Way It Ends soo much better. It's such a good contrast to their previous duets where they try to sing over each other (Secrets and Lies & Stalemate) or with each other but basically at the top of their lungs (Playing His Game). It feels like there's both a quiet mutual understanding but also an underlying disappointment that the game is finally over. In canon, L's death Is instead the peak of their game, the moment he gets confirmation that Light is Kira is the exact same moment that he dies. In the jdrama it's almost sudden, how L dies, after the quiet moment has already passed. But in the musical L's death, ironically, Is the one quieter moment in their game. Their peak was the game itself. It was Secrets and Lies and Playing His Game. But the end of the game in the musical is not a victory, it's just (as L says) the end of everything they'd been wanting up until this point.

Uh. Fuck it. Clip from the Kenji Urai version because I just love his delivery here. His tone just goes so well with the silence and the sound of the clock ticking. You see what I mean right.

Their rivalry in the musical may have been more shortlived but like Damn they were really enjoying every second of it. They were truly insane about each other until the very end. (Like despite everything I just said about the ending it was still unhinged as fuck. Light Making L Shoot Him and then Making L Shoot Himself with L's Own Hand?? Holy shit man. What the fuck /pos)

Musical Light and L your game might've been shorter but you'll always be famous <33 Please never inflict what you had on anyone else ever please stay in hell forever thank you

[moviestarmartini]

trátame suavemente. — franco colapinto x gf!reader

no quiero soñar mil veces las mismas cosas / ni contemplarlas sabiamente / quiero que me trates suavemente.

summary: reuniting after spending months apart and having recently recovered from a fight feels bittersweet. however, you have to push all your feelings aside at the end of the weekend to treat your boyfriend softly. 

wc: 2.3k 

warnings: established relationship, hispanic!reader, sentences in spanish, bit of angst, long distance relationship mention, takes place after the são paulo gp, nsfw (18+ mdni), p in v, bathroom sex, oral (m!receiving), lowk edging, whiny!franco, sub!franco if you squint, unprotected sex (get on your pills or shots or SOMETHING don’t raw it), creampie, soft sex and ambiance overall. 

A/N: based on this request ! and yess, franco with soda stereo again hehe. please listen to the el último concierto (remastered) version of this song when reading, it's a whole different vibe than the og !! mil besitos as always and feedback is appreciated

now playing... trátame suavemente by soda stereo

“Vení.” 

Come here. Franco’s voice echoed the minute he noticed your hesitant footsteps filling up the once empty silence. 

You leaned against the bathroom door frame, head leaned to the side. The lights were dimmed— proper of a fancy hotel, where else would you be able to adjust the lighting anyway?— He soaked in the steamy water clouded with the relaxing bath salts, trying to find some relief in what had been his worst weekend yet. Both on and off the track. 

“Hi.” You greeted softly with a tiny wave of your hand before it retreated back to its post across your chest. 

“Sabés que no muerdo a menos que me lo pidas.” He sat up, back straightening. Humor was a natural addition to his words, even when he was at his lowest. It never seemed to impress you, and it was something you could sometimes hate. 

The scene was still vivid and bright behind your eyelids. Counting down the days for him to come home, getting the call he was in fact going to take longer— because he’d made it. He’d made it to Formula One. Your heart sped up when reliving the memory, unaware of how difficult it was going to be from then on. 

Your relationship wasn’t exactly public, something you’d chosen yourself in case occasions like these arose. Then you’ve come to realize it gave him a certain freedom, the one that allowed him to flirt openly with interviewers and not face repercussions to his public image. 

Behind closed doors, it was another story. 

You tried. With your whole chest, you tried to not complain to him directly. It was his personality, the way he’d pulled you in from day one. One day, you just couldn’t. His absence was palpable, and after a week or so without any communication he’d texted to sulk about his mediocre results during the Mexican Grand Prix, having the fast lap taken away from him. 

You couldn’t hold it in. From the fact he was inconsistent in the relationship that had you suffering through a rollercoaster of emotions, to his absence digitally and the lack of interest in your doings. He’d barely have the time to check in with you, not about you. 

The calls were frantic, tears were shed, and he promised to be more present. The fight was left in a stalemate, and you cursed yourself when the flight reminder popped on your notifications. You couldn’t help but wait another week to see him? 

The same word with four letters that broke the silence moments ago was texted by him that same day, and you couldn’t hold a grudge even if you wanted to. You were never truly mad at him, you just missed him. So much so it ached in your bones, both set your heart ablaze and cooled it at the same time. 

Painful could only begin to describe it. 

Your worries were pushed away once you clarified everything, after the Saturday session was canceled and all you had on your shared agenda was cuddle up in the hotel room, quiet promises being made. After all the grief he had to withstand in the midst of this storm— literally— the last thing in your priorities was to stay on your own petty agenda. 

At his request to be closer, you sat at the closed lid of the toilet, unable to take your eyes off of him. 

“You’re too far away.” His insistence only furthered, eliciting a quiet laugh out of your lips. Without further ado, you stood up, stripping off the simple lounging set and folding it aside before sinking opposite to him on the warm water, growing cold with each passing moment now that the faucet was off. 

“What is it?” You blinked, head leaned to the side. Franco looked at you profoundly, and you wondered if he had something he was trying to figure out about you. 

“I missed you so much.” 

The words hung in the steamy air while you processed them, your bottom lip puckering out while a mixture of emotions washed over you. A part of you didn’t believe him, while the other ached for those words, even if it wasn’t the first time he said them during the weekend. 

“Really?” You wondered out loud, not caring that the water could spill out of the tub while you carefully moved to rest by his side, an arm wrapped around you. 

“Yeah.” He insisted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m exhausted now. This was supposed to be such a good weekend… by the red flag all I wanted to do was lay my head on your tits for hours.” 

“Baboso,” You splashed him with water, both of your laughs echoing in the room, the acoustics amplifying the sound. 

“I missed you too, by the way.” You spoke up after a while of silence, the shapeless shapes he drew on your skin with his index finger lulling your heart to a lower rate. 

“Por si no era obvio.” You added soon after, your laugh making your heart skip a beat. You didn’t feel like your claims from just a week and a few days ago were irrational, and you stood by them. He also did, acknowledging his lack of care. 

But you were there, by his side. When he most needed it. And you wouldn’t change that for anything in the entire world. 

Instead of getting an answer with words, you felt his fingers tenderly cupping your chin, guiding your gaze to his in order to receive his lips in yours warmly. 

Careful and complex. His lips moved with calculation, and a sigh inevitably left yours. This is what your body ached, what made the desperately cold layer dissolve off your heart and set it fully ablaze under his careful affections. 

You moved to straddle his hips, arms wrapped around his neck. You could’ve sworn you heard a whine while he straightened up, his hands holding onto your hips for dear life. 

Desperate and desirable. The kiss transitioned to match the steam in the room, his hands unable to find a place to stay put in, instead just roaming the soaked inches of skin he could get a hold off. 

“Me hizo muchísima falta tenerte así,” Franco let out in a pant, eager fingertips delving into the plush skin of your ass. Now it was your turn to answer with an action, leaning in to kiss down his neck, carefully placing affections on the prominent scar knowing it made him squirm. 

“Ay amor…” He let out a groan, unable to resist when your chest pressed against his torso. 

“¿Qué pasa?” You questioned quietly, fluttering your lashes up at him. You took his physical queues and understood them almost immediately. He couldn’t help but lean into his touch, shaky breath leaving his lips with each grazing of your fingers. 

You noticed how he swallowed hard, just shaking his head to signify nothing was going on— nothing was inherently wrong. 

“Sit up here.” You instructed quietly, patting the tiled edge before the tub began, seemingly used for people to sit and dry themselves. This once, you two were definitely not going to use it for that. 

He followed the command obediently, watchful eyes following your movements while you positioned yourself between his legs. 

“You’ve had such a rough week…” Your voice was hypnotizing, in the same way your hand stroking his length was. “Let me take care of you, mkay?” 

The words he planned on letting out found themselves choked back when you deposited a kiss on the skin edging between his inner and outer thigh. He melted into his spot almost literally, manspreading to give you more access to leave the warm affections that brought goosebumps to his skin. 

You batted your eyelashes innocently up at him while your flat tongue licked the underside of his hard cock, green eyes hyper-focused on your lips wrapping on the flushed tip. 

“Fuck…” He managed to groan out, his right hand reaching to clutch your hair while the other held onto the ceramic, preparing himself for what he’d been desiring for what felt to be years, when in fact it had only been a short couple months. 

You knew how to treat him, how to push his buttons just right without exceeding into a rougher context. All you wanted was for him to relax, at least for now. That didn’t mean you didn’t put in the effort, your hand encompassed what your mouth couldn’t take even when it almost hit the back of your throat.

“Que linda te ves con la boquita llena,” He caressed your cheek tenderly while you took a breather, his hips jerking upwards ever so slightly to thrust into your hand.

“Hm just for you,” You winked in agreement to the compliment before wrapping your lips around the now leaking tip, humming at the taste of the precum on your tongue and inevitably down your throat. 

“Así, así,” Franco whined the minute you started bobbing your head up and down his length with precision and speed. He threw his head back, allowing the moans to leave his mouth freely, mixing in a dangerous cocktail with his heavy breaths. 

The moment was perfect. You knew Franco was getting lost in it, nearing the edge with each desperate jerk of his hips matching up to your nose grazing his lower abdomen. He could still feel the warm water, but nothing could compare with the sensation of your throat. 

Unless… 

“Pará, pará,” He breathed out, his tone high pitched, containing himself into not bursting out the seams right then and there. 

“¿Qué pasó mi rey? Did I do something wrong?” You pulled away visibly concerned, straightening up still on your knees. 

His response was a weak shake of his head, chest rising up and down. He still rested his back against the tiled wall, regaining his composure. Your eyes traced every inch of his skin, every mole and freckle, subconsciously licking your lips. His laugh snapped you out of your shamelessly perverted ravaging, and you looked up at him with a smile. 

“Te amo tanto.” He muttered, leaning in to close the gap between your mouths halfway. Even if seconds ago you were wondering why on earth he would edge himself, the kiss told you everything you needed, adding to the support his hands gave you to get on your feet and sit on his lap. 

His lips parted from yours only to give soft kisses to your cheek and jaw, traveling the marvelous road down your neck. Your moans were soft, beginning to ease into it when a curious hand parted your legs open. 

“Fran…” You breathed you, your hand reaching to caress the hair falling near his nape; it was longer than usual, he needed a trim— you noted mentally, reminding to comment on it later. 

“Let me feel you,” He whispered against your skin, the action forming goosebumps on the area. “Estás tan mojadita; porfa.” 

He didn’t need to beg twice, your back already pulled away from his chest, shifting around in his lap and raising your hips a little in order to sink down his length, your sighs of relief harmonizing. 

“I missed this so much,” You noticed you had rendered him almost incoherent from the way he could barely formulate the words between heavy breaths and moans, a battle to keep his eyes open to watch your figure as you bounced on his hard cock. 

“Ay ese culito…” He groaned, the sound of a smack bouncing on the walls before it remixed with your yelp, but it only encouraged to move faster, wanting to give him the show he deserved. 

Franco didn’t allow himself to get lost in the mesmerizing movement of your body, instead pulling you back to be as close to him as humanly possible, his hand cupping your chin to almost drag your face near his. 

The kiss was sloppy from his part, the grinding of your hips was sharp in comparison, and he couldn’t focus. Your wet skin against his, the noises you started making the moment he started toying with that sweet spot. 

“Amor,” He couldn’t help but call your attention, ripping his lips off of yours in order to speak. You noticed the way his brows furrowed— and how could you not? he was always so expressive— his bottom lip puckering out while he tried to make out the following words. 

But he didn’t need to. 

“Yes,” You nodded, feeling your own orgasm approach quickly. From the moment you stripped and dipped in the water you knew you weren’t going to last long in whatever activity you might engage, and you were okay with that. 

“¿Si?” Franco whined, his lashes fluttering while his eyes fell shut before he could hide his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Si. Cum inside.” You confirmed, feeling his lips press against your shoulder blade before the conjoined noises filled up the room, the hand that occupied the space between your legs failing in its constant rhythm, while the other dug into the doughy merge your hips and upper thighs conformed. 

You let your eyes close while the wave of pleasure washed over you, chests rising up and down rhythmically. It felt like you had just floated down from the sky, settling down into the reality of the position— a bit insane, to say the least— you found yourselves in, guided by the pure lust and yearning of each other after the sudden separation. 

“All good over there?” You laughed softly, receiving a small ‘eh’ in a high pitched tone. It took Franco another moment before he raised his face, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your jaw before his arms wrapped around your midriff and into a tight hug. 

“Con vos? Todo perfecto.”  

[yoitsmano]

Life after Narnia

The Pevensies return from Narnia a bit discombobulated. They are adults in childish bodies. The war has ended, and they are to return home to their parents but they never forget Professor Kirke. Often visiting him during summers.

Their mother notices it first, how everyone seems to listen to Peter. Not because he is the eldest, but because they respect him. She hears them talking of 'Narnia' and deduces that something happened to them while they were away. But she can't put her finger on what. She has no idea what an 'Aslan' is, but she doesn't question them. She misses her children. They are there in their home, but they aren't. There's always a faraway look in their eye as if they are remembering.

When they eat, no one picks up a fork until Peter starts. It confuses their father. Leaving the table, Peter stands, then Ed. The boys take their sisters' hands and lead them from the table before coming to help with the cleaning. She notices the way they walk. Peter is always first, Susan next to him, then Edmund and Lucy. They walk with regality, Peter and Ed with straight backs as the girls take their arms.

They are out on the town, when their father notices it. The children stopped in front of a jewelry store; something had caught their eye. Without saying anything, Peter opens the door, and his siblings walk through before he does. It is a set of lapel pins they saw first. A Lion. He hears them all say "Aslan" before Peter pulls out his wallet. From that day on, he always notices a Lion somewhere on their person. Peter with a ring, Susan with a necklace, Ed with a pocket watch and Lucy with a bracelet. But all wear their pins when he sends them to school.

Peter often forgets that he is not to speak before his father, but one look from Lucy quells his anger. His father calls him "boy" and it takes everything in him not to correct him. He is High King.

He begins working when he turns fourteen. He tires of asking his father for things only to be dismissed of "silly childish things". All he asked for was a sword. When he saves enough money, he buys his sword, and Susan an archery set. Susan notices the tension between Peter and their father.

Edmund asked for a chess set and his mother obliged. He often plays with Lucy, resulting in a stalemate. The only person to ever have beaten him, was Susan.

Lucy is the one their parents notice the most change in. No longer is she a nine year old, but she talks as if she is older. Using words even they don't know the meaning of. She speaks of this Aslan the most. Their parents realize that "Aslan" is the name of the Lion they brandish when they hear various exclamations of "Aslan's Mane!" or "By the Lion!"

They return to their school, Whitmore Boarding School. Many people notice a change in them. Mostly their teachers. Peter commands respect, Susan is positively regal, Edmund has a silver tongue, and Lucy is more peculiar than strange.

On the first day of term, a professor addresses Peter as "Boy" amongst other professors and in front of his brother and sisters. Peter cannot help himself. He tells him to address him with respect; to call on him as "Sir", and he will receive the same respect in turn. He will never answer to "Boy" again. It takes all his restraint to not say "King".

The Professor never did ask him the question he had called on him for.

It almost infuriates their teachers, but they realize that they aren't arrogant, just way too mature for their ages.

Another problem arises when Lucy refuses to wear the school appointed skirts. She prefers pants, or dresses. Never skirts. The headmaster nearly calls their parents when her siblings storm into his office. Peter demands to know why Lucy is being punished for wearing clothes, and why he did not send for him. The headmaster explains that he is not her father and Peter rebuffs him by explaining that his father has put him in charge of his siblings if any problems arose. He reminds him of the letter sent to him explaining such matters. Edmund pulls out the handbook and explains to the headmaster that the rules do not say that girls are not allowed to wear pants. The headmaster calmly explains that the list of supplies sent to them specified black, tan or grey skirts for girls, and black, tan or grey pants for boys. Edmund then points out that the rules do not forbid girls from wearing pants or boys from wearing skirts or dresses. He then calmly suggests that he drop the matter or Lucy will spend the term walking around school without bottoms, as the rules do not forbid that either. Citing that they were told they had to purchase the uniforms, but the rules do not explicitly say they had to wear them. The headmaster does not know if he is annoyed or impressed at the loopholes Edmund finds. He drops the matter, and it is never addressed again.

All the Pevensie’s take up a sport or two. All of them take up fencing, aside from Susan. She took up archery. Peter and Lucy take up swimming. Edmund joins the debate and chess teams. And Susan and Lucy both excel in ballroom dance. Susan doesn’t even try out for the archery team. She’s just in the courtyard watching the team practice with Ed and criticizes their technique. The captain of the team overhears her and challenges her to do better. She smiles at the boy, saying she does not want to embarrass them. They laugh and vaguely insult her intelligence and Susan just looks at her younger brother and he smirks. He stands and holds out his hand, addressing her as “my Lady”. The team laughs and Susan takes the captain’s bow, gets a feel for the weight, and then requests a full quiver. Ed stands to the side and comments, “You asked for it.” She hits the bullseye on every target. The captain has the audacity to say, “lucky shot” So Susan shrugs. There’s a target that’s moving and she nocks another bow and hits the bullseye without even looking. She then hands the captain back his bow and walks away with Ed. She finds the captain’s pin on her desk the next morning.

The rumor goes around that Peter prefers to be called “Sir”. While he’s sitting in the courtyard with his siblings, a group of older boys walk up to him, one calling him “Sir Peter” in a mocking voice. Peter puts down his book and calmly answers with “yes sir.” He stands to look the boy in the eye, and as the boys spout insults. Susan can see that Peter and Ed are getting angry, so she stands between Peter and the boys, placing her hand on his chest and tells him to walk away. It isn’t until one of the boys pushes Susan away that Peter loses his temper. Edmund catches her before she hits the ground. The biggest boy grabs Peter’s collar and immediately regrets it as his shoulder promptly leaves its socket. The other boys come at him, and he side steps. All four of them are on the ground with various injuries and Peter didn’t throw a single punch. He received detention and attended with pride. No one ever touched Susan again.

The professors are surprised when the Pevensies join the student council and the school seems to run better than it has in its history. Edmund works mostly behind the scenes, but people usually come to him or Susan with their problems. They think Peter is scary, but Ed reminds them that they voted him in as the head of the council. He tells them to actually talk to him, he’s not as stoic as he seems.

The adults notice that the Pevensies do not dress as children usually do during their off hours. Instead of t-shirts and shorts and hoodies, the boys are always in slacks and a pressed shirt, sometimes with a tie. Susan enjoys sun dresses and flowy skirts and blouses. Lucy is always wearing boots and pants with a loose shirt. She is not like any of the other girls they’ve taught.

They have all grown taller in the three years they’ve attended the school after the war. With Peter now seventeen, standing at six foot three. Susan is fifteen and almost as tall as Ed at five foot eight. Edmund has always been tall and skinny for his age, but now at fourteen, he stands at five foot ten. Lucy is the one who has grown most noticeably, at thirteen she stands at five foot six.

Peter writes to his father, asking for money for when they go to the shops on the weekends. He receives a reply, saying he ought not ask for silly things. He learns that he can open an account at the local bank. He never asks his father for anything ever again. Even after he left school, anything his siblings wanted, he provided for them.

Lucy asked Peter why he refuses to write to their father. Peter looks at her and, in all seriousness, he replies “he treats me like a boy”. She then goes to Susan, and she tells her that she suspects their father is jealous that someone taught Peter and Edmund to be better men before he could.

During a weekend outing, the school chaperones notice Edmund and Lucy sitting at a table playing chess. He watches as Susan and Peter are perusing the shops. But instead of buying games and toys and candies, they are in a bookstore. Peter comes out carrying Susan’s books and they join Ed and Lucy at the table. Susan cracks open a book and Peter lights his pipe. They don’t know where he got it, but no one dares take it from him. When Lucy and Ed came to yet another stalemate, Susan put her book away and took Lucy to a dress shop. Peter put away his pipe and followed. Ed just reset the chess board. They are indeed more grown up than they seem.

A few girls pluck up the courage to ask Peter to be their date to the ball, but he tells them that he is already spoken for. No one is surprised when it is Susan on his arm at the dance. Yet, no one expects it when Lucy and Edmund join the two on the dance floor and dance the waltz as if they’ve been doing it for far longer than they’ve been alive. They are surprised, however, when Peter and Edmund extend their hands to their teachers to dance the cotillion. They are accepted.

Many professors have gotten used to Peter watching the courtyard during class. But no one could have prepared themselves for Peter suddenly standing and letting out what sounded like a growl before speeding out of the classroom. Many people knew the look in his eye and followed him to the courtyard where Lucy was. There was a new student in Lucy’s year. He hadn’t learned the rules of the school, or proper etiquette for that matter. Lucy had started to be more like Susan. Gentler. Lucy opted not to fight when she could avoid it. Sometimes she couldn’t avoid it. This boy had tried to touch her inappropriately and got punched in the stomach. But he was bigger than Lucy and had backed her against a tree. He didn’t get much further as he was pulled off her and a fist met his face. But this one was bigger. Stronger. He was then pulled by his collar and lifted against the wall by the absolute beast of a man he had never seen before. No one had seen him before. All he heard was “Peter” before he was dropped. His knees gave out and he looked up from the ground to see Peter standing before him, chest heaving. “Apologize.” Came the low growl. There was a small, slender hand on his chest. He supposed that was all that was keeping him from probably dying. He thanked every god he could think of. He was then heaved from the ground by his blazer and made to look Lucy in the face. This hand was different, but the fury was the same. “I believe there is something you need to say.” Came Edmunds voice.

“I’m sorry.” He said, terrified. Lucy just looked back and said, “I supposed you will learn to keep your hands to yourself.” Before Edmund let him go. Peter was still growling. He got off too easy in his book. None of the teachers said anything, noticing how the one hand from Susan kept Peter at bay, they kept that information in their proverbial back pockets. That boy never touched anyone again.

For fear of the beast that was the Pevensie siblings.

[butterbabyflapjack]

chapter3 . hypocrites

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount: 3.3k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @fionasapple88 @alllaboutangel @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, dubious consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

okay. so guys. the next and final part ended up being like 30k, so I’m splitting it up into multiple chapters.

PLEASE BE AWARE: the “enthusiastic consent” tag remains and is 100% valid, but I’ve also added “dubious consent”. having both will make sense by the end of your night. lots of shit going down lol

✧˖° chapter 3

Something hangs in the air of this moment. Flexes through it like light before rain. Something heavy, that sticks to your skin; dragonfly wings trapped in the sugar-sheen of Florida sweat. And even now, when it’s so quiet that you can finally think, it’s all you feel—those wings, trapped and buzzing on your skin, discomfort raking all across you.

In the hush of Brian’s car, speeding forward through the night, you reach for the knob of the radio between you. Cranking up whatever song is playing though you can hardly hear a thing.

You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts anymore tonight.

You’re over second guessing.

If you’re losing your mind, there's no gaining it back now. What’s done is done, and what’ll happen as a result was always going to happen.

There’s nothing you can do to stop what's in motion tonight, so why are you even still questioning? Why are you anxious ? This was all your idea.

Beside you in the dark, Brian glances your way. One hand on the wheel as it seems your silent tension’s somehow caught in his periphery. Street lights strobing in and out of both your visions as his sleek car races past them; ruby-black in humid moonlight.

”Seems you have a lot on your mind…” he observes. And his tone doesn’t press you for more, not really. The watchful hush which follows left only for the willing to fill it, and it seems you aren’t willing, seeing as how you more or less ignore him. Folding your stony arms across your chest as you stare out that window beside you.

He turns back to the road as you hide within that music you can’t hear. Doing your best to distract from all those discomforting wings still caught on your skin; to flee from thought entirely. From that little voice in your head that warns you in a language you can’t comprehend. Left in a nervous stalemate between yourself and your rage and your disquiet, hoping it won't all rend you raw as you tumble again and again and again through all those fatal things that might occur tonight. That’ll possibly stain your hands red, as your own hands enact them. All those bloody things that could come back to bite you should anything go wrong, should anything unexpected happen, and it feels like the world’s slipping out from under you, that everything’s unexpected, that nothing can be predicted in the tempest of what may come tonight. 

Brian’s car speeds toward more residential streets, a crimson comet eating all before it as it smoothly roams toward that address you’d given him; the address of that man you’re going to kill, if you can actually do this, and– fuck, are you actually going to do this? Are you actually going to kill this guy instead of turning him in? Instead of any less violent alternative?

There’s no coming back from murder. 

At least, you don’t think there is.

The music’s a failed distraction from the constricting spiral of your thoughts. But as the tires of Brian’s car begin to slow, you’re slowly dragged into the present, where a long, dim road stretches out before you. One you recognize as Gary’s street, having been there yourself not so long ago. Blinded and bound there by a vengeance so fierce you weren’t previously aware such fury existed.

Your expression darkens as you’re once more swept out in the wartorn sea of your mind at the memory of it.

You would’ve killed that fucker then if you hadn’t so recently come across Dexter. Came across who he really is; a monster who pretends he’s not.

So what does that make you?

You’d waited in Gary’s office for what felt like forever that night, and even longer after finding those hard drives. Gun numbing your rancorous hand. And it slowly hit you. How it wasn’t enough; not nearly. Pressing down with more and more insistent weight with just how much you wanted to draw out that bastard’s suffering for as long as humanly possible. A single bullet was far too kind after what he did.

So. You’re worse than Dexter. 

Cool. Very cool. Very—

“You’re not second guessing this now, are you?”

Brian’s tone is a jaded edge, and again, you’re snapped back to the present. Seeing him eye you from across the dark center console of his car, with one sculpted bicep hitched up along the top of his chair. And it gradually becomes clear that you guys have been parked here for a while, now. Who knows how long he’s just been sitting there like that, watching you silently struggle within yourself.

Embarrassment peeks its ugly head before you stuff it back down again. Doing your best to steel your gaze before fully looking at him.

“No,” you lie. Quite convincingly, you think.

He studies you for drawn out moments, his expression veiled by midnight, until eventually he quirks an idle brow.

“Looks like you could use a pep talk,” he states.

Your own expression’s pinched at how nonchalant he’s still being about all this. Like tonight’s just a game, yet it would see your life forever altered.

“A pep talk?” you wryly question. “This isn’t a soccer game.”

He merely shrugs, the leather of his seat twisted beneath his leisured weight. “All the same. You seem to have forgotten why you’re here. That this was all your idea.”

You definitely haven’t forgotten that part.

He glances out at that beige house he’s parked in front of, its clay roof bathed in the same darkness encompassing the lightless street.

“You wanted this,” he tells the window, before meeting your worried gaze again. Seeming to decipher something from some hidden place inside you, despite all your attempts to keep how perceptive he is at bay. “...You still want this. And sure, Dexter helped in orchestrating what’ll happen tonight, but he far from put the idea of it in your head.” 

From where he idly watches, one corner of his lips forms a devil’s curve. 

“That was all you, my woeful student. So. You can follow through with your own plans tonight and cut that paedophilic mongrel down, or ,” he shrugs, just slightly, “we can drive away right now, and he can go on living. Relatively unpunished, all things considered–and there’s a lot to consider where your niece’s concerned, by the sound of it. I’ll even throw in the added bonus of taking our little deal off the table for the time being, and not allowing him his chance to off you–a one time offer, so make it count.” His lifted brows are a listless provocation. “Your choice, killer. Just say the word, and I’ll drop you off home, safe and sound.”

Even with how unsubtly sardonic he’s being, you’re more enraged at Gary than you are aggrieved at him because of it. And though you’re still enrobed by doubts, the weight of hatred spills over until you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt without a word, eyes hard as your jawline tightens.

He merely chuckles as he watches this newfound gusto he’s easily inspired.

“Not yet, little killer,” he cuts your ambition short. Leaning across the center console in reaching toward you, and though you flinch as though in anticipation of his touch, he merely unlatches the glovebox before your knees. Reaching in for a small, leather pouch that seems it’s precisely where he’s left it. And as distant lamplight shines across its silver buttons while he brings it back to himself, you realize that pouch is Dexter’s. That it’s his little holster of M99.

Unsnapping its delicate buttons within his lap, Brian reveals a neatly tucked syringe with a soft-green cap, alongside a small vial of clear liquid. And as he takes that needle out, idles it in his hand with a physician's sureness, a small frown weighs his lips. And you suppose, perhaps, that Dexter’s knives aren’t the only item of his brother’s he’s loath to use this evening.

“This isn’t really my thing,” he says, more to that syringe than anything. Seeming to admire how its liquid gleams with starlight against the dark, before re-sheathing what’s assured is all here. “But, Dexter’s the savant in relocating victims. Or, rather, dragging their dead weight around for no apparent reason other than what that precious code of his requires, for which he so obediently dances. So I suppose we’ll play things his way tonight…” A slip of thought glides by his mind so briefly. “At least partially.”

Looking back, it’s quite unfortunate you’re too currently absorbed by all that tension in you to really question how exactly his plans might deviate from what Dexter had in mind.

“He could always skip that part and just kill his victims where he finds them, but,” with a tensely released breath, he seems quite exasperated, “he’s so particular about that kill room of his. So painfully rigid beneath the thumb of all those rules.” Annoyance weighs his brow. “So dramatic.”

At this point in his aggrieved monologue, you can’t help the little huff of laughter that clips right out of you, and his dark eyes pivot to yours as though actually offended by it. Which, in truth, just makes it even funnier.

You can’t help it. He’s such a hypocrite. And at that look, you’re forced to bite back a heightened shade of amusement.

“Dramatic,” you restate. “Says the guy who used Miami as a theatrical, murderous stage just to catch his little brother's attention. When you could have, just… I dunno…” Guile hints one corner of your lips. “Sent him a letter…?”

That look Brian tosses you, as the strong line of his shoulders flexes tight, is perhaps the flattest you’ve ever seen.

“Oh, goody,” he says. “I was hoping someone would come around with a better idea for reuniting my long lost family. A letter. How didn’t I think of that? And how do you suppose that letter would read, I wonder?”

Something in his tone has you opening your mouth to deter him, but he’s already continuing, “Why don’t we draft it right now?

“Hey, baby brother–it’s me,” he recites, as though penning this message out loud. “You know. The big brother you don’t remember? ”

He’s so measured, yet you already regret bringing this up. Some wound you sense in him scratched open as your stomach slowly shrinks from where you watch him.

“Guess you’ll have to take my word for it. Anyway; this life you’re living? We both know it’s all a lie. 

“Oh–you don’t know that? Well, allow me elaborate: your fake dad made it all up. All these rules. All these lies. Created this cage for himself to keep you in. That fake dad you’ve practically deified. The guy who tore our lives apart. Who strong-armed our mom into being dismembered alive right in front of us. Who took you from the only family you had once he was finished ransacking our lives, burying you so deep in his lies that you’d never even know I existed.”

That tension in his dark-scruffed jaw seems to hold back more than what he’s already stated, which is already more than you meant to tease out of him, before he’s casually continuing:

“He’s not your real dad, Dex, and he’s not your real family. So fuck him and everything he’s ever said. You don’t need his rules, nor his falsehoods, nor his family–you already have a family.

Me .

So throw his fabricated bullshit behind, and we can be together like we always should’ve been. As we were, before that lying, manipulative piece of shit came around and ruined absolutely everything.”

Your lower lip aches the more you gnaw it. And Brian eyes you a moment, in your reluctant silence, before adding:

“Oh, and–by the way, little side note here–I know what you are, Dex. I know what you're hiding. But I suppose that's a conversation for another time; bit heavy for a letter, don’t you think? Then again, a letter is apparently the right response to a lifetime of suffering and fighting my way toward reforming my shattered, stolen family, so…”

He listlessly shrugs, though his eyes remain sharp.

“ Anyway . Xoxo, all the best, till next time~ Signed, the Ice Truck Killer.”

The tension in the darkened car is palpable upon his impromptu letter’s end. Something far more edged in him despite what his careless charade might offer. And more than anything, you wish you could swallow back your attempt to ever taunt him; realizing upon him sarcastically making it crystal-fucking-clear just how far you’ve overstepped into something you don’t know nearly enough about to give advice on, to pretend you understand; to press upon or joke about in the slightest. 

All mischief in you has died, in favor of chasing after words you cannot catch, that are too heavy to wage from you. Because though you want to apologize–for bringing this up, for making light of something held in such darkness–each attempt to say a thing remains held on your tongue, lodged there, unable to leave you, because can you really apologize for having anything questionable to say–joke or otherwise–about a long anticipated family reunion that led to the deaths of so many innocent women? So many working girls who never hurt him, or anyone else? 

Women whose murders you personally sought to find justice for. 

Whom you failed to find justice for.

Brian’s plans–those plans too complex for a letter–led them all to their deaths. And they would all be rolling in their graves right now if they saw you, feeling bad for him. Working with the man who slaughtered them instead of cuffing and dragging him in, or–better yet–lodging a bullet in his deceptively handsome head.

So you can’t say a thing, as he and you watch each other in the dark. Both of you shut off too different things, it seems, yet with pieces of you fraying. Abraded threads that half-unravel, before they’re boarded so swiftly up.

“I’m sorry,” you say at length–the words fighting their way from you, regardless of their disloyalty toward those you’ve failed to protect. And you swiftly look away, avoiding both Brian and yourself; staring hard out the window. “I… I didn’t mean, to…” Your arms tightly fold across yourself as emotion too obscured to unravel knots your brow. “I don’t know your guys’ history. Not fully, at least–not even slightly, really, and…”

At your pause, an image flashes in your mind. One he painted for you earlier, of him and his brother. Two little boys trapped in blackness and blood by the remains of their mutilated mother. And how long must it have felt, holding Dexter in the dark? What must he have said to in any way calm him? Two little boys forced to witness such savagery. Two children, reliving in the dark what had happened whilst held in that blanket of red; that final comfort spilled from their dying mother.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you slowly shake yourself. All other words failing you as, eventually, you force your gaze back to the watchful snare of his, to how his study’s never strayed. And you should just stop talking, but you hear yourself carrying on all the same.

“And that’s not to say you should explain, or elaborate, or… or anything, I just… not if you don’t want to, anyway, I just…”

Of course he doesn’t want to–why would he open up about any of what he and his brother have been through more than he already has, and especially to someone like you? What are you even going on about? 

Again, your words peter out. Wishing you could read his watchful silence, though to do so seems a task beyond anyone.

“I’m sorry,” you say again weakly, at last.

He watches you for so long you think he may never respond at all.

“Are you done awkwardly rambling yet?” at last he blandly wonders, as embarrassment once more sparks your throat, rising up it. 

Biting back on retorting with something more blunted, you say stiffly, “Yes,” instead.

His expression’s a mask; his eyes a glimmered shadow in its darkness. And for a while, more, he simply studies your reaction to him. That embarrassment. That conflict in you. Your stunted lack of spiteful tongue.

“You keep apologizing,” he says at length. So close to reprimand, and yet it seems he doesn’t fully understand it. 

You don’t know how to respond, and it seems there’s distant words trapped in you both.

“There’s no need to be sorry for things you haven’t done,” he lowly says, as that tension continues to drag. “But it’s funny, ‘cause…” His brows briefly knot in his consideration. “You’re the only one. The only one who's sorry. The only one who apologizes, even when you don’t need to. The only one who does so without the threat of a gruesome end loosing it from their lying tongues, anyway.”

It feels there’s some splinter in his facade that you could slip through if you tried, though it’s stapled gruffly closed again before you get the chance, the very second you even think you spot it.

“I don’t think that’s funny,” you hushly say, but he smiles like it is; soft, and with little warmth to it. Not even close to melting through all that ice in his eyes, that cold which buries everything beyond it.

“Sorry,” he says, mocking you. Though some part of him seems to mean it. Something more solemn. “Truth be told, I never know what’s funny anymore.”

He’s the first to look away. Staring instead out the darkened window. Out at that house you’ve come to hate, with all its windows dark save for one. That one which Gary must be in.

“We should go,” he tells the darkness. “We’re burning moonlight. And it seems your unfortunate friend is already patiently waiting for us to find him.”

When his gaze finds yours again, its blackness is lowly biting. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

It’s near impossible to disentangle all those warring notes inside you, but still you grit your jaw and mutter, “What happened to you being my soccer coach? Stop trying to make me second-guess myself.”

Through the shadows, he’s gradual to smile. Roguery smoothing out all his previous edges. “Really… Do I actually seem the type to talk you out of anything this fun or potentially dangerous? I’m willing to see where this road takes us. I’m just wondering if you are.”

That little curve of his lips slowly broadens as he eyes how you manage nothing more than a tight-lipped stare. Unwilling to let your voice further betray your lingering uncertainty, or anything else for that matter, though it seems he’s stolen enough of your thoughts as it is. Thumbing through them at his leisure; all those secrets of mind and heart you’d rather hide.

“C’mon,” he says at last, with the sureness of having an answer you never gave him. Already unlatching his door and stepping out onto the moon-lit walk, while you’re left with no choice but to follow. The events of this entire evening were your idea, after all, and it's far too late not to see through what you’ve started. And in the back of your mind, it somehow feels that, despite all his offers to escape what’s yet to occur, Brian’s made absolutely sure that won’t happen.

[the-silly-creature]

I have some ideas about big man and your ability to beat him in a fight and its all in my tags

Note: these incoherent ramblings are largely based on personal headcanons so sorry if this doesn't line up with your beliefs

Random Splatoon tier lists day 7: smash bros time, who's beating me?

[tsuchinokoroyale]

Love putting on this cheap ass robe it makes me feel like I’m the emperor’s only male concubine that gets assassinated by the court for taking up all the emperor’s time without being able to produce an heir which results in a retaliatory culling of the noble houses by the grieving emperor, tearing apart the political stability of the nation resulting in an influx of foreign influence vying for control over the region due to the presence of a rare mineral endemic to the nation alone which can be refined to produce a potent panacea or turned into the component of a deadly weapon which turns into a large scale international stalemate as the emperor would rather stay in his room producing tear-jerking paeans about the goodness of my nature and the warmth of my embrace that future queer historians would discover held treasure troves of double entendres that would become commonplace slang in the peaceful future secured by the long-term cohabitation of these foreign nationals, themselves away from home and seeking human connection, which fostered cultural exchange and later mutual understanding and the establishment of permanent armistice that would later be attributed to me through my death and immortalize me as a symbol of peace through noble sacrifice and establish my life story as the base archetype for all doomed romance stories for millennia, even tho in reality I was just an errant washing boy with poor impulse control and a breeding kink that wouldn’t quit

It’s also pretty soft !

[acotarxreader]

Papertrail

Azriel X Reader

Synopsis: For months Azriel had gotten to know you through the intelligence letters you penned from the Autumn Court but finally meeting reveals your twisted reality.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, descriptions of injury as a result of domestic violence.

A/N: I hope you guys like this fic, I enjoyed writing it despite the nature of the beast. Please proceed with caution or not at all if you believe the themes in this lil guy to be upsetting.

P.S this got equal votes with the silly one in the poll but I'm listening to Evermore rn so ye're getting the angsty one hehe

------------------------------------------------

Azriel’s grin dashed across his face like a Cheshire cat as he tried and failed to tuck it away in the presence of his friends. He read through the words over and over again, a lighthearted quiet laugh leaving him. 

“What do you have there Az?”

“Nothing” he replied too quickly to Mor thrown across the sofa of the Town House, her eyebrow raising as he began to carefully fold it back away. 

“They’re his love letters” Cassian cooed from the hallway, shaking off his jacket as the Spymaster tried to do the same to the maroon growing in his cheeks. 

“Leave it Cass” the letter found safety within Azriel's jacket pocket again, usually these would be disposed of after reading but Azriel knew he’d need the comfort of your words again after this trip. 

“I think it's cute”

“It's not cute Feyre, it's intel” 

“Intel? Is that what you single people call it these days” Cassian smirked, finding his place next to Nesta on the couch, arm thrown over the back of the seat behind her. Azriel fought the way the word single made his heart twinge even if it was said in jest.

“It's none of your business is what it is, where's Rhys, we'll be late” Azriel tried his best to change the topic but it became like a cat playing with a mouse.

“You should see him when they arrive Mor, he blushes so much you'd swear he was from Dawn” 

“I do not blush!” A playful couch cushion met Cassian's laughing face, the group joining in, a smile escaped Azriel to his own annoyance.

“Tell us Az, do you have as much correspondence with your other insiders?”

“Yes”

“Liar” Mor laughed, the sound of Rhysand landing in the garden echoing through the joyous house. 

“You write her more than anyone, your face betrays you when you're writing”

“It does n-”

“Who’s face betrays them?” Rhysand flexed his wings gently after the long flight before planting a kiss on the top of Feyre's head and joining his family gathered in the living room. The group looked in unison towards Azriel, all grinning widely. 

“Ah, Az’ little love affair”

“It's not a love affair! I've never even met her, she writes me intel and I writ-”

“-That you love her on bathroom stall doors” The group laughed at Mor's quip as the group stood to leave Velaris for another laborious visit to the Autumn Court. 

“I don’t-I don’t love her”

“Sur Az, maybe try telling your face that” Cassian called back to him as he draped his coat across his broad shoulders once again. 

—------

The meeting with the Autumn Court had its usual turbulence but thanks to the information you had provided, no major surprises were brought before the Inner Circle. Azriel watched from his usual perch in the corner of the meeting room, Rhysand and Beron engaged in their typical vitriol. The Spymaster's gaze landed on Beron’s particularly brutish General as he stood to the side of his High Lord. 

“Kelvin, show our dear guests their way out, we've reached an impasse” Beron bit out to the tower of a male who stood obligingly, the negotiations reaching their usual stalemate. 

“Your High Lord seemed especially prepared for this meeting, Shadowsinger” Kelvin whispered to Azriel as the group made their way to the exit of Forest House. 

“That’s his job”

“Even still, interesting how there seemed to be a prepared argument for every notion that was put before him, I would hate to hear that people aren’t playing by the rules” Azriel didn’t let any part of the thinly veiled threat rattle him, only a scoff left him, brushing off the accusation. 

The group ducked out into the Summer air through a large door they were directed to, Kelvin stopping Azriel to continue their conversation just before the threshold. Azriels hand went into his trouser pocket in a practised nonchalant movement, his jacket draping over his scarred hand. A shadow leapt to the ground of the now empty hallway before Azriel even noticed, his beloved slip of paper meeting the ground with softness. Kelvin was quicker to retrieve than the shadows were to conceal, a rookie mistake Azriel cursed himself for mentally. 

“Hmm, your correspondence Shadowsinger” The paper sat slotted between the General's first and middle finger towards Azriel, he moved to take it back, much too quickly, it being pulled back from his grasp again.

“Hm, eager to retrieve?”

“It’s nothing” Azriel lied through his teeth, wondering how much damage to diplomacy would be caused by slaughtering Kelvin where he stood. Kelvin splayed his two fingers slightly, pulling the folded paper apart to reveal a small sliver of your penmanship, his face hardening instantly as a shadow shot to snatch the paper back. Azriel was just glad that that particular letter had been personal and not vital intel, no major security threat in its exposure could be achieved. 

“Right well, enjoy your night” Kelvin's abrupt, frosty end to the conversation was not lost on Azriel as he watched the giant male seemingly stomp down the stone corridor. 

“C’mon Az, it's time to go” Cassian's voice tore Azriels eyes from Kelvin's back.

-

Further meetings between the Courts were relatively uneventful, Kelvin kept his distance from the group and made himself unavailable for meetings with any of the inner circle. Azriel had contacted all the Autumn Court spies he had to ensure they stayed on alert, all had replied except for you. Every night Azriel would wait for the note he’d sent down the line to you to reappear, but it never did. After a month of radio silence, Azriel had become increasingly irritable and restless in his work, had even tried to contact the Fae who had initially put you in touch, but nothing came of that lead. He paced his small living quarters in the residence the Night Court used in the Autumn Court, unable to take his mind away from the imaginary scenarios in his head. 

“Az, you’re going to put a hole in the floor” Cassian stepped squarely into his brother's path, his arms catching hold of the paling Illyrian's shoulders. 

“We have to get downstairs, the ball is starting and if you’re not there, Beron will think you’re off snooping and get spooked” Azriel shook his head in agreement to the logic, moving from Cassian's grasp to fix his suit jacket. 

The two entered the already bustling ballroom with the coordinated power that comes with centuries of familiarity. The Autumn Court guests meshed in with the Court of Nightmares guests Rhysand had invited, this attempt at building bridges seeming to work, as long as the alcohol was freely flowing. 

An hour or so later, Azriel had managed to escape a particularly persistent fae in favour of a darkened corner of the space. His eyes traced over the various members of the gathering, all deeply swirled in an alcohol-induced truce. He watched the tower he knew to be Kelvin tip his head back in laughter at some comment one of his lackeys had made. His gaze was pulled back to the General with the sudden appearance of a much smaller fae at his side, a smile that didn’t meet her eyes gracing her face. Azriel’s shadows instinctively shot with quiet excellence to wrap softly around your ankles beneath your dress. You cautiously tore your attention from the conversation, locking eyes with the Spymaster across the dance floor. The colour drained from your face and almost as quickly reappeared, you just gave the smallest of nods towards the Illyrian. Azriel’s thoughts went wild at the sight of you, feeling every cell in his body confirm to him that you were who he’d spent all his time thinking about these days. He moved a step forward in your direction, your head ever so slightly shaking no to the movement. Azriel felt his nerves scream at him to walk towards you, fighting some level of primal instinct as he stayed fixed on the spot. 

“Drink Shadowsinger?” Eris’ voice caused his head to snap in the direction of the source. 

“Not poisoned is it?” Azriel took the flute of shimmering gold, some of his shadows returning to glass, swirling around it before confirming to him it was safe. 

“One day you’ll trust me”

“Maybe it’ll be the day you keel over and die” Eris laughed at the sarcasm before noticing Azriel’s eyes land back on you. 

“Ah, YN” Azriel’s head darted back to the eldest son of Autumn, his somewhat amused words confirming your identity to what his instincts had already told him. The female he had spent months learning so much about but never dreamed of meeting was stood in the flesh mere metres away and you seemed to want to keep it that way. 

“You know her?”

“In a social sense, she is Kelvin’s wife-” he took a deep drink from his glass, seemingly drowning a comment in the liquid. Wife. You were married. Azriel fought to keep upright, you had never mentioned anything about being involved with anyone, how could you be married to someone else, you both had shared such love through your correspondence, all for it to be a lie, Azriel thought. It became clear then how you had such unbridled access to the workings and plans of the Autumn Court, that you were married to the male who made them. 

“-She hasn’t been around much lately-” Eris continued “-she tends to avoid these kinds of gatherings, he must have let her out to play”

“Let her?” Eris necked the remainder of his drink, depositing the glassware on the tray of a passing server. 

“This isn’t the Night Court Shadowsinger, Kelvin belongs to a very relic-like line of thought, she belongs to him, he controls the reins and she has to go along for the ride. He probably has something to gain from her presence here” Azriel’s heat boiled in his veins, threatening to come out as steam from his ears. Eris rolled his eyes at Azriel’s silence, growing bored of the interaction and heading to find someone else to play with.

You stood at the edge of the circle of large males, seemingly enjoying the conversation alongside your husband. Azriel noticed the way your long dress clung to your bones, sleeves as long as your arms with a neckline that practically touched your ears, an odd choice for the Summer, even in the Autumn Court Azriel thought. You dipped your head slightly as Azriel watched you make your exit from the group, Kelvin’s eyes heating your back until you entered an adjacent hallway. Before Kelvin would notice, Azriel dissolved into the shadowy corner, his shadows eager to reunite with you. 

“Just a moment” you called back to the soft tapping on the bathroom door. You supported your weight on the counter of the sink, glaring into your own reflection as you tilted your head side to side to inspect the coverage of the make-up you had applied over any traces of betrayal. Your attention was taken from the mirror as a shadow slipped beneath the entrance, you watched it approach you with such gentle caution until you moved to unlock the door with a shaking hand. Hazel eyes looked deeply into yours, afraid to blink in case it was all a dream. 

“Hello stranger” You couldn’t find a reply to him, only reaching for his shirt and hauling him into the bathroom. 

“Are you fucking crazy?! Did anyone see you!?” You rattled out, pacing up and down the small space, Azriels shadows wrapping around you. You looked down at them with a loving smile, a sense of familiarity between you and them.

“No, no one saw me, I-I can’t believe you’re here and…and you’re married!” you stopped dead in your tracks at Azriel’s slightly raised tone. You dragged a hand down your face, trying to pull some control back to the tiled space. 

“I-I didn’t think it was relevant”

“Not relevant!?” Azriel rasped out, his hands partially flailing out in exasperation, and your eyes clung to their movement. 

“It-its a need-to-know basis”

“I would think I would be a part of that, fuck it we told each other practically everything else about one another!” His volume grew moderately, heat rising at the back of your neck.

“Don’t be mad at me Azriel, please” A shiver shot down his spine at the sound of his name on your lips, any semblance of annoyance fleeing the scene. 

“I’m not, I’m just glad that you’re okay, the radio silence frightened me” he closed the distance between you, the smell of mist and mint flowing around you as his hands laced into yours. 

“Azriel, I’m-I’m married”

“Happily?” he laughed out, it dying in the air with your lack of reply, worry starting to transverse his face.

“YN?”

“I-”

“YN!” Kelvin’s voice accompanied by heavy pounding against the solid oak door, your whole body flinching at the interruption. 

“Coming!” you called back, the rattle in your voice cutting into Azriel’s ears, your hands pulled from his soft hold. 

“Azriel please go”

“YN, I don’t like this” his hushed tone matching yours, Kelvin's footsteps haunting the hallway. 

“Azriel, please just go”

“I’ll go if you promise to meet me later”

“Azriel”

“YN! Come on!” the pounding on the door returning, the handle vibrating much like your bones. 

“Fine, fine, I promise, go” you rushed over to the door, your hand landing on the handle tremulously and after whispering where to meet you later, Azriel reluctantly dissolved into shadow once again. 

-

Azriel reentered the party like a bull in a china shop, unable to refocus after your encounter, he waited for you and your husband to reappear, but you didn’t, the party swirling around him. He counted the minutes down until the party had come to a natural stopping point and he could escape to meet you in the wooded area behind your house, allowing conversations to ebb and flow around him. 

Finally, he could make his excuses to head to bed, spending all of a minute changing into his training clothing for easier agility. He snuck through the shadows of Forest House as though made of their atoms, moving with precision through passageways until he found his way to the city, slinking through the dwindling crowd with ease. 

Azriel waited in the wooded area for nearly an hour, his shadows casing the vast forest for your presence with nothing to show for it. He decided to take things into his own hands as the depths of nights swaddled him. He moved closer to the two-storey property, the glow of the kitchen light filling the small patio beneath a colossal oak tree.

Azriel could make out the outline of Kelvin and a few others from the party, clearly having decided to continue the revelry in his home. Music flowed out through the opened window, his shadows sneaking through the cracks to scope out the ground floor, returning to Azriel with no knowledge of your presence in the private party. Azriels eyes landed on the flicker of a candle from the upstairs of the property, his shadows beginning to leap around him. Scaling the large tree was an easy feat for the skilled Illyrian and soon he was level to the window. 

The blood drained entirely from the Shadowsingers face at the scene through the window. You sat in a ball, knees split open and huddled into your chest, the dress that shielded you earlier now in tatters around your ankles leaving the cruel water colouring decorating your body on full display. The beautiful colours of Autumn coated your flesh in their brutality as crimson flowed from a gash, tinging your hair. 

Downstairs Azriel could hear booming laughter from the group, fresh new thoughts of slaughter entering his mind.  A shadow faintly tipped against the window, the sound rocketing through every cell of your body as you jolted with the fright. Your tear-stained eyes landed on the Night Court’s Spymaster who clung to the trunk of the tree outside your chamber. Your tremoring muscles lifted you from the splitting wood, over a shattered lamp covered in your blood. You delicately pushed into the hinges of the window until it gave in under your weak strength, the Summer air rushing in to meet you. Azriel skirted across the limb of the tree to slip into the space, your eyes fixated on the wood as he landed nimbly. 

“Y-YN?” he approached you like a wild deer stuck in a bear trap, afraid speed would cause you to bolt and lead to further injury.

“I-I’m so-rry I didn’t-didn’t come meet y-you” you managed through your quivering throat, the taste of blood and bile poisoning the words. Azriel gave you a small hush, his shadows surveying every stretch of your skin they could.

“We need to get you out of here” he spoke so quietly you almost missed it in the drumming of your ears.

“I-I can’t go with you”

“YN, theres-theres so much blood in your hair” his hand calmly raised to brush the maroon matting away from your face, the source at the crown of your head gleaming in the moonlight. 

“He-I shouldn’t have been so-so long away from him ear-earlier” You fought every urge to lean into Azriel’s touch, an unfamiliar sense of trust towards a male's hand growing in you. 

“Fuck that” Was all Azriel could think to say, moving quickly and quietly away from you again. His shadows wrapped around you to support you as you stood watching the fleet-footed Illyrian grab some things from around the room, the sound of the brutish males merrymaking downstairs covering his movements. 

“Azriel”

“YN, you’re coming with me” some of his shadows returned to his ears in almost an excited fashion.

“Good idea” he replied to them as they darted out the window again, your heartbroken eyes began to swell with tears of pain and anguish.

“Will you be warm enough in this?” He pulled a thick coat from the splintering wardrobe, Azriel getting the feeling it had been a heavy feature of your battlefield, wishing the thought away.

“Azriel, I-I can’t go, I’m his”

“No-” he turned to face you as he spoke, seriousness coating the entire word as he held out the coat to you again “-You belong to no one other than yourself YN”

“Azriel, that’s not how that-that works here”

“Well it is now” He sheathed your mottled skin, the thick fabric, its weight causing your exhausted legs to buckle slightly, Azriel’s arm instinctively wrapping around your chest to support you from the side. You sucked air sharply through your teeth, Azriel releasing you again.

“Sorry YN, I didn’t mean to hurt you” his eyes searched yours frantically as you folded your arms across yourself, your hand tracing the growing deep magenta along your ribcage.

“It's ok-okay Azriel” he turned back to the small satchel he had begun to fill, slipping it over his shoulders. He moved back to the climb to the reach of the tree, arm outstretched inviting you to take hold of him. 

“Azriel” 

“YN, either you come with me or we both stay” his soft but firm voice had you rocking from foot to foot trying to decide what to do, caught between your potential future and your definitive present.

You looked towards the destroyed room in front of you and back again at the Illyrian offering you the answer to your prayers. You exhaled as deep as your chest would allow you to, moving closer to the window, the sound of crunching ceramic beneath your feet the only sound in the room. The only sound in the room. The only sound in the room. 

The door swung screeching on its rusting hinges as the General of the Autumn Court crashed into the room in a drunk swirl of rage, amplified by the sight of his wife’s rescue. Azriel leapt from his perch to block you as a blood-curdling scream left you, instinctively hitting the ground for cover. Before Kelvin could reach for you, Truth-Teller found its home in the thigh of the male, his blood springing free from his network of vessels, reaching and mixing with your own on the floor. The giant hit the flooring with an almost deafening thud, writhing in pain, alcohol stealing any chance of a coordinated retaliation. Azriel retrieved the knife, hovering over his new greatest enemy. 

“You will suffer a thousand deaths for this, but not right now, not when it would be merciful” Venom dripped from his bone-chilling tone, a cadence you knew would never be directed at you. Shadows once again filled the room, scraps of paper in their grasp covered the space as Azriel crossed back towards you, pulling you back to your feet and into his arms. Swarms of multiplying shadow cascaded and concealed you both until they dissolved, leaving the two of you in the warmth of a small living area. 

“Now, home again” Azriel breathed out in relief, you found a small smile grow, mirroring his ease as he pulled you to his side and over to a plush loveseat. 

“Azriel I-I can’t believe what-what just happened”

“And I can’t believe I had enough restraint not to murder him where he stood, but Rhysand hates paperwork and besides, I have bigger plans for him” Shadows nipped the side of his shoulder playfully as he retrieved a cup of floral tea from the kitchenette in his small studio apartment.

“Fine, we have plans for him, so praise starved my little friends. Go fetch Madja for me sweeties” he played back to them as they darted off happily. 

“And what exactly have you all planned?”

“Well, Beron is suspicious the Court has a leak and with some careful…editing, now he’ll find his leak” he passed the cup down to you, covering your legs in a throw blanket.

“You had the shadows plant letters in the house for Beron to find?”

“Well, in the morning we’ll send Eris word that you found the letters and he attacked you for trying to tell the truth” he slotted into the seat next to you, a damp cloth in hand to run along your tangled hair, freeing up the clumps of blood. 

“And when they ask why I’m here?”

“Eris will award you with an emissary to the Night Court position, so loyal to the Autumn Court, the perfect fae to keep an eye on us” You found a slight laugh leave you, the sound bringing a grin to Azriel’s face. The sound of light tapping on the front door accompanied by Azriels returning shadows signalled Madjas arrival.

—-------------------

You awoke the next morning to the plush fabric of Azriel’s king size bed, the fabric swaddling your freshly stitched skin. You reluctantly opened your eyes, afraid you had dreamed the past twenty-four hours as you forced yourself upright in the bed. You looked around the cosy well-loved space, hints of Azriel everywhere, except for the Illyrian himself. He had left his makeshift bed on his couch early in the morning, eager to begin his ruse. 

You crossed the room to the small kitchenette on your world-weary legs, a tray sat gleaming on the counter with fresh scones and the fixings to make the floral tea you loved last night. A smile grew as you heated water on the stove for the tea. 

While the water rolled to a boil, you wandered around the space, taking in the world that Azriel had let you into in his letters, still in disbelief, that this had all happened. Your hand crossed over the bag on his desk, the random assortment of wares Azriel had packed making you laugh slightly. The water hissing as it boiled over the rim of the saucepan had you rushing over to it, bumping into a tall tower of boxes as you reached for the stove. You jumped at the sound of crashing files from behind you, scrunching your face before reluctantly turning to the mess you had made. You cursed aloud, kneeling to collect the reams of paper as Azriel knocked before entering his own home. 

“Hey YN, all don- what’s going on here?” He laughed before panic started to dash across his face, rushing to conceal the content of the parchments. 

“Azriel…are these….are these my notes to you?” you held a small collection in your hands, Azriel reaching to snatch them from you in a protective manner.

“Don’t…don’t tell Rhys I’ve kept them” he said with almost shame, crouched across from you as he carefully folded the paper. 

“Wh-why did you keep them?”

“Because they’re you YN” he looked from the penmanship to the female who gifted him the words that kept him company for months. You leaned off the backs of your legs to reach across the piles of history between you both until you met Azriel’s mouth with yours. He leaned further into the kiss, the two of you still kneeling in the nest of paper. His hands traced gently across your waist as yours wrapped around his shoulders, your inner gravities pulling one another together with tender force. Scarred hands ran up the length of your back, meeting equal chasms and fissures, both of your marred stretches of skin feeling whole again. The feelings of true safety and security flowed between you both coupled with the energy of shadow and fire finding home in one another. It felt as time no longer existed, never-ending and final, like nothing beyond the pools of paper mattered. You separated as the need for air sailed towards critical, your hands slid down his chest as his slipped around the nape of your neck, you both leaning in to rest your foreheads together, careful to not reopen your wound. 

“YN, you’re my…”

“Mate” your glowing soft eyes landed on his smiling hazel as they seemingly sparkled. 

“I was going to say my everything but I believe those are both the same from here on in”  

-------------------------------------------------------------

Whatcha think friends??

The lovelies: @milswrites @sarawritestories

[asharaks]

so here's the vision for Treviso: instead of the nonsensical and racist Antaam invasion, the Qun are working with the Antivan government to push the Venatori out of the city. We get a Josie cameo here. In the meantime, the Chantry are taking advantage of the political situation to push for more power in the country; there are da2-Petrice style anti-qunari demonstrations in the streets, trade embargoes, gridlocks, religious fervour. We meet various Qunari ambassadors, workers, delegations, all of whom get names and faces and personalities and opinions.

The Crows are being pulled back and forth by whoever has the most money that week (this changes a Lot, depending on your actions) and multiple contrasting contracts. There's infighting going on, as well as hierarchical friction: since the loss of the symbolic favourite grandson of the first talon, the resentment of the other fledglings has been stirred up, and there's talk of potential coups being planned. The elves who were bought as children and abused into becoming dispensible killers resent the leading family of wealthy humans; the Dellamorte's position is weakened as Caterina grieves her favoured protégé, and expends resources on his return while the city breaks down around her. “The crows rule Antiva” is less a rallying cry than a threat.

This is also an opportunity for Teia to shine, and bring out the nuance of the worldbuilding: she's an elf that clawed her way to the top of the hierarchy, and as a result is resented by the ruling elite; having her in this rare position, where she is neither a Dellamorte nor a human, but holding onto her power in this historically incredibly unbalanced organisation, it would be good if you could ask her opinions on the Issues. what does she think of Lucanis, of the elf children, of the practice of buying slaves?

Rook’s presence as the leader of the alliance built to combat the blighted gods (more on this later) catalyses the events that break the stalemate one way or another, by supporting certain crow subfactions, choosing to fight back the blight or not, taking quests for the chantry or the qun — and choosing to save Treviso or Minrathous, which can bring the conflict to breaking point — but ultimately, they’re one more representative of one more faction in the city, and while they can influence the balance of power by lending their aid to or with holding it from various factions within the city, they don’t dictate where the cards fall, and won’t find out for quite a while how things in Treviso shake out.

[next - minrathous]