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thesilentmage · 1 month ago

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Trial and Error (8)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You came to Velaris under duress five years ago—pregnant, alone, and in hiding from something, or someone, too dangerous to even speak aloud. When your daughter begged you to go to school years after settling down in the apartment above a worn-down apothecary, you obliged her. But things still didn't feel safe. Azriel was going to do everything in his power to give you that safety. At least, he would try.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, references to an abusive family

a/n: Here is part 8!! yayy!! (and also sorry hehe oops)

Series Masterlist (all parts)

Main Masterlist ♡

Within the echo of your hurried footsteps on the creaking apothecary floor, your labored breaths were plentiful and difficult to quell. You had sent Melanie upstairs the moment you unlocked the door, a feigned smile creating the guise that she needed to hurry and pack her things for her sleepover later. That’s why you had rushed away from the school. Not because you feared for… several things at the meeting of the General of the Night Court.

Melanie believed you, too distracted by her excitement to remain fixated on her confusion.

That was good.

She was fine. You were fine.

Would you stay fine?

Cassian was not dangerous, according to Azriel, but Cassian was loyal to the Night Court. Azriel had assured you that his family would never put you or your daughter in harm's way, but that had never been what made you feel safest around him.

“It has been carved into my chest from the moment we locked eyes.”

“I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you, and I don’t know if that scares you, but I hope it can be some consolation.”

“I want to be all in with the two of you. My life has… it’s changed. It’s different now, because of you.”

It was Azriel himself that made you feel safe—that made you trust. And even though you knew you could trust his words, you couldn’t trust Cassian. You didn’t know Cassian, and even worse, Azriel had told you one too many times how much of a loudmouth he was. He wouldn’t tell the High Lord about you in a malicious way, but it would end poorly. This would all end poorly. You should leave. You should—

The door to the apothecary swung open with a force, the knob smacking into the wall on its way. You turned in anticipatory fear, hand over your heart, but much of that melted away when it was Azriel alone walking through the entryway.

He seemed to take stock of you first, looking for something by your feet that he did not find before moving to your hands, your shoulders, and behind you on the counter. When he completed his search, his shoulders dropped an inch, wings perking up from their drooped position.

“Melanie?” he asked, feet rooted to the floor across the room.

You brought your hand up to clasp your forearm, the position protecting you from nothing. “She’s upstairs packing.”

Azriel’s expression fractured. “Packing?” he croaked. The single word was almost unintelligible; it cracked and got lost in the deep timbre of his voice.

“For her sleepover. She’s still going to—”

You were interrupted by his boots closing the space between you. You felt him before you could catch up with his movements, his shadows slurring against your skin and into your hair. His forehead pressed against yours next, but when you went to search his expression, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I thought—” he began, brows furrowing and creating yet another crease on his face. “I thought I would find you leaving. I thought I scared you away this time.”

Your chest cracked open, heart pounding against your ribs until it hurt. You wouldn’t tell him that your thoughts had gone to that. You wouldn’t share that just moments before he burst in, your fingers had twitched as you thought about the one trunk you kept in the back of the closet upstairs.

You were used to running.

Running felt safe.

Azriel was the only thing that felt safer.

Your tongue darted out to wet your drying lips as you replied, “No. No, Azriel. Mel is just packing for the night.”

You had decided that the second he walked—or, rather, stormed—into the apothecary. You had decided that without the thought even materializing in your mind.

Azriel’s hands, which had made a home along the back of your neck, slid up to cup your jaw. His eyes fluttered open, eager to meet yours, and a bittersweet smile lit them up in a devastating way. “Okay,” he seemed to say to himself. “Okay, good. I’m—I’m sorry. About Cassian. He’s agreed to keep his meeting you quiet.”

There was something he was leaving out. The words were there, lingering in the dark parts of your mind. So you spoke them.

“For now,” you nodded, clasping his wrists. “Quiet for now, you mean.”

“No, he’s agreed—”

“Az, we both know that there are too many moving parts here. Cassian may have agreed or promised or have good intentions, but there are also two five-year-olds in the mix and, eventually, you will have to explain why you keep disappearing from family events. Like Cassian said—”

“I don’t care what Cassian said.”

“I know,” you whispered. He was scared. You could tell by the way his hands trembled against you. You weren’t sure what else scared the Shadowsinger, but you hated that you were part of something he feared.

“I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you.”

“I can—”

“Aziel, stop,” you softly commanded. “It’s inevitable.”

“Tell me who you’re hiding from,” he practically begged. His wings stretched forward like shadows at your sides, protecting you from nothing. “I can fix it. I—You and Mel would be safer if—”

You pressed forward on your toes, and you kissed him.

He paused for a moment, his mouth stiff in shock against yours, but it only took a single breath for him to snap back to the present. Weeks of built-up tension and pressing truths and want poured into the way his lips reverently moved against yours. His touch, still a slight tremor lingering in the joints, moved up until his fingers found the base of your hair. He stepped forward twice, and your back met the front counter.

He only kissed you harder as your right hand left his wrist to steady yourself on the counter. He kissed you harder and he brought his arm around your back to take the responsibility on himself. His hand in your hair bunched at the roots but didn’t tug or pull—it was like he couldn’t help it, like the want to bring you closer resulted in stiff limbs and clenching fists.

You could have kissed him forever. He was keeping you safe here, his wings closing in even more if the light meeting your closed lids told you anything. His shadows brushed your skin, keeping you distracted enough for him to be in control of the kiss, but that wasn’t true; you knew in the small moments of hesitance that he would let you do anything—control anything.

When you broke apart, chest heaving and lashes fluttering, Azriel trailed a few lingering kisses to your cheeks and at your temple. Those were familiar places, territories he’d allowed himself before you’d given such express permission as you had right now. His own breath was somewhat labored, but he wouldn’t stop touching you, wouldn’t fully pull away.

“When I said it was inevitable—” you breathed out, bringing both hands to rest on the plane of his chest. “—I meant it was inevitable that I would have to meet your family. That they would know of me and… and Mel. I didn’t mean that I was going to leave.”

Azriel’s nose nudged against your cheek. A beat of silence followed your words. He pulled back a few inches, tucked your hair behind your ears, and let his eyes trace each of your features.

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel forced just because of Cassian. I could make an excuse.”

He was giving you an out. You weren’t sure how he would possibly swing it, but Azriel was offering you more hiding. More secrets. The ability to have him without being tied down by his family and the role in the court that you so obviously feared. So many implications came with his offer. So many sacrifices he would have to make.

The scales were tipping. Things were changing. Maybe they could know you and be none the wiser. Maybe…

“I—I want to, Azriel. Melanie doesn’t deserve to be living in fear. Even if she doesn’t understand it right now.”

Azriel looked down towards your mouth, expression pained in a lingering wince. He continued brushing your hair back—a nervous habit, maybe, one flourishing since you’d allowed him to really touch you.

“And maybe I could explain things to you tonight. Fully. That way you can know what you might be bringing to your family before—”

“You are my family,” Azriel breathed out, the words not even in the air for a second before his mouth was on yours again.

This kiss was slower, more purposeful, holding more meaning.

It was cut short by stomps down the stairs. Azriel tore himself away from you, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip once before pulling his wing back to reveal Melanie with an overfilled bag dragging behind her. Stuffed animals and at least four pairs of socks peeked out from the top, and you were quickly reminded why you never let her pack her anything.

“What the heck are you guys doing?” Melanie questioned, frustration her primary emotion. “No one even came to help me! Mr. Azriel, only one of your shadows was hanging out with me, and I didn’t get my after-school snack.”

Azriel took half a step back from you and schooled his face into a more managed calm, sincerity evident in his palm over his chest. “I apologize, Melanie. How rude of me. How about I come up and make your snack while you and your mom sort out the bag for your sleepover?”

“I already packed it,” she drawled as if Azriel were blind, shaking the strap in her hand. “But I guess I would like a snack.”

You pressed your fingers over your mouth to stop the laugh from tumbling out. Azriel shot you a playful side eye and squeezed your hip before meeting Melanie at the base of the stairs.

“Oh, I can see that. But you can barely close it, Mel.” He gently took the bag from her, hauling it over his shoulder before lifting her to rest on his hip. “Anyways. Cheese and apples or the crackers I brought from my friend Sevenda?”

Nervous energy permeated the room, the majority of it coming from you in droves. Some trickled from Azriel, but he hid it well within his constant movements.

Melanie was next door. You had eaten dinner together. You were cleaning the kitchen now, a mundane task that could have been done later, but you were clearly using it as a way to bide time. Azriel was allowing it—he would always let you do this at your own pace.

The more you dwelt on your previous plan of only telling Azriel who Melanie’s father was, the more it made no sense to you. If you only told him that piece of the story, he would still fail to understand why you’d run. He would know the name and position of one man and nothing else.

It had to be everything.

You chewed on the inside of your lip as the cleaning came to an end. Azriel made a show of hanging up the small towel by the basin and rubbing his hands together in finality. More time he was allowing.

“The fire?” you asked, motioning to the sitting room. Azriel offered you a small smile and pressed his hand to your back, guiding you to the loveseat there.

Your stomach was turning. He made no motion to urge you, mirroring you as you sat turned to face your mate.

Your mate and you still hadn’t felt the bond.

You picked at your fingers as they lay in your lap.

It didn’t take Azriel long to cover your hands with one of his. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t need to know if you aren’t ready.”

“I am ready,” you emphasized. “I trust you. Completely.”

Azriel leaned down. “Then what’s wrong?”

He would judge you. He would hate where you came from. He would turn you away.

Before, it had been about safety—about protecting Melanie. If anyone knew who you were or who she was, they would turn you in. The reward for doing so was hefty and money was always a driving force. While Azriel may not have been swayed by money, a bargaining chip between rival courts was also nothing to bat an eye at.

But he wouldn’t do that. You were sure of it.

Now your fear lay in his reaction to the truth.

“Nothing,” you assured, your smile tight and wrong as you looked up at him. “Just nervous, I guess.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your temple, but he did not remain there. Azriel gave you space, not touching you, but leaving his hands within reach if you needed them. You would tell this story alone.

“I won’t interrupt,” he said, voice carrying a regalness you hadn’t heard from him.

A deep breath. “I’m from Autumn, but you knew that. Melanie’s father is also from Autumn. He doesn’t know about her, though I think he might suspect since I ran with no contact after we…” You looked down at your hands. “We weren’t together. I’ve never been in a relationship. Never been allowed to.” You tilted your head to the side. “I grew up as a court lady. Trained to be one, anyway. My marriage was not planned at birth, but it was very carefully calculated by Beron.”

You felt Azriel shift on the loveseat, the cushions jostling you. When you looked up, his brows had lowered in concentration or confusion, you couldn’t tell. True to his word, he did not interrupt.

“When it was finally decided, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. The man they chose was a high-ranking noble from Spring, and he was—well, he was vile. About 3 centuries older than me, with a propensity for violence against women and multiple deceased wives. If you can connect the dots there,” you spit out. “But it’s not as if Beron or my… my father cared about that. They only wanted what would come from the union. Spring and Autumn finally chained together when High Lord Tamlin was at his weakest. They tried to force the union with Tamlin himself, but he’s been too much of a wreck to agree to much of anything.”

Azriel let out a breath as if he had gone to speak and thought better of it. You looked up at him with a searching gaze, but he only shook his head slightly and motioned for you to continue.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m telling this out of order. It’s difficult to gather my thoughts, but all of that is to say I had an arranged marriage I couldn’t go through with. My… brothers were all for it as well. There was going to be an announcement across Pyrithian and Beron was practically foaming at the mouth to have it all finalized. So, I ruined it.

“Gods, I had no idea what I was doing, just that there was only one way that awful man wouldn’t want me anymore. He had made it quite clear that my virtue was of utmost importance to him, which was exactly why I was hidden away for most of my life. That, and they were all waiting until I was most useful.”

You were starting to get angry now, and that inevitably led to you getting choked up. Your throat constricted and you twisted your mouth to the side when your nose started to burn. It was infuriating that after all this time, this still affected you this way. You bit your cheek and took a deep breath. It helped a little.

“Do you want a break?” Azriel softly asked, rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone.

“No.” You let out a wet laugh and palmed at the wetness under your eye. “I’ve only been talking for a few minutes. I just get angry, I’m fine.”

You paused after that, collecting yourself, but also getting lost in your head. Memories swirled together and assaulted your thoughts, reminding you of how terrible everything was and could be if this went poorly. Anxiety then came. And regret and confusion and hurt.

You were too far off track to get back on the rails, so Azriel broke his own rule. “Why would you be useful, angel?” he asked, tracing his hand down to hold yours in your lap.

“Oh,” you sighed, “Because I’m Beron’s daughter.”

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thesilentmage · 1 month ago

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Rules are meant to be broken (Alfie Solomons x Reader) Part 1

Summary: Alfie considers the moment he met you a key moment in his life. Gangster and gang leaders, there were thousands. Some succeeded, others succumbed. But Alfie had never seen a female leader with an all-female entourage under her command, no way. A man's world? Bullshit, there you are to prove otherwise. You have only one rule for you and your gang: don't fall in love with a man. That is until you start dealing with Alfie, that's when you create the second rule: fuck the first rule.

Warnings: None.

English is not my first language.

Part 1: "Nice to meet you, Mr. Solomons"

So far Alfie Solomons thinks he's seen it all. We're talking about a man who controls a big business, deals with the Shelbys and does as he pleases. He has the police bought off and the Italians would think twice before betraying him. That's why, when the first bodies started piling up, it surprised him. It hadn't been him, or Tommy, or anyone else, up to that point that he knew of who might be involved. At first he didn't mind, drunken fights to the death were commonplace. Because that was what Alfie thought at first, street fights that ended badly. The police didn't even bother looking for the culprits anymore until that point. But the truth is that as the weeks went by, it kept happening.

And they weren't just any civilians. Small-time gang members, some of whom Alfie knew personally. Young men playing tough until a mere glance made them piss themselves. But Alfie didn't blame them. Even several of the dead were some of his leaders and police members. Now the policemen themselves thought he was the one behind it and that was something Solomons was not going to tolerate.

Alfie himself went one morning to see how a blond guy was lying in the middle of the street. His employees, the people in that area, passersby were all looking at the corpse.

"Another one, Ollie?"

"Fourth one this week, Alfie."

"Mmh."

Alfie was walking back to his office when someone bumped into him. Ready to insult whoever it was, he looked up and saw only a woman in a blue hat walking away at a brisk pace. Alfie said nothing, surely it was some lady running late for work or the dentist. It wasn't until Alfie finally sat back in his chair, letting out a sigh as he felt the pain in his back ease, that he noticed a piece of paper in his coat pocket. Unmistakable female handwriting that had written an address and a schedule. That very night.

"A secret admirer," Ollie laughed when Alfie told him.

"Still got it, apparently."

"Will you go?"

"I don't see why not."

It was a fancy restaurant as Alfie imagined. A waitress met him at the entrance and guided him to a secluded corner of the place, quite private and away from prying eyes. At the table, Alfie saw the same blue-hatted woman he had seen that morning walking away. She was undoubtedly the one who had left the note in his pocket. The downward glance, the said hat covering part of her face and the flaps of her coat pulled up, gave the appearance of a vulnerable woman wanting to hide from the world. Alfie was struck by the fact that she did not look up. In his life he had seen many women cowed by men. This seemed to be one more.

But she wasn't. You weren't.

"Mr. Solomons," you said, "at last we meet."

The voice she emanated had nothing to do with the physical language Alfie was seeing. A metamorphosis flashed before him. What he thought was one vulnerable person gave way to another as she lifted her body and stood upright in the chair where she was sitting. Even the smile she had plastered on her face surprised him.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solomons. After so long hearing from you."

Alfie leaned his cane against the edge of the table and sat down across from you. You reached out your hand and he kissed it.

"I'd love to say the same, miss, but I'm afraid I don't know ya."

"Yet. Why don't we eat while we talk business, Mr. Solomons. Order whatever you want, it's on me."

"Business?"

"Business, Mr. Solomon, yes. This morning I overheard you talking to your friend, Ollie. You're intrigued to know who's behind these deaths, aren't you? The police went to investigate you even though you pay them not to ask questions and look the other way. How disappointing. Worse is when you had nothing to do with it."

Alfie leaned his elbows on the table as he stroked his beard looking at you. His dark blue eyes were riveted on your person and if you had believed in witchcraft, you would have sworn he was trying to get inside your head.

"Ya did it."

"Not me personally. Let's order food, Mr. Solomons."

"Who are you?"

But you didn't speak until the plates of food were on the table. Alfie kept looking at you the whole time. If you had been a man he probably would have known how to handle the situation, ask Thomas Shelby if not. But a woman he didn't know? No. Alfie was out of his comfort zone.

"I'm the only daughter of a wealthy fucker, Mr. Solomons," you said at last. "The only daughter of a man who was dying to have a boy."

"A rich girl playing gangster," laughed Alfie. "That's news to me."

"A rich girl who's a gangster" you corrected him. "I just drive in the shadows. That damn male craze of strutting around the streets in groups doesn't interest me at all.

"Me neither."

"I know. You know Mr. Solomons...all those dead in the last few weeks, it's not like the world is going to miss them. None of them were an example to society. And all of them, they were already fucking traitors. But not anymore. That's what happens when you want to do business with boys and not men."

May Jehovah come down from heaven right now and strike him down with a bolt of lightning. Alfie Solomons was amazed at what he heard and saw. Tommy was his favorite when it came to doing business. The leader of the Shelby clan understood that world and there was a mutual respect. Other gang members usually worked short term and then greed got the better of them and they ended up wanting to outsmart the Jewish leader, which was impossible.

But now life had put him in the path of that girl he had never seen before in his life and who happened to be the killer of that pile of corpses of the last few weeks. Or at least she had been the one who had sent them to kill. Alfie didn't need proof. He believed you, he could see it in your eyes. And he could smell the liars.

"What do you want from me, love? Protection?"

"Protection? Pff... I'll take care of that on my own. A percentage of money I want, of course. In return, I have information. I've got people in places you don't, not the Shelbys or the damn police. I've got ears where most of you would only dream of."

Alfie smiled sideways "No use to me, love. Me and my men know everything."

"Well. I doubt it, unless some of your men are homosexuals and share a bed with rich people, politicians, other gangsters or the fucking king himself; then I doubt you have ears everywhere. I do. Can I call you Alfie?" the man nodded. "This information is free, Alfie, just like dinner tonight; this is on me. There is one of your men who wants to kill you, a traitor among your ranks. He spoke out of turn and I found out about it and I'm warning you even though I'm under no obligation to do so."

Solomons pushed the plate aside and leaned over the table to look at you more closely. "How do you know?"

"My people told me."

"Who're your people, sweet? It's time we put the mysteries aside if we're going to keep talking like we have been." Alfie wasn't smiling and it was no lie that he was really intimidating, but you didn't look down. However, you did answer his question.

"Women, Alfie. We're all women, do you know how many are out there thirsting for blood? And you have to give the people what the people want." You smiled. "It's amazing what a man will say to a woman he only considers his whore. I know things about the Crown that would shake the monarchy. I told you, I named the King, I have women inside Buckingham Palace itself. I have women in doctors' offices, law firms, newspapers, pubs and even working near the prime minister. My people are women who were belittled and humiliated. Forced to do things against their will. The world to come belongs to women, Alfie, I am just walking ahead of destiny. They all work for me and are loyal, because in their fucking lives they would trust a man again. Still, the rules within my ranks are simple: don't fall in love with a man. If you fall in love you're out. Do you know how many women I lost?"

"Not one."

"Exactly. Not one," you stood up to put on your coat and leave, "I've told you everything, Alfie. And I told you more than I had originally intended to tell you. "They want to kill you. It's up to you whether you want to do something about it or not. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Solomons. Enjoy the rest of your dinner."

It didn't take Alfie long to discover that it was true. There was someone out to kill him, so he found the culprit and now, as a reminder of that, the shirt he used to wear decorated one of the walls of the distillery. It also happened that now his right hand had to listen to him complain all the time. As if that wasn't frequent before.

"Next time ya fuck a woman, Ollie, keep your fly open but your mouth shut. Ya hear? Because she told me your name yesterday even though I never mentioned you, she knows you. You've been with a woman, you opened your fucking mouth and she knows you. Have ya tried celibacy, Ollie?" Alfie looked at him through his glasses. "I should do what she does and keep tabs on what my people do behind bedroom doors, too."

"You might as well take care of her."

"Kill a woman? Are ya nuts, Ollie? I don't do that, it's not manly. Besides, I don't know how many there are yet. It could be risky."

"It's only women" Ollie couldn't understand what he was hearing.

But Alfie did. "That's exactly why, Ollie. Exactly why."

Two weeks later, you saw him again. It was a rainy day and you were soaked. But the wait outdoors was worth it. You knew he was going to be there, he knew you were going to be there. One of his men and one of your women had taken the message to each of their bosses.

You were looking at flowers in a flower shop when through the reflection of the glass you saw the unmistakable figure of the Jewish man walking towards you. You smiled sideways, but did not turn your head. The man stood beside you, also looking at the plants.

"Well, I see you're alive. That's good to know, Alfie."

"I'd like to talk to you, sweetie, but this time on my turf."

"I'd rather not be seen, Alfie," you told him. "Up to this point I've gone unnoticed and I intend to keep it that way."

"That's a promise there's not going to be anyone, if that's what you want. You can trust me."

A chuckle escaped from you. "I don't trust anyone, Alfie Solomons. But I know give chances, on your turf? Okay, when?"

"I don't trust you either. On that, we're even. But I'm a man of my word, as far as a woman's concerned" Alfie looked at you "Midnight tonight. I'll be there."

"Until this midnight, then, Mr. Solomons."

Alfie kissed your hand again, before turning and walking away.

PART 2

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thesilentmage · 1 month ago

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“Domesticity”

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Part six of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to read the previous parts

Summary: You and Alfie are officially together now, and living with him meant two things: discovering his softer, more domestic side… and getting bent over every surface in the house.

WC: 7.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, fingering, dirty talk, oral (f&m!receiving), creampie, face riding, alfie is sweet in his own way, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister

After the night Tommy found out about you and Alfie, you stopped hiding—there was no need to anymore. It was official now: you, a Shelby, were Alfie’s girl.

It was raining the first time Alfie took you out in public. He looked at you like you’d been carved out of something holy. Your dress was silk, low-backed and clinging, in a shade of blood-wine red that made his knuckles twitch the whole drive there. Your lips matched. Your hair was pinned, a few defiant strands curling loose at your neck

“You planning on staring all night?” you teased.

“No, no,” he replied, voice thick. “Plannin’ on makin’ everyone else stare, yeah? And then I’ll bloody kill them for it.”

The club was crawling with familiar faces — gangsters, smugglers, business sharks in tailored wool, girls with flapper bobs and diamonds sharp enough to cut.

And Alfie, ever the king of contradictions, didn’t just walk you in. He announced you. Arm wrapped tight around your waist, he muttered through clenched teeth to anyone who dared look too long, “Yeah, that’s right, mate. That’s mine. She’s mine.”

He introduced you like royalty. “This is her. This is my girl. No, no— don’t just look. Take it in.” Like your presence beside him made him ten feet taller. Like you gave him license to glow.

All the men around would look at him and politely say ‘Congratulations, Alfie. She’s beautiful.’”

Alfie barely restrained himself and bark after they walked off “Course she fuckin’ is,” he muttered. “What, he think I was gonna shack up with a goat?”

You snorted.

“You really love showing me off, don’t you?”

He turned toward you then. Fully. His face softened — not weak, never — but something real shone through all that bravado.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, love. I fuckin’ do.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He answered instantly.

“Cause you’re the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever looked in my direction. Let alone chosen me. Let alone let me put my hands on you. Let alone let me love you, right? So yeah. I want every bastard in this city to see it. To see you. And to know I get to go home with you.”

Within fifteen minutes, every glass in the club was full. Champagne, whiskey, gin, and whatever else the barkeep could pour fast enough. Alfie stood on a bench, arm around your waist, pulling you up with him so you were taller than the crowd.

He lifted his glass and shouted:

“All right, you cunts! Shut your traps, right? I got somethin’ to say.”

The room hushed.

You tried to step down, already mortified. He didn’t let you.

“This woman — this woman here — she’s my girl. You believe that? Mine! Look at her. Now look at me. What the fuck is that? That’s a miracle, that is!”

Laughter. Cheers. Whistles.

He grinned like a lunatic, beaming, sweaty, overwhelmed with his own joy.

“So you’re all gonna raise your fuckin’ drinks, yeah, and you’re gonna toast to her. Not to me — fuck me. To her. The most beautiful, most fuckin’ clever, sharp-tongued, impossible, perfect woman this city’s ever been cursed with.”

He looked at you, softer now, voice dipping low, but still for everyone to hear:

“And I get to have her. Me.”

“So — drink to her, you lot! Drink to the Queen of Camden!”

The room roared. Glasses clinked. Everyone drank.

You stared up at him, dizzy and flushed, and whispered against his shoulder, “You’re mad.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Mad about you, love.”

For the last couple of weeks, you’ve slept in Alfie’s bed every single night. His house had become yours too.

It was quiet. He didn’t like having people around; you were the only exception. Alfie’s house was bigger than people would expected. A house meant to impose, to display wealth. But it wasn’t posh; it was lived in. Stone, wood, and brass. A little neglected even—but it was his. And now, for whatever godforsaken reason, it was yours too.

There were papers strewn across every surface, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air like a second skin. Brass fixtures dulled by time, floors that creaked under your bare feet in the morning. It was chaos and quiet and the pulse of something ancient—like the house itself had been waiting for someone like you.

You haven’t heard about your family ever since, and honestly you preferred it that way. You still couldn’t shake off Tommy’s last words “Tell Alfie to watch his back.”

They echoed sometimes—when the house went too quiet, and you’d hear it again, that cold finality in your brother’s voice. The weight of it. You knew Tommy, knew he wasn’t one to rush things, he would wait for the right moment to make his move.

But you were too occupied with your new life next to Alfie. If Tommy wanted war then he’d have one. You’d already chosen your side.

Three days ago, one rainy afternoon, you were curled on the couch, reading a book. The house was quiet—Alfie had already left, said he had some business to take care of back at the distillery.

Then a loud knock startled you. Sharp. Heavy. No rhythm. Not Alfie.

You tightened the knot of your robe, heart already ticking faster, and made your way to the door.

Polly stood on the other side. Her eyes sharp, her expression unreadable. You blinked once before pulling her into a hug without thinking. She smelled like cigarette smoke and perfume. Familiar. Home.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, giving you a once-over. “Look at you, like bloody Mrs. Solomons.”

You pulled back, eyes wide. “How did you—did Tommy tell you?”

“Oh please, don’t be daft,” she scoffed, brushing past you. “I knew the moment you came home stinking of rum and cock. Your brothers were just too thick to put two and two together.”

You closed the door and gestured toward the lounge. Polly hesitated for a moment, gaze sweeping over the foyer like she was stepping onto enemy territory. Then, finally, she crossed the threshold. Her heels echoed on the wooden floor. Her shoulders tense. Like the walls themselves might whisper back to Tommy.

“If you knew… why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, following her.

“Because I thought it was just a fuckin’ phase. A week. Maybe two,” she said coolly. “But now you’re here. In his house. Walking around in his bloody robe like you’ve been here forever.”

“Are you angry with me?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Angry? No. I’m past angry. Bit disappointed, maybe. Out of every man in England, him? Alfie Solomons? I raised you better than that.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen…” you murmured. “I really tried to stop it. For a long time.”

She exhaled, her tone softening. “Does he treat you well?”

“Like a queen,” you said instantly, without hesitation, and a smile flickered across your face before you could stop it.

Polly narrowed her eyes at you. “And in bed?”

Your smile turned into a smirk. “He’s amazing. God, he’s like—”

“Alright, enough.” She waved you off, face contorting. “I don’t need details about Solomons’ cock, thank you very much.”

You laughed lightly, but it didn’t last. Your smile faded. “Is Tommy too angry? Has he told the others? Arthur?”

“Love,” she said carefully, “Arthur? If he knew, he’d have knocked the fuckin’ door off the hinges by now. No. Tommy’s keepin’ it quiet. For now.”

You nodded and Polly continued: “He doesn’t like the way Alfie’s parading you around like you’re his.”

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t flinch.

“I am his.”

Polly’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a flicker of something between pity and grudging respect.

“It’s all about power, love. Tommy thinks it makes him look like an idiot—that Alfie’s flaunting you around like you’re already married,” she continued. “It makes the Shelbys look like we’ve lost our edge.”

Your brow furrowed. “How does that even make sense?”

She rolled her eyes, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Because now the word out there is Alfie got you. That he took what the family couldn’t keep. You know men and their bloody pissing contests, always trying to measure who’s cock swings lower.”

“Polly…” you stepped closer, eyes pleading. “You need to help me. Talk to him. Make him come to his senses before he does something stupid.”

She looked at you for a long moment. That unreadable expression back in her eyes.

“You put too much trust in me. You know what he’s like—He doesn’t listen to reason, he listens to himself. Always has. You should be the one talking to him.”

“I tried,” you said, voice catching. “I love him, he’s my family. But Alfie… Alfie’s the man I want a future with. And I’m not giving up that future. Not even for Tommy.”

Polly didn’t argue. She just looked at you with something between resignation and reluctant understanding.

“Look, I need to go,” she said finally, straightening her coat. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t hold your breath.”

You pulled her into another hug, briefer this time. Tighter. She squeezed you back, kissed your cheek, and then she was gone.

Living with Alfie was strange sometimes. You were so used to seeing him in two moods: either completely focused on business and the violence that surrounded it, or totally unhinged and desperate for you.

But now you were seeing a different part of him—sleeping at night and snoring like a bear, sprawling, muttering filth in his sleep. But if you moved too far away in the bed, even for a second, his arm would shoot out, dragging you back to him. Sometimes he’d wake halfway through, groggy and possessive, tugging you tight against him with a rough sound in his throat—like even in sleep, his body knew exactly where you belonged.

Trying to make a decent breakfast for you, shirtless, glasses crooked on his nose, squinting at a recipe book while trying to make tea and toast without burning either. He looked ridiculous, domestic in the most terrifying way—scars on display, grumbling at a jam jar like it was a personal enemy, muttering your name in every complaint, like you were both the problem and the solution.

He let you see him. Not just the part that barked orders and threatened the living daylights out of other men. But the part that sang badly under his breath while chopping carrots. The part that forgot where he put his spectacles. The part that grumbled when his joints ached and let you press warm cloths to his knees while pretending not to enjoy the care. The part that read the same newspaper three times because he kept getting distracted thinking about something you said the night before.

Living with him also meant seeing a softer side of him, a side that was all about the little things. Like him reaching over you in the morning to shut the window because the air might be too cold. Like his giant hand resting absentmindedly on your thigh while you ate breakfast. Like him growling when you were doing the dishes, calling you a fucking queen and insisting you sit down.

“I ain’t lettin’ the woman I fuckin’ love scrub me bloody pans, am I?” he scoffed, brow raised like you’d insulted him. “Nah, treacle. I’ll get someone else to deal with that shite, yeah? You—” he waved a hand at you, eyes softer now—“you don’t touch the pans. You touch me.”

It was chaos too. It was breakfast sex and broken dishes and lectures on Jewish philosophy at three in the morning. It was threats to your enemies and kisses on your ankles. It was a man who would kill for you, die for you, and still complain if you left crumbs on the counter.

It was love, in its most fucked-up, beautiful form.

You saw that one night, when he came up behind you while you were combing out your hair in the bathroom mirror. His arms circled your waist, lips brushing the curve of your neck.

“Stayin’ here’s done somethin’ to me fuckin’ head, right?” he muttered, brow furrowed like the thought offended him. “I used to be alright on me own. Fuckin’ liked it, actually. Thought all this… intimate bollocks, yeah? Waste of bloody time.”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “And now?”

“Now I think if I come home and you ain’t here, I’ll burn the whole bloody city down.”

“You’re getting soft,” you teased.

He looked up, eyes sharp, lips twitching with something feral. “Now listen, right—I ain’t gone soft, yeah? Let’s get that straight. What I am is possessive as fuck. You’re mine. That don’t change just ‘cause I’m not railin’ you up against a fuckin’ wall this second.”

And there it was—that violence tucked beneath the tenderness, the threat that sounded like worship. The only kind of love a man like Alfie could give.

…

One evening a few days ago he was feeding you bites from his spoon. In between, he had told you about the man he’d threatened that morning, about the dog that wandered in from the street, about the girl who sold flowers and winked at him, and how he didn’t like that one bit. No, he fuckin’ did not.

“So I bought all her fuckin’ stock,” he said, smirking.

“Why?”

“Yeah, so she’d fuck off, right? Before I did somethin’… inadvisable. You don’t get to smile at Alfie fuckin’ Solomons like that when he’s already spoken for, do ya?”

You blinked. “You bought her entire cart of roses just so she’d go away?”

He shrugged. “They’re on your pillow.”

You laughed so hard you almost choked.

He liked that. He told you so—told you he’d kill a man for your laugh, that it was the sound of God forgiving him for every sin.

But his filth didn’t stop either. If anything, it got worse now that he had access to you the entire time.

Like when in the morning, after you wake up his first words aren’t good morning or anything sweet. It’s him telling you the wet dreams he had of you during the night.

“I had a dream you were wearing nothin’ but pearls, lookin’ like a fuckin’ goddess. I nearly came in my sleep.”

You chuckled as his hand made its way in between your thighs “Alfie…”

“You’re in my bed now, darlin’. That means I get to touch what’s mine whenever the mood takes me. And this mornin’, it’s taken me fuckin’ hard, yeah.”

“You know what this is, right?” he growled, hand dragging slow up your thigh like he owned the whole bloody map. “This—this is mine now. You live here, yeah? My bed, my food, my fuckin’ shirt. You even breathe in my space like it’s your birthright. So all o’ this—” his hand slid between your legs—“belongs to me now, don’t it?”

…

Or another day, when you were sitting at the little table by the window, reading one of his ledgers. You’d taken over part of his accounting, mostly to keep yourself occupied—and because you liked the way he looked at you when you made sense of his messy, scattered books like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You were wearing nothing but a slip. Thin. Ivory. Your legs curled up on the chair. And he just stood there. Staring. His hand sliding up your ankle, over your calf, to your thigh.

“Can’t concentrate with you dressed like that,” he said.

He pushed the ledger aside, sat on the chair, and pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap. And just like that—without warning—he was inside you.

“Yeah,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “That’s what I fuckin’ needed.”

You moved like that for a while—slow, grinding, the kind of lazy morning fuck that felt endless and indulgent. The kind where your fingers laced behind his neck, his eyes half-lidded, lips brushing your collarbone between praises and curses. Every inch of him pressing deep inside you with reverence and need.

…

You also remember that morning you were in the kitchen, making breakfast for him, before he had insisted on hiring a cook so you didn’t have to get your hands dirty. He didn’t want you lifting a finger.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, naked behind you, breathing slow and heavy.

“I been starin’ at your arse for ten bloody minutes, love.” His voice was thick, indulgent, edged with amusement. “That robe’s a suggestion, nothin’ more. Might as well’ve wandered down here wrapped in fuckin’ hope and sin.”

“Alfie—”

“Shh,” he muttered.

His hand slid around your waist. Down.

“Let me finger you,” he said flatly, like he was asking for the butter dish. “It’s the domestic routine now, innit? You make the tea, I get me fingers in your cunt while the kettle has a bit of a scream. That’s life, that is. That’s livin’ together.”

“Apparently,” you whispered, already arching back into him.

Your robe slipped lower as he pinned you to the counter, his fingers pushing deep, curling up as your thighs trembled and your breath fogged the window.

He fingered you hard, one arm locked around your waist, the other fucking into you like he owned you—and he did. In that moment, you were his. Every breath, every whimper, every drop of slick that soaked his hand.

You came before the kettle stopped.

…

He would also leave letters around the house now. Filthy, deranged little notes in his scrawl—tucked in the breadbox, in your coat pocket, under the soap. One morning you opened the wardrobe and a crumpled sheet fell out:

“Treacle—

I fucked you in my dreams and woke up angry that it wasn’t real.

Wait for me in bed by the time I get back, or I’ll lose what’s left of my fuckin’ mind.

Yours,

Your mad bastard.”

You found him in the hallway later, grinning like a demon.

“Did you like it?” he asked, arms out, tone cheeky and dangerous all at once. “Bit o’ romance for the mornin’, yeah? Alfie-style. Comes with a side of cock and compliments.”

“You’re insane,” you said.

He kissed you. “Only for you.”

You laughed, but your thighs pressed together under your nightgown. He noticed. Of course he did.

…

Other random evening, you found him sitting at the kitchen table long after you’d gone upstairs—shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, ink smudged on his fingers. He was writing. Not business. Notes. Filthy notes for you.

He didn’t notice you until you leaned against the doorframe.

“What?” he barked, brows lifting. “Man can’t compose his own fuckin’ thoughts in peace now, yeah? Can’t write down a few words without bein’ spied on?”

“You’re writing me another filthy note, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “It ain’t filthy. It’s romantic. Poetry for you.”

You walked in, pulled the paper toward you. He reached to stop you, but not fast enough.

“You’ve got the kind of cunt a man builds a fuckin’ synagogue around, yeah, and worships till his knees give out. If God exists, he’s a bloody pervert for makin’ you, ‘cause no holy thing should smell like that or sound like that when I’m inside you.”

“Told you it was romantic,” he said.

You would argue some days. Alfie wasn’t a man made for peace. It sat on him wrong—like an ill-fitting coat.

Sometimes it was over books; he still pretended not to understand numbers.

“Why the fuck would I care?” he asked once, feet up on the table, one hand lazily stroking your bare thigh. “You’re the one who’s good at the maths, darlin’. I’m just here to make sure no one dies slow unless I want ‘em to.”

“You’ll care when the distillery budget collapses.”

“Nah,” he muttered. “You’ll care for me. That’s what you fuckin’ do. That’s what wives do, yeah?”

“Not your wife, Alfie.”

“For now.”

…

Other times he’d grumble about your perfume being too sweet, then leave his shirt collar open for it to cling to. He’d snap about you using his straight razor to shave your legs, then leave it cleaned and waiting for you the next morning. He’d scoff every time you read in bed, then fall asleep with your book tucked against his chest.

He’d kiss you harder after fights. Grip your jaw like he needed your mouth to shut him up before he said something he’d regret. And he always softened. Always gave in. Eventually.

…

Some other days he was a nightmare. He’d pace the length of the house like a lion in a cage, cursing at the walls, talking to ghosts only he could hear.

He’d come home soaked in rain, blood on his cuffs, something wrong behind his eyes—and you’d know before he opened his mouth that it would be one of those nights.

Nights where he couldn’t sit still. Where he needed the gramophone blasting, needed every candle lit, needed something to throw across the room or slam down on the table just to feel something through the rage curling inside him like smoke in his lungs.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me, treacle, not now.”

He’d snap like that. Bare teeth. Wild-eyed. Then he’d apologize not long after. Usually with his mouth between your legs or a ring you hadn’t asked for tossed onto the bed.

…

You’d learned to read the signs. The twitch of his jaw. The shake in his hands when he couldn’t light his own cigarette. The way he gripped his cane just a little tighter when something was wrong.

Some nights he’d wake you, dragging you into the lounge because he couldn’t sleep. Because he needed to talk. Or pace. Or fuck. Or just be near you like the silence would eat him alive otherwise.

“I can’t do it without you, d’you understand me?” he rasped, breathing ragged. “I’m too far in, yeah? Too fucked up. You’re the only thing left that feels like—like it ain’t all rottin’ from the inside.”

You’d pull him into your lap like a wounded animal. Stroke his back, run your fingers through his beard. Let him rest in your shoulder, even if he cursed himself for being so weak while shaking.

…

One night, after a particularly nasty shouting match in the distillery with a supplier who’d shorted him, he came upstairs, shaking. His hands were covered in someone else’s blood.

And when he saw you waiting by the foot of the bed, silent, calm, he didn’t speak. Just walked to you, dropped to his knees, and pressed his forehead to your belly like a penitent man.

“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, raw as gravel. “Please just—just tell me you fuckin’ love me.”

“I love you, Alfie,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his curls.

“And you won’t ever leave?”

You tilted his chin up. Looked him dead in the eyes.

“I won’t.”

This morning Alfie found you sitting on the kitchen counter, bare-legged, still in one of his shirts—buttons uneven, collar too wide. You looked like sin after sleep.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you,” he growled, voice low and near reverent. “You wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt again, treacle? What—you tryin’ to kill me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s mine too now. Is there a problem with that?”

“Problem is,” he murmured, dark eyes dragging down your body, “I’m gonna rip it right off, yeah? Then fuck you right here—on the floor. Don’t even care if the bloody tiles are cold.”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe after breakfast.”

His grin widened—wolfish.

He leaned in close, hand firm on your waist, nose brushing your cheek. “I am your breakfast,” he muttered. “An’ that cunt? That’s my breakfast.”

“Alfie,” you warned.

“It is, though,” he insisted, brushing his lips against your cheek, trailing them toward your ear. “C’mon, sit on me face. Let me make you scream before your tea goes cold.”

Your stomach clenched. Heat surged. But you bit your lip. Smiled through it.

“Tea first,” you said. “Then maybe.”

“No. No time for fuckin’ tea,” he growled, voice rough with need. There was a fire in his eyes.

He grabbed you by the arm and dragged you to the living room. His grip was firm, not cruel—desperate. You stumbled after him, pulse already thundering in your ears, heat coiling low and tight in your belly.

He laid down on the couch, head resting on the arm of it. Sprawled like a king, or a beast.

“Oi—get over ‘ere,” he said, patting his mouth with two fingers. “C’mon now, ride me fuckin’ face, yeah?” His voice was low, rough as gravel, already thick with anticipation.

You climbed over him, moving up his body until your knees were bracketing his head, heat pulsing between your legs as you hovered over that greedy, unshaven mouth. His eyes locked on yours, wide and wild like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“God almighty, would you look at this,” Alfie groaned as you moved toward him. “I could eat this sweet little cunt ‘til I fuckin’ drop dead—face first, no regrets, right?”

You stayed there for a moment, cunt just inches above his mouth but without touching him yet.

“Nah, don’t get all shy on me now,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours, voice molten. “Sit down proper, treacle. Don’t hover—I want all that weight, yeah? Wanna feel you fuckin’ smother me. Want to forget how to fuckin’ breathe.”

You let yourself sink down. His tongue met you instantly—wet and hot and already groaning into you like a madman. Tongue flat and heavy as it licked a long, slow stripe through your folds, pausing to suck your clit into his mouth until your legs shook.

“That’s it,” he choked out with a wicked grin as you sank onto him. “Fuckin’ hell—sit on it like you mean it, yeah? Wanna choke on you, love. Ohh, what a way to fuckin’ go, suffocated by a cunt like this—fuckin’ poetic, innit?”

His beard scratched perfectly against the insides of your thighs, and his hands gripped your ass tight, pulling you down like he needed you there.

Alfie’s tongue moved everywhere—through your folds, sucking your clit in between his lips, spreading you open and devouring like he hadn’t eaten in days. He alternated between slow, wet drags of his tongue and tight, desperate sucks on your clit, making obscene noises as he slurped and groaned like a man starved.

You started grinding without thinking—hips rolling slow over his face, using his mouth, riding it.

“Yes—fuckin’ yes, just like that,” he moaned, voice muffled against your heat. “Go on, use me. Use me for it, darlin’. That’s what I’m here for, innit?”

“You’re so fucking good at this, Alfie. It’s disgusting how good you are…” You moaned louder now, hand buried in his curls as you rode his face.

You braced your hands on the couch, moaning, gasping, hair falling wild around your face as you rode him—back arched, thighs shaking. His tongue flicked fast, then slow, then hard pressure right where you needed it, like he knew every inch of you already.

“You hear that?” he growled between frantic licks, tongue relentless. “That right there, that sound—you fuckin’ whimperin’ on me tongue, yeah? That’s what heaven sounds like, love. That’s music to me ears, that is. You drippin’ all over me fuckin’ beard.”

“Fuck—your tongue, Alfie… don’t stop… don’t you dare stop…”

He couldn’t have if he tried. He was possessed, moaning filthy praises into your cunt, drinking you in like he wanted to die that way. His hands gripping your ass tight, helping you grind his face faster.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, barely pausing for breath, reverent in his filth. “This cunt—this fuckin’ cunt—just sittin’ on me face like it belongs there. And it does, don’t it? Fuckin’ made for me, yeah? Tailor-fit from the bloody angels.”

You were shaking now—hips stuttering, thighs clenching as your orgasm started building fast. He felt it too. Started sucking your clit harder, tongue flicking rough and desperate, one hand slapping your ass as you rode out the waves.

“Go on then,” he snarled, voice nearly feral. “Cum all over me fuckin’ face. Do it. Let me taste it—every fuckin’ drop while you fall apart on me mouth.”

You cried out, body locking up as you came—soaking his beard, grinding down on his face like you were trying to fuse into him.

He held you there. Didn’t stop. Just kept licking through it, swallowing every drop, making filth-soaked sounds like he was in ecstasy.

You lifted off, with the little strength you had left on your shaky legs. Your thighs trembled as you rose, every nerve still sparking.

You looked at him, mouth, nose, beard, even cheeks glistening, completely soaked with your slick. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, drunk on the taste of you.

“Shit— you look a mess,” you tried to say. Your voice was hoarse, ragged at the edges, like it had been wrung out of you.

“No, no, treacle,” he said, voice thick, lips shiny with your slick. “I look like I’ve been baptized, yeah? Baptized by your fuckin’ cunt. Holy fuckin’ spirit in me beard, innit?”

He grinned—lazy, filthy, triumphant—as if he’d just tasted proof of God. His lips glistened when he licked them again, slow and indulgent, dragging his tongue across the corner of his mouth like he wanted to savor every drop, like he wanted to keep the memory of your taste alive on his tongue. He leaned back on his elbows, chest rising and falling with slow, worshipful rhythm—like he’d been through something holy.

Slowly Alfie stood up from the couch. His fingers moved to his belt—yanking it open, pulling his trousers down with rough impatience. His cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking. It slapped up against his belly with force, thick and veined, tip flushed an angry pink. The head glistened with pre-cum, a fat bead pooling at the slit before it trickled down the shaft.

“You see this?” he said, stroking himself, towering above you. “This cock’s fuckin’ mad for you. Hasn’t been the same since the first time I put it in that filthy sweet cunt of yours.”

His fist wrapped tight around the base, pumping once, twice, slow and mean, like he was daring you to look away. His eyes never left yours. “It’s yours, innit? Always fuckin’ has been.”

You looked up at him, breath catching at the sheer size of him, the thickness of it in his hand, veins throbbing, the tip flushed and glistening like it was weeping for you. Your thighs rubbed together instinctively.

You removed his hand from his shaft, falling down to your knees, eyes wide, lips already parted.

“Wanna return the favor.” You said it softly, but the hunger in your voice made him twitch in your hand.

“Yeah? Yeah, I fuckin’—I’ll let you then, won’t I? Look at that—look at you, down there, all eager like, yeah? Fuckin’ beautiful, innit? Like some bloody angel just—kneelin’ for the devil, yeah?” he muttered, breath shallow, voice thick with reverence and filth.

You kissed the base of him first, right where the coarse hair met thick, veined skin. Then your mouth trailed upward, lips dragging along the underside, tongue tracing every ridge. You heard the sharp inhale above you—his hips jerked, one hand gripping the armrest with white knuckles.

“Ohhh, f—fuck me, yeah, that’s it, darlin’—fuckin’ hellfire, that’s it right there.”

You wrapped your lips around the head and sucked, slow, steady, swirling your tongue as you took more of him in.

“Mouth like velvet, yeah? Fuckin’ velvet.” He laughed breathlessly, full of awe. “You were designed, right? Purpose-built—fuckin’ engineered by someone clever—just to do this to me.”

You moaned around him, taking more, eyes locked on his face—his mouth slack, eyes nearly rolling back, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

“That’s it, take it—take all of it, love. That’s my girl, innit? Look at you. Fuckin’ takin’ it like the dirty little miracle you are.”

You bobbed your head, slow and steady, spit trailing down your chin, his cock glistening as you worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem. You hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder, and he swore, the filth falling from his mouth thick and unchecked.

“Oi, look at me,” he groaned, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Come on—look at me while you do that, yeah? ‘Cause I need to see it, don’t I? Need to watch you ruin yourself for me. Fuckin’ glorious, that is.”

Your eyes flicked up through your lashes, meeting his—dark, wild, rimmed red and soaked in awe. That look of a man being undone by pleasure. Of a man who still couldn’t quite believe this was his.

You moaned again, low and sweet around his cock, and the sound nearly broke him.

“Fuuuckin’ ’ell,” he hissed, hips stuttering. “You hear that? Hear yourself, yeah? Sound like you’re enjoyin’ it more than me—an’ I’m ‘ere tryin’ not to fuckin’ die.”

You flattened your tongue along the underside, dragging slow as you pulled back, then sank down again—deeper this time. His thighs trembled under your palms.

“Jesus Christ—fuckin’ hell, deeper, yeah, just like that, just like that. Gonna ruin that pretty little throat, ain’t I? Not that I’m complainin’—fuck no.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him growl, his grip tightening in your hair—not pulling, just grounding himself.

Your jaw burned. Spit slicked his cock, dripping from the corners of your mouth. Your hand pumped at the base, wrist flicking in tandem with the bob of your head, a perfect rhythm of filth and focus.

You pulled off with a wet pop, tongue dragging across your lips. His cock twitched again, glistening, and you smiled, breathless, wicked.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

Alfie stared at you like you were God’s last good idea—and his dirtiest. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your chin, eyes filled with something between awe and animal hunger.

“Aight, hands and knees on the couch,” he said, voice gruff with need, “and keep that pretty arse up.”

Your knees hit the cushions before he even finished speaking, spine arching, skin prickling with anticipation. You felt him behind you—close enough to taste the heat coming off him—his breath like a growl at your back. You could hear him breathing—sharp, ragged, like it took effort not to take you in one brutal stroke. His hand came down to grip your arse, spreading you open like he was starving for the view.

“Most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice breaking. “Like a fuckin’ miracle between your legs. Look at that—look at that, yeah? Shinin’ for me. Beggin’ for me.”

He spit—hot and filthy—right between your cheeks, then smeared it in with his thumb, slow and deliberate, like he was blessing you with it. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as his tip found your entrance, dragging through your slick folds with a possessive hunger.

He grunted, hips twitching as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your dripping hole like it was the first fuckin’ time all over again. “Christ almighty,” he murmured, breath shaky, “you’re so ready—like your body’s got its own memory of me, like it knows what’s comin’. Fuckin’ welcomes me home.”

And then—without warning—he pushed inside. The stretch stole your breath. It always did. The first inch felt like a burn, like your body had forgotten how to take him and was relearning every inch of him by force.

Your walls clenched tight, fighting the intrusion and welcoming it in the same breath. You keened into the cushion, hands clawing at the fabric as your body fought to accommodate him.

“Jesus, Mary, and fuckin’ Joseph—” he gasped, bottoming out. “Tightest—wettest—fuckin’ perfect, love, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

His hips stuttered, forehead falling to the base of your spine for a moment as he tried not to cum too fast. “Every time—every bloody time—it’s like this cunt’s fuckin’ new.”

“Move, please, Alfie” you begged, already clenching around him. Your voice broke on the plea, needy and half-wrecked. “Need you to ruin me—fuck me like you mean it—please, Alfie, please.”

He pushed all the way out, the head of his cock glistening as it hovered for a moment, and slammed back into you like he was punishing himself for wanting you so much. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, his cock battering your insides, pushing you open all over again like he hadn’t already ruined you.

Each thrust sent the couch creaking, your cries muffled by the cushion as you buried your face in it, trying to hold yourself together. You were drooling, gasping, broken open for him, cunt stretched wide and slick, gripping him like a vice.

His pace was brutal, relentless, like he was trying to chase every thought out of your head but his name. Skin smacking, wet and obscene, filled the room like music made just for the two of you.

He was grunting behind you now, half-growl, half-moan—feral and starved.

“Fucking hell, listen to you,” he rasped, “drippin’ on me cock like that, makin’ that sweet little noise every time I slam into you. Like your body begs for it. Like you need me to ruin you.”

You whimpered at that, cunt fluttering around him, your thighs slick with your own arousal and the proof of how good he made you feel.

You were begging for it, in every way your body could.

He looked down between you, at where you took him to the hilt like you were made for it, like no one else ever could.

“No one else gets this, yeah?” he growled, eyes wild. “No one else gets to see how good you look takin’ me. No one gets to fuck the most beautiful cunt in the whole bloody country—England’s treasure, right here on me cock.”

His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise. He was panting now, fucking you like a man unhinged. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay. Like if he fucked you hard enough, you’d never be able to take anyone else again. And he was right.

It was a rhythm now, like he was orchestrating sin itself—your slick folds catching every stroke, the lewd slap of your soaked cunt meeting his cock, your strangled moans swallowed by the room. You were soaked, ruined, dripping down your thighs, and Alfie groaned when he looked down to see how wrecked you were for him. His cock was glazed with you, every inch coated, your hole red and raw and greedy around him.

“Cunt’s the tightest, prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he panted. “Made just for me. You ruined me, woman. D’you hear me? You fuckin’ wrecked me.” He gasped again, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth in frantic bursts. “You’re it. I’ll never touch another. I’ll never want another. You hear me? You’re it for me. You fuckin’ are.”

Your vision blurred. Your mouth hung open, drooling into the cushion as your orgasm built—hot and inevitable—tightening in your gut like a coil about to snap. Your whole body was one trembling nerve. The rhythm of him inside you pushed you closer, closer, until you could barely form words.

One of his hands slid up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down further into the cushions, forcing your arch deeper so he could drive in even harder. The angle was brutal. Perfect. Devastating. You sobbed into the cushion, tears streaking your face from how good it was.

You could feel how far he reached, how full he made you. You were stretched wide, raw, desperate—and he still wanted more.

“Stay right fuckin’ there,” he growled, voice low and guttural. “Arch that back—yeah, like that. Let me see it, let me see this perfect fuckin’ cunt swallowin’ me whole.”

“Please—don’t stop. I need it, Alfie. I need you.” You moaned. “I don’t wanna feel anything but you.”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, teeth dragging along your shoulder as he muttered filth into your ear—things that made your toes curl and your pussy clench tighter around him.

“You’re fuckin’ mine, y’hear me? Makin’ it fit, makin’ it stay. Gonna stuff you full, treacle—gonna make it take.” His thrusts were erratic now, driven by hunger and love. It was obsession, pure and feral.

His breath came in ragged bursts, teeth clenched, a string of curses and praise pouring from his lips as he drove himself into you over and over again. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay.

“Come on, treacle,” he growled, voice rough and ragged. “Cum for me. That’s it, yeah—let this cock fuck it out of you.” His hips slammed forward with each word, punctuating them like a command, fucking the orgasm from you before you could resist.

His hand reached down, finding your clit with ruthless precision, his fingers circling it in hard, fast motions that bordered on brutal. “Give it to me,” he commanded, voice breaking again. “Let me feel you break for me. Let me feel what I do to you.”

And you did. With a scream that sounded more like a sob, you came around him—body seizing, back arching, muscles clenching so tight around him he nearly lost it too.

You gushed around him, soaking his cock, the couch, everything—your cunt milking him like it knew what came next.

The world shattered in white heat. You were nothing but sensation, a pulse around his cock, your cries muffled by the cushions as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

“Shit— fuck—,” he breathed, slamming once, twice more before groaning like something broke inside him. You felt the heat of him spill into you, thick and endless, filling you up until it dripped out of you.

His hips jerked uncontrollably as he emptied himself inside, growling through clenched teeth, fingers leaving fingerprints on your hips.

He sank to his knees behind you again, groaning like a man possessed, one hand spreading you open while the other slid between your thighs—slow, deliberate, hungry. His breath hitched as he watched it—his cum, thick and white, dripping down your inner thighs, shining on your skin like something sacred.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ painted you, didn’t I?” He swiped a thumb through it—slow and greedy, gathering the mess he’d made of you, eyes locked on the slick that glistened across your folds, mixing with your arousal like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

“All of this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “every last drop—mine. You fuckin’ keep it, yeah? Carry me with you.”

Then his fingers were at your mouth, two of them slick and shining as he pressed them to your lips.

“Open,” he rasped. “Be good for me. Taste what we did.”

You obeyed, and he groaned, watching as you sucked them in, your tongue lapping up the mix of both of you—his cum, your slick, your ruin.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, his cock twitching again, half-hard already. “That’s it, love—take it. Don’t waste a fuckin’ drop.

“My cunt,” he whispered, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “Most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. More sacred than shul. Holier than bread and wine. I’d die for it. I’d fuckin’ die worshippin’ between your legs.”

He kissed your folds, your thighs, your trembling ass—like he was making offerings at an altar.

You let out an exhausted chuckle, the kind that trembled through your sore, spent body. “You’re insane.”

Alfie didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Just pressed a kiss to your spine, reverent and aching.

“Yeah, and you keep sayin’ it like it’s some bloody revelation, right? Ain’t exactly news, is it?” he muttered.

For a long moment, the room was quiet—just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of London outside, and the soft kiss of skin on skin as he held you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Alfie nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his voice softer now, almost shy. “D’you know how long I prayed for somethin’ like this? Somethin’ real. Somethin’ holy.” He kissed the back of your neck again. “And it turns out God was listenin’. Gave me a fuckin’ miracle with a filthy mouth and the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled, breath hitching with emotion. “You’re a poet when you’re cunt-drunk. A mad one.”

He huffed a low laugh, burying his face in your hair. “Nah. I’m just honest.”

He kissed the top of your head—rough lips gone tender, his big hands still cradling you like you were something precious, fragile, something that could shatter if he let go.

And then there was only the quiet.

The world beyond your house—beyond the warmth of him, the sweat drying on your skin, the evidence of your bodies still clinging to your thighs—ceased to exist.

You stayed there, tangled in each other’s limbs, your breath slowing in time with his, your heart tethered to his like a secret vow.

No words. Just the weight of it. The raw, unspoken promise curling between you like smoke—unchangeable, immovable, eternal.

You were his. And he was yours.

And not even God would dare touch that.

A/N: First of all, as some of you might know, this is the last part before the final chapter, which will be posted next Saturday (It’s gonna be a long one, prob long over 10k and will bring closure to the story)

I hope you enjoyed this part as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for your constant support!🩷🫶🏻

@rach5ive @namelesslosers @meetmeatyourworst @itisjustwhatitis

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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thesilentmage · 1 month ago

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Beneath the Mask

Part 4 of Crossfire Series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This series is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The sky was shifting from charcoal to slate gray by the time you put your car in park. Dawn’s light bled slowly across the skyline, casting sharp angles against the cold metal fire escapes and glass-slick windows. The earlier rain had stopped, but the city remained soaked and glistening. The pavement shimmered with reflection and blurred red and blue strobes painting fractured patterns on the wet asphalt.

Police were everywhere.

Marked cruisers lined the block two streets over, their lights spinning silently now, engines still hot. Murmured voices crackled through radios, the occasional bark of a sergeant cut the air, and the low churn of a perimeter was forming. You knew you had to move fast, before someone else found him.

You hesitated before you grabbed the tactical mask from your passenger seat and shoved it into your bag of medical supplies, slinging the whole thing over your shoulder. You knew it kept you hidden and safe but at times you found yourself conflicted by who you wanted to be, Alana Castle? Nurse Grace? or the woman in the mask? You shook those thoughts away and kept your mind focused on the task at hand.

You popped open the glove compartment and retrieved your firearm, checking the magazine before tucking it into your waistband.

Just in case.

You swallowed hard, then dryly downed the stimulant pills from your center console it was your failsafe for nights like this, when sleep wasn’t an option. Pulling your hood over your head, you stepped out cautiously into the stillness. The rest of the distance had to be covered on foot it was too risky to be spotted near the scene in a vehicle. But that was fine.

People rarely saw you. Not unless you wanted them to.

By the time you reached the alley behind 53rd, the smell hit you first, old grease and stale piss. The concrete was slick from the earlier downpour, trash clung to corners, and the distant hum of city life was dulled beneath the tension in your gut.

Who doesn't love Hell's kitchen? You thought to yourself sarcastically as you grimaced at the unpleasant scent.

You searched the alley, ears straining, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

Nothing.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, frustration mounting. You kicked the nearest dumpster hard enough to make it rattle.

Then paused.

What are the odds…?

A sick feeling bloomed in your stomach as you moved back toward the dumpster and cautiously stepped up onto its edge. Peering down into the garbage, you prayed it wasn’t too late.

A hand.

It hung limp beneath a heap of trash bags, fingers twitching weakly, streaked with grime and dried blood. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice barely registering as the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ear overpowered it. You quickly dropped your medical bag to the ground.

It was him.

Daredevil.

Your heart sank like a stone.

He must’ve fallen in when Frank shot him.

You scrambled up the side of the dumpster, the metal groaning beneath your weight. Trash bags gave way as you shoved them aside, revealing the crumpled figure beneath them. Blood pooled around him. No metaphor, he was literally lying in the garbage, barely conscious, maybe dying.

Without hesitation, you grabbed his arms and hoisted, groaning as his weight dragged you down. He was heavier than he looked, and your bruised rib screamed in protest. As soon as you got his torso out, your foot slipped.

“Shit!” you gasped, falling back hard as he collapsed on top of you, knocking the air from your lungs. His large stature was no match for your small frame as you squirmed under him.

Your eyes caught on the fracture across the middle of his helmet. A clean crack spidering outward, right where Frank had shot him.

The bullet hadn’t pierced. Thank God for bulletproof armor. Even with the weight of him crushing you, you still felt relief wash over you at that thought.

You managed to grit your teeth and use all your force to squirm out from under him, dragging him carefully against the alley wall so you could assess the damage. You sat there a second, catching your breath, just staring.

He looked… still. So normal.

The infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was limp like a broken marionette. The red suit was scraped and bloodied, patches so dark they looked black in the early morning light. One leg was twisted, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Blood streamed down from beneath his mask. The feeling of guilt pierced at your insides at the state of him.

You scooted closer, heart racing. One hand brushed his chiseled cheek, the other pressed gently against his solid chest. You leaned in and checked for a pulse.

There. Faint.

Relief nearly knocked you flat. Your knees buckled, and you exhaled hard.

“Okay,” you breathed. “You’re not dead. That’s good.”

You fumbled for your medical kit and slipped on gloves, then hesitated, your fingers hovering near the edge of his mask. You knew what you had to do, but you couldn't help but feel like it was intrusive. Wrong. But if you were going to save him, you had to see the extent of the damage.

And if you were being completely honest with yourself… You were curious as well. You peeled the mask back slowly, inch by careful inch.

Bruised skin. A split brow. Blood had run into his hairline, down his jaw And then...

Your breath caught.

You knew that face.

The man from the hospital. The tall one in the suit, the blind man with the cane. He’d come in with the blonde woman and Grotto. He’d listened more than he spoke as if he were reading you. Still. Poised. Like he could see something the rest of you couldn’t.

Wait...

Blind.

He was blind.

You grabbed your penlight and flicked it on, lifting one of his lids and shining it into his eye.

No response.

“How the hell…” you whispered, stunned. “How the hell are you him?”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. A blind man.

And somehow, he moved through the dark like it was daylight. You couldn't help but feel a mixture of shock and fascination as you watched him.

You ran a quick check to make sure he was stable, no punctured lung,

thank God. Weak pulse, yes. Dislocated shoulder. Definitely a concussion. A CT scan would be needed, and he’d need stitches for the gash above his brow. You couldn’t do it all alone.

He needed a hospital.

But how the hell could you get him there without exposing yourself or him?

You bit your lip as you looked down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. His knuckles were raw with fresh scrapes, layered over older bruises. He’d fought hard but not to kill. You remembered how he moved. Calculated, controlled. Striking to disable, not destroy.

And for that, you were angry.

Angry that Frank had tried to kill someone who hadn’t tried to kill him. Angry that the rumors were true. Daredevil didn’t kill.

But this wasn’t the time for ethics. This was triage.

Your breath caught in your throat when you noticed him suddenly stir beside you, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Shit,” you hissed. You moved quickly, pulled the sedative from your kit, and injected it into his thigh. His body slackened again almost immediately.

You weren’t sure how he’d react when he came to, and this alley was still crawling with cops it was safer to keep him under.

You started pacing, racking your brain. You needed a plan and you needed it fast.

As you looked up you noticed a figure across the street you took a few steps closer and squinted to get a good look at him.

A homeless man, bare-chested, wearing only a dirty pair of boxers.

Thats when It clicked.

You had to strip him. The only thing that would expose him would be his suit and mask; other than that, he is just a poor blind man who got jumped in the streets of Hell's Kitchen, which unfortunately was just another Tuesday for people in this city, and no one would question it.

You crouched down and carefully removed the armored suit, layer by layer, avoiding his wounds. It felt wrong, intimate in a way it shouldn’t. You’d done this countless times in the ER and in the army to be able to assess wounds better. But this felt different.

When you were finished, he was left in nothing but his boxers. Bare. Vulnerable. Anonymous. Just a man. Not a myth.

From where you were standing, that’s all he looked like. Just a man—one who’d been through hell.

You couldn't help but gaze over his body, old scars, healed fractures, faded burns. Like Frank. Like you. His body was a journal written in bruises and blood. You felt bad watching him in such a vulnerable state, you quickly averted your gaze and cursed yourself under your breath before getting up from your crouched position.

You packed the suit and mask into your bag, zipped it tight, then pulled out the burner phone Frank had given you.

9-1-1 you dialed

“There’s someone in the alley off 53rd. He was jumped. He’s unconscious. Please, send an ambulance!”

You hung up without waiting for a reply.

Then you vanished into the shadows across the street, watching the alley from a concealed vantage point. You weren’t leaving him. Not until he was safe.

Minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance.

You watched as paramedics swarmed the alley, lifting him gently, placing him on a stretcher. They didn’t know. They had no idea who they were touching.

No idea they were brushing the Devil’s skin.

You didn’t breathe until the ambulance drove away. Then you sprinted for your car and pulled out onto the wet street, tires hissing over pavement.

You followed them.

To the hospital.

Later that night

The ER had gone quiet, eerily so. Most of the critical patients were moved to different wings as the cops investigated the shooting from last night. That rare, thick hush that settles only in the stillness between emergencies. It wrapped around you like fog, pressing in against the soft hum of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic. The fluorescents buzzed above, casting their tired light across the linoleum floor and the man lying unconscious in Room 4.

You leaned back in the chair beside his bed, the vinyl creaking under your weight. Your shift had ended hours ago. You’d eaten nothing but a stale muffin and guzzled down too much caffeine, your stomach now audibly protesting. Your back ached. Your eyes burned. Your head throbbed in time with your pulse. But still… you stayed.

You didn’t know why, not exactly. It wasn’t protocol. You’d done your part: assisted trauma, kept him stable, passed the chart, updated the board. Technically, you should’ve left. You’d tried. But every time you stood, something inside you refused to move. Like your body had rooted itself beside him. Like you owed him something.

Maybe you did.

After all, it was partially your fault he was here. Yours and Frank’s. The rooftop. The blood. The gunfire. Your brother left chaos in his wake, and you couldn’t stop it, but at least you’d saved one person from the wreckage. That counted for something, didn’t it?

You drew in a slow breath and looked at the man beside you. Frank thought he’d just been collateral damage, but you knew better. Some people didn’t get in the way by accident. Some people had to.

Just like you.

He lay still beneath the hospital blanket, bruises darkening the sharp angles of his face, a healing cut at the corner of his mouth. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. The edges of him softened without all the tension and fight. It made you wonder who he really was beneath it all, behind the pain, the mask.

Then he stirred.

You sat up straighter, instinctively alert as his brow furrowed, jaw twitching in discomfort. He winced before he was even fully awake.

“Where am I?” he rasped, voice rough and cracked.

His eyes blinked open, unfocused, scanning the ceiling like it might hold the answer.

“Hey it’s okay, You’re at Metro General,” you said softly, rising to your feet and setting the clipboard aside. You kept your voice warm, even. Calm. “You were brought in a few hours ago. Pretty banged up. But you’re safe now. We’re taking care of you.”

He didn’t relax. If anything, something in his expression shifted, beneath the bruises, you saw it: panic. No, not panic. Recognition. Awareness.

His hand moved under the blanket, ghosting over the thin fabric of the hospital gown, fingers searching for something that wasn’t there. You knew exactly where his mind drifted to.

“M-My clothes?” he asked, a sharp edge in his voice. His eyes didn’t move. Still fixed on the ceiling.

“They brought you in, in just your boxers sir” you told him before he could spiral. “No ID. No phone. You were unconscious, bleeding out. But no need to worry your stable now”

You kept your tone steady, non-threatening. You were good at this, at talking people down. But this wasn’t just fear. It was sharper than that. Calculating.

Even half-conscious, you could tell he was assessing you. Testing. You recognized it immediately.

This wasn’t a man used to being vulnerable. This was someone who survived on staying hidden.

“Were you the one who brought me in?” he asked, finally turning his head toward you. He couldn’t see you, but somehow, you still felt seen.

You dropped your gaze, a habit more than anything. “No. I was already on shift. Someone else called it in.”

He studied you. Searching for cracks. You let him look and you stood your ground not wanting to sound or appear uncertain.

“Did anyone say who it was?” he questioned

“No. Sorry.” your voice fell flat but the apology was real, you were sorry. For it all.

The silence stretched. You watched his fingers twitch beneath the blanket, the subtle flinch of pain as he took in a shallow breath. You recognized the way he guarded his ribs; classic fracture behavior.

“You want me to call someone?” you offered gently, resting a hand on your hip. “Friend? Family?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “There’s a number. Foggy Nelson. My business partner.”

You grabbed the notepad and clicked your pen. “Go ahead.”

He recited it from memory, and you jotted it down. But before you reached for the phone, you paused.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Matt,” he said. Then, with a slight hitch, “Matthew Murdock.”

You nodded, tucked the name away, and stepped out to make the call.

When you returned, he was looking in your direction again…still. There was something softer in his expression now. A flicker of something close to recognition.

“Thank you for that, Nurse.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Murdock,” you replied, smiling faintly as you set the pad down. “I’m just doing my job.”

Still, guilt tugged at the edges of your stomach.

He smiled. And for the first time, you noticed, he was listening to your voice more than your words.

“I can’t help but feel like we’ve met,” he said slowly. “Your voice. It’s… familiar.”

Your heart gave a small, panicked flutter. You forced yourself to stay calm.

“Uh, y-yeah. I think you came in last night,” you said quickly, grasping at the first story that came to mind. “With a few people. The Schaffers? And a blonde guy? Bar fight, I think.”

He seemed to relax at that. He nodded slightly.

“Nurse Grace?”

“Yeah. Alana Grace.” You don’t even know why you gave your first name, it was just instinct at that moment.

“Alana,” he repeated. And when he said it, it sounded different; intentional. Like he was committing it to memory.

“I’m off shift soon, but you’re stuck with me ‘til then.”

You let yourself smile, your first real one in hours.

He tried to sit up. Grimaced. His hand shot to his ribs, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Careful,” you murmured, stepping in and placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Your fingers brushed the blanket aside. The dressing was loose. Bloodstained.

“I need to check this,” you said, hesitating just long enough to catch his nod. You pulled the gown down slightly.

And froze.

Jesus.

His torso was a roadmap of pain; lean muscle, old scars, and fresh wounds. The kind of body that didn’t just survive life but fought through it, every inch of him a quiet war story. You didn’t really take it in fully in the alleyway, probably because you were in a rush to get him help.

You knew you shouldn’t look. But you did. Your fingers hovered a second too long and you felt your pulse spike in your eyes. You were close to him, leaning down on his torso you could feel his hot breath on your neck from the side and you could smell the warmth of his skin under the antiseptic, ironically it sent a shiver down your spine.

Matt’s head tilted, just a fraction, you knew he couldn’t see you…but it felt like he could.

You didn’t speak, but your body did. Your stare lingered a beat too long and you could've sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into a slight smirk from the corner of your eye.

You swallowed hard and grabbed a pair of gloves as you tried to focus on cleaning his bandage, he’s just a regular patient you thought to yourself, this is clinical, you needed to be detached. You couldn’t afford to expose that you knew who he was. But you couldn’t help but feel like he radiated something quiet but intense. Like he could see through the air itself. And suddenly, you felt… vulnerable.

You cleared your throat, desperate to shift the mood.

“So, what do you do?” you asked, unwrapping a fresh bandage and pressing it gently into place. “You don’t strike me as the bar fight type.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said flatly.

You blinked. You didn’t know what you expected his answer to be, but definitely not a lawyer of all things… “A blind lawyer walking around Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning? That’s bold.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I was checking on a client.”

Too smooth. Too quick. You clocked it instantly.

“Oh? The Schaffers right? The blonde and her husband. They’re your clients?”

He stiffened.

“Are they okay?” he asked sharply. “Are they still here?”

You hesitated. Just long enough to measure your answer.

“I think they were discharged before I came on.”

Technically not a lie.

He went quiet. His jaw clenched.

Your hand moved on instinct, resting lightly on his forearm.

“Easy,” you said gently as you helped him lay back down on the bed.

He exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

You helped adjust the gown back over his shoulders. You looked down at him and tried to read him but something in his eyes shifted; guarded again. Like he’d locked the door to whatever was behind them.

Before you could press him further, a sharp knock on the door cut through the room.

“Ahem.”

You jumped, hand snapping back from Matt’s shoulder as Janet, the head nurse, stepped in, clipboard in hand and judgment in her eyes.

She looked between you and Matt, then raised a brow.

“You’ve been off shift for over two hours,” she said. You felt Matt shift from beside you at what she said “And you’ve got blood on your temple.”

You blinked. Reached up, fingers brushing the shallow cut near your hairline; the one you’d forgotten about. The rooftop.

Shit.

Panic licked the back of your throat.

Matt tilted his head, as if just now realizing the injury was there. You watched as he furrowed his brow , his look was intense calculated.

“What happened?” Janet asked as you walked up to her at the doorway and spoke in a whisper hoping Matt wouldn't hear

“I-uh…” you hesitated. “Long shift. I must’ve fainted. Hit my head on the counter.”

Janet frowned. “You need to go home and get that checked out before you leave.”

“I’m fine really-” you tried to protest but she cut you off

“You’re not fine, you’re exhausted. And now you’re bleeding. Go rest. We’ve got it from here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the tension in the room had already shifted. You looked back at Matt and noticed something.

He was watching you. Not just listening- but sensing. Noticing.

“Alright,” you said quietly, backing down.

You left the room slowly, fingertips brushing the doorframe, pulse still racing. you didn’t look back this time…but you didn’t have to.

You knew he was watching you, maybe not with his sight. But a part of him sensed something was off.

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

Text

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 19

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7.5k

Trigger warning; death, smut

notes; yooo, it’s been a month, I knowwwww, but bear with me! one day I will finish this story lol. I've just been so freaking busy it's insane. Either way, thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read this story, it really means a lot. I'm already nearly done with the next three chapters, so it shouldn't take me too long to post the rest this time. hope you’re all doing well. With love, <333

previous ✧

Y/N,

I don’t have time I’m sorry, I hope this reaches you in time.

I’ll be dead by the time you read this.

Rask is gone. Montesere and Vallahan too. Koeshiev came for us first, wiped us out before we even had a chance to fight back. The war is already lost here, but you still have time. You can still prepare the High Lords before it’s too late.

His power is beyond anything we imagined. Creatures—things not meant to exist—are crawling out of the dark. They are unstoppable. There is no end to them.

Last night, the prince fell. We couldn’t protect him. We couldn’t protect anyone.

We figured out one thing before the end—Koeshiev has divided himself. He’s fighting on multiple fronts at once. I don’t know how, but he is everywhere. It’s not just him—it’s him, multiplied.

Please, stay safe. Win this war. We didn’t stand a chance, but you do. You know now. You can be ready.

I would’ve loved to see you again. To visit the Night Court.

Maybe in another life.

With love and sorrow, Finn Head Healer of the fallen Kingdom of Rask.

The silence in Rhysand’s office was thick, suffocating. The air itself seemed to still as he finished reading the letter aloud, his voice even, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the parchment.

Azriel’s hand was wrapped tightly around yours, grounding you. You weren’t sure who was holding on to whom more.

“Are you sure this letter can be trusted?” Cassian was the first to break the silence, his voice tense. “It could be a trap. A manipulation.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yes,” you murmured, forcing yourself to speak steadily. “The bird that brought it belonged to Finn.” You took a shaky breath before continuing, “In Rask, the messengers are assigned at birth. They won’t obey anyone else but their bonded owner. If Finn’s bird was sent here… it means Finn himself sent it.”

Rhys nodded grimly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Any other element that can prove that it’s him that wrote it?” he pressed.

You exhaled, bracing yourself. “We all have a way to verify our identities in confidential letters. Finn’s was—” your voice caught for just a second before you forced yourself to finish, “—to always sign his letters with ‘With love and sorrow.’ It was something he said only when a life was lost under his care.”

The words felt heavier than they should, knowing that it had been his own life he was referring to this time.

Feyre inhaled sharply. “That means it’s real.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“When was this sent?” he asked, his voice cold, calculated.

You hesitated before answering. “Two days ago.”

Another stretch of silence.

Two days.

Two days, and in that time, Rask—along with Montesere and Vallahan—had fallen. Erased. (Ps : Rask, Montesere and Vallahan are the 3 kingdoms next to prythian that you can see in the map in the begining of each ACOTAR book ;))

And Koeshiev had already set his sights on Prythian.

“We don’t have time,” Rhysand said, his voice sharp, his hands braced against the desk as he surveyed the room. “The High Lords need to be warned—immediately.”

Cassian exhaled heavily, crossing his arms over his chest. “We already sent out invitations for the meeting, but that’s not soon enough.”

Rhys nodded, his violet eyes dark with urgency. “Then we move it up. We resend the summons and make it clear—this is not just a political gathering. This is war.”

Azriel, still gripping your hand in his, spoke next. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it settled over everyone. “I’ll alert my spies. If Koeshiev has truly divided himself, we need to pinpoint his movements, track where he’s attacking next.”

You felt Azriel’s thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over the back of your hand, an anchor amid the storm brewing in your chest.

Feyre turned to you, concern etched in every line of her face. “Y/N… you’ve seen what Koeshiev is capable of. Do you know anything about how he’s splitting himself?”

You swallowed, your thoughts racing. “I knew he was powerful. I knew his presence in the continent was growing stronger, but this?” You exhaled sharply. “This is something else. Finn was right—Koeshiev isn’t just bringing death. He’s making nightmares real. He’s multiplying his reach, his destruction.”

The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone.

Then, Rhysand straightened, his violet gaze glinting with cold determination. “We move fast. We send word to every High Lord and their commanders—this meeting isn’t happening in weeks. It’s happening now.”

Cassian nodded, already thinking ahead. “And we don’t just warn them. We prepare. We need battle plans, contingencies—every court’s strongest warriors.”

Azriel’s voice was steel. “We don’t wait for him to come to us.”

Rhys’s gaze flickered between all of you before he gave a single, resolute nod. “Then let’s move. Prythian will not fall the way Rask did. Not while we still have a chance to stop him.”

No one hesitated. No one argued.

The morning after the meeting felt like the calm before the storm. There was no time to waste. Cassian had already left for Illyria to start rallying the warriors, and Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, and Azriel were en route to the Court of Nightmares, ensuring the Darkbringers were prepared for what was coming. Meanwhile, your role had become clear—Prythian didn’t just need warriors. It needed healers.

You stood in the center of the clinic, a dozen faces looking back at you. Some held determination, others apprehension. The weight of what was coming pressed down on everyone.

“We need to start preparing now,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering. “Letters are already being sent to the other courts’ head healers, but we have to focus on what we can control. That means supplies, reinforcements, and training.”

Elira nodded, arms crossed. “What exactly are we looking at? We’ve handled skirmishes before, outbreaks, but a full-scale war?”

A murmur rippled through the healers, some shifting uneasily.

“What we’re looking at,” you continued, “is the worst thing Prythian has seen since Hibern. Maybe worse.” The words hung heavy in the air. “Koeshiev has already decimated three entire kingdoms. He won’t stop. And when he reaches us, we will be the last line of defense for our people.”

One of the younger healers, swallowed hard. “What if we’re not enough?”

The question struck at the core of the doubt lingering in the room. You stepped forward, meeting each of their gazes. “Do you think I would have asked you to be here if I didn’t think you were the best?” Silence. “Do you think Madja would have trained you if she didn’t believe you were capable?”

Their postures straightened slightly.

“Doubt won’t serve us,” you pressed on. “This isn’t just about bandages and salves. This is war. And I have no intention of letting us be the ones unprepared when it comes to saving lives. You are the most skilled healers in this court, possibly in all of Prythian. But if you waste time second-guessing your abilities, then all we’ll be left with is death.”

A heavy pause, then Elira spoke, her voice stronger this time. “So, what do we do first?”

A breath of relief filled your chest. “We start by taking inventory. We need to send out orders for more medical supplies, and we need to figure out who among us is willing to train others in emergency care.”

The young healer nodded. “We could request help from the priestesses at the library. Some of them already work with us, but there are more who might be willing.”

“Good. Send word to them.” You turned to another healer, Mira. “We need lists of the most commonly used potions, tinctures, and enchanted salves. What can we store in bulk? What do we need that’s rare?”

Mira nodded. “I’ll get started on that.”

“And the letters to the other courts?” Elira asked.

You reached for the stack of parchment waiting at the desk. “I already sent them out last night. We’ll see who responds.”

As if on cue, a small, enchanted scroll materialized on the desk, the seal of the Dawn Court shimmering under the light. You grabbed it, unrolling the delicate parchment.

"Y/N,

We received your letter and are already making preparations on our end.

The healers of the Dawn Court are gathering supplies, and we will dispatch our best healers to join you when the time comes.

I trust your judgment, and we stand with you.

–Teylan, Head Healer of the Dawn Court."

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Teylan and her team are preparing.”

A few sighs of relief filled the room.

“That’s one,” you said, your gaze sharp. “Now, we wait for the others. In the meantime, let’s make sure we’re ready, too.”

The healers straightened, determination setting in.

You had work to do.

The soft glow of dawn seeped through the windows of the clinic, casting long shadows across the floor. The scent of herbs, parchment, and ink filled the space as you and the other healers remained hunched over ledgers and supply lists, exhaustion weighing on your limbs. The hours had slipped away unnoticed, your hands still ink-stained from writing letters, your mind buzzing with strategies and preparations.

It wasn’t until the familiar sensation of shadows curling near your skin that you looked up.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his gaze flickering over the room, taking in the dimly lit chaos and the lingering tension in the air. His golden eyes softened slightly as they met yours, but his voice was firm when he spoke.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

Elira, who had been scribbling down yet another inventory list, groaned. “We still have—”

“You still have time,” Azriel cut in, stepping further inside, his shadows darkening in emphasis. “But not if you all pass out before the war even starts.”

The other healers exchanged tired but knowing glances. You exhaled, rubbing the bridge of your nose before nodding. “Everyone, get some rest. We’ll continue later.”

Murmured protests came from a few, but eventually, they relented. You could feel the exhaustion in their movements, the weight in their steps as they began to pack up their materials.

Azriel stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your lower back. His warmth seeped through your tired muscles, grounding you. “Let’s go home.”

You nodded, knowing there was no point in arguing. “I’ll be back later,” you reassured Elira, who only waved a hand at you, barely lifting her head from the desk she had collapsed onto.

Azriel guided you out of the clinic, his hand never leaving your waist. The cold air outside was crisp against your skin, a welcome change from the stifling warmth inside. The streets of Velaris were eerily quiet at this hour, the city still wrapped in the last moments of sleep before the day began.

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Azriel observed, his voice quiet as you walked together. “Tell me what you’ve set up.”

You inhaled deeply before answering, trying to push past the haze of exhaustion clouding your thoughts. “We’re coordinating with the other courts’ healers. Teylan from Dawn is already preparing her team same for Day, Summer and Winter, and we’re waiting on responses from the others. We’ve started gathering extra supplies—salves, potions, anything enchanted that can help with healing.”

Azriel nodded, listening intently. “And the priestesses?”

“We’ve requested their assistance,” you confirmed. “Some have already agreed to help train others. We’ll need more hands when the injured start coming in.”

Azriel’s expression was unreadable, but his grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Good. You’re thinking ahead.”

You glanced at him, studying the tension in his jaw, the way his wings flexed slightly as if restless. “What about you? How did things go under the mountain?”

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes before he exhaled. “As expected.”

“Which means?”

Azriel looked at you, his thumb brushing absently over your hip as he considered his words. “Keir is cooperating. Barely. But he knows what’s coming, and even his arrogance won’t blind him to the threat. We secured reinforcements from the Court of Nightmares, though they’ll only act when absolutely necessary.”

You scoffed. “Typical.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Azriel admitted, his voice edged with fatigue. “But I won’t trust them until I see them bleed for this court.”

Your fingers brushed over his hand, entwining them with his. “And Illyria?”

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Cassian is handling it. But it’s difficult. Some of the warlords are still bitter, reluctant to follow orders—even if it’s to protect their own people.”

Frustration laced his voice, and you could feel the weight of it pressing on him. You squeezed his hand gently. “They’ll follow Cassian. They know his strength.”

Azriel gave a small nod, his thumb tracing the back of your hand absentmindedly. “They don’t have a choice.”

Silence settled between you for a moment as you walked, the tension of the past day pressing heavily on both of you. The war was no longer just a looming shadow—it was real, and it was coming.

Finally, Azriel spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I don’t like how much this is weighing on you.”

You turned to him with a small, tired smile. “I could say the same about you.”

Azriel let out a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

His golden eyes softened, and instead of answering, he pulled you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

And with that, the two of you walked the rest of the way, hand in hand, knowing that the next battle—whether on the field or in the shadows—was drawing closer with every step.

The moment the door closed behind you, Azriel had you in his arms, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands gripped you tightly, as if letting go wasn’t an option, as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him to prove you were still here.

The kiss didn’t stop.

You barely registered when he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his strong arms holding you against him as if nothing—not war, not death—could pull you away from him. His lips trailed across your jaw, down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You gasped when he nipped at the sensitive spot beneath your ear, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

By the time he reached the bedroom, your breathing was already ragged. Azriel gently laid you down, hovering above you, his golden eyes burning with something desperate, something unspoken. He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if savoring every second, every taste.

Your hands roamed his body, fingers tracing the scars you had come to love, memorizing him, grounding yourself in the feeling of his skin beneath your touch.

Azriel’s clothes were gone before you could even process how quickly it happened. Your own followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he helped remove them, as if the idea of even a second wasted was unbearable. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice almost a plea. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, like it hurt him, like every second spent away from you was agony.

“I love you,” you whispered back, your hands cupping his face. “I always will.”

His lips crashed into yours once more, his body pressing against yours, his warmth consuming you entirely. Every touch, every kiss felt like a silent promise—one of devotion, of defiance against the cruel fate looming over both of you.

Azriel moved with slow, deliberate movements, his lips brushing against your collarbone, trailing lower, his hands mapping every inch of your body as if committing it to memory. When he finally sank into you, you both gasped, the feeling overwhelming, the connection deeper than anything words could describe.

It was slow at first, as if savoring each other, but it didn’t take long for the urgency to take over. His grip on you tightened, his pace turning desperate, as if trying to burn the memory of this moment into both of your souls.

You clung to him, your nails dragging down his back, his name a breathless whisper against his lips.

It was overwhelming—the intensity, the raw emotion between you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, your bodies moving in perfect harmony.

And then you felt it—a tear slipping down your cheek, not from pain, but from the sheer weight of it all. The love, the fear, the knowledge of what was to come.

Azriel stilled above you for a brief second, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. You opened your eyes and saw it—his own tears, barely held back, glistening in the moonlight.

“Oh, Az...” you whispered, your hands cupping his face, brushing your thumbs over the wetness on his cheeks. He let out a shaky breath, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

You let out a small, breathy laugh at how ridiculous you both must look—completely lost in each other, in the emotions neither of you could contain. Azriel huffed a quiet, broken laugh in return, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist.

But neither of you stopped.

If anything, the moment only grew more intense. The emotions, the tears, the quiet laughter—it all bled into something deeper, something unbreakable.

His name left your lips in a breathless moan, his pace growing uneven as he buried himself deeper into you. Your bodies trembled together, every movement, every thrust, every kiss pushing you closer to the edge.

And then, as if you had become one, you both shattered together.

His forehead dropped against yours, his grip on you unrelenting as he rode out the waves of pleasure with you, his body still pressed against yours, buried so deep inside you it felt impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

Your hands found his again, fingers intertwining as you both breathed each other in, the bond thrumming with love, with reassurance.

Azriel kissed you softly, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were still here, still his.

The air in the room was warm, thick with the remnants of your love-making, the sheets tangled around your bodies as if they, too, refused to let go. You lay sprawled across Azriel’s chest, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you as if you might slip away if he loosened his grip even the slightest bit. His forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning over your skin, steady yet heavy, as if he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your back, sometimes pressing into your skin as though grounding himself in the reality that you were still here. That, for now, fate had not stolen you from him.

But the truth lingered between you both.

The little time you had left.

Azriel exhaled deeply, the rise and fall of his chest shifting you with it. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet—weighted.

“I need to leave soon.”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly to look at him, your fingers already pressing into his skin as if to protest.

“To the continent,” he clarified, his thumb brushing over the small of your back in a soothing motion. “I need to confirm what’s in that letter. I need to see what’s left… if anything is left.”

Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay composed.

Your hand came up to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing the sharp planes of his face, committing the moment to memory. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again, dark and unwavering.

“Be careful,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “And—” you hesitated, resting your forehead against his, “never close your side of the bond. I need to know. Whatever is happening, I need to feel it.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened. “I won’t.” His voice was steady, resolute. “I swear to you, love. I won’t.”

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes, letting yourself drown in the feeling of him, of the warmth of his body against yours.

“I wish we could run,” you admitted after a long moment, voice barely above a whisper. “That we could disappear, go far away from this war, from all of it.”

Azriel’s hands stopped moving on your back, his silence stretching between you both. You knew he had thought about it too. Knew he had imagined what it would be like if you both could just vanish, live a life without the looming shadow of war, of death.

But you sighed, shaking your head against him. “But we can’t.”

His lips pressed against the crown of your head, a lingering, aching kiss that held more meaning than words ever could.

“I’ve seen fights,” you murmured, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ve seen rebellions, conflicts, bloodshed.” You paused, your voice dipping lower. “But I’ve never been in a war where I could lose so much.”

Azriel’s hand found yours, lacing your fingers together, holding on as if that alone could defy fate.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I hate that we’re here. That we don’t have a choice.”

Your lips brushed against his jaw before you whispered, “I love you.”

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I love you more.”

No more words were needed.

The weight of the world pressed down on your shoulders, but here, in this bed, wrapped in Azriel’s arms, you allowed yourself to forget—just for a little while.

Sleep found you both soon after, your bodies tangled together, holding on as if time itself could be willed to slow down.

A few hours later, the gentle shifting of the bed pulled you from sleep. The space beside you was no longer as warm, the absence of Azriel’s body stirring something deep inside you before you even opened your eyes. You felt him move, felt the way the sheets rustled as he quietly slipped from your side.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could move too far. You tugged lightly, just enough for him to hesitate, just enough for him to turn back toward you.

Azriel sighed softly, lowering himself back onto the bed, folding you into his arms. You buried yourself into his chest, inhaling his scent, memorizing the way he felt—warm, solid, unwavering.

“I need to go,” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep. “I know.”

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze in the dim morning light. He cupped your cheek, running his thumb over your skin before leaning in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss. It was slow, full of emotion, neither of you willing to let go just yet.

When he finally pulled away, it was only because he had to. His forehead rested against yours for a beat longer before he stood, leaving your arms empty and cold.

Still wrapped in the sheets, you sat up against the headboard, watching him move through the room. He was meticulous, as always—the way he strapped each piece of leather into place, the careful, methodical way he secured his weapons. There was something deeply intimate about watching him prepare for what lay ahead.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Azriel tightened the buckle on his vambrace before glancing at you over his shoulder. “It depends, really,” he admitted. “I’ll go straight from the continent to the Dawn Court for the meeting.”

You nodded, shifting slightly, pulling the sheets around you. “I’ll see you after the meeting then.”

Azriel paused, turning fully to look at you. His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean? You’re coming to the High Lords’ meeting.”

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “I… what?”

“We talked about this,” he reminded you gently, stepping closer to the bed. “Since you were the one who received the letter, it’s better if you’re there. You already know most of the High Lords, and they trust you.”

You swallowed, processing his words. You hadn’t expected this. You’d thought you would stay behind, continue preparing for whatever was coming—but it made sense. If there was ever a time to step into that room, to stand before all of them, it was now.

Azriel watched your expression carefully, waiting for your response.

Finally, you exhaled, nodding. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

A small, satisfied smile ghosted his lips.

You slid out of bed, pulling one of Azriel’s sweaters over your bare skin, along with a simple pair of pants. The fabric was soft, still carrying his warmth, and it settled something deep in your chest. Today would be spent in the clinic, behind your desk, preparing remedies and potions—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t carry a piece of him with you.

As Azriel adjusted the last of his gear, you stepped up behind him, circling your arms around his waist. Carefully, you tucked your head between his wings, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there.

Azriel stilled for a moment, then exhaled, turning in your hold to capture your lips once more. His hands found your waist, his grip firm but tender, as if he wanted to anchor himself to you before he left.

After a long moment, you pulled away, moving toward the small chest near the dresser. You dug through the vials inside before retrieving a small bundle, turning to press it into Azriel’s palm.

“Take this,” you said softly. “It’s a mix of tonics and remedies. They might be useful if anything happens.”

Azriel looked down at the small bundle in his hand, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gently tucked it into his belt. “You always think ahead,” he murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You smirked, brushing a hand over his chest. “Someone has to.”

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head, before leaning in for one last kiss—slow, lingering, his lips speaking the words neither of you dared to say out loud.

Then, hand in hand, the two of you made your way downstairs. The morning air was crisp, the sky still painted in soft hues of pink and gold.

At the doorstep, Azriel turned to you, his gaze searching yours.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm.

“I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Just don’t take too long.”

He smirked before pulling you into one last embrace, his lips finding yours once more before he finally stepped back.

And then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he was gone.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the sky, waiting until his figure became nothing but a speck against the horizon.

Only then did you turn, stepping back inside, feeling the emptiness settle in his absence.

The house was silent. Unnaturally so.

The fire had burned out, leaving nothing but smoldering embers in the hearth, and the air inside carried the ghost of warmth from the night before. Ydle was gone, delivering messages, and with him flew Roman—the bird that had once belonged to Finn.

Roman had been restless since his master’s death. Unlike Ydle, who had always been independent despite his bond with you, Roman seemed… lost.

You had watched him pace along the windowsill that morning, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for Finn. But his bond—his connection to the man who had raised him, trained him—was severed.

He knew. Somehow, deep in his little avian soul, he understood that Finn was gone. And now, without him, he was adrift.

A sigh left your lips as you turned away from the empty house, the stillness pressing in around you.

You grabbed your coat, pulling it snug around you before stepping out into the cold morning air.

There was no time to dwell on grief.

The clinic pulsed with an energy that had not been there before. It wasn’t the usual hum of healers moving between patients or the comforting rhythm of controlled chaos. No, today was different. The air was charged, thick with tension, as if the walls themselves could sense what was coming.

And you had not stopped moving. Not once.

There was no time to breathe, no time to pause. Each passing moment felt like another grain of sand slipping through an hourglass that was already running too fast.

Stacks of letters covered the table in your office, delivered from every corner of the continent and beyond. Some from the head healers of other courts, seeking guidance on how best to prepare. Others from those confirming their readiness—brief, calculated, full of sharp-edged efficiency that spoke to the severity of the situation.

Each letter demanded a response, and each response required thought, strategy, and precision.

What herbs were best suited for rapid healing in battle conditions? Which would preserve the most energy for healers without exhausting their supply?

What tonics should be prioritized? The fast-acting pain relievers, or the more potent elixirs designed to keep warriors on their feet long after their bodies should have collapsed?

How many stretchers? How many healers? How many bandages, vials, sutures?

How many would be needed if—when—the war came knocking at your doorstep?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your desk, your nails pressing crescent moons into the worn wood.

It wasn’t just logistics. It was lives.

And the weight of it sat heavy on your shoulders.

Still, you pushed forward, moving from one task to the next with unwavering determination. You wrote back to Teylan, the Head Healer of the Dawn Court, acknowledging her confirmation that their healers were mobilizing. You sent word to Rask's remaining medical units, inquiring about their current state after Koeshiev’s attack.

You met with the other healers at the clinic, gathering them in a quiet room, outlining the next steps with a precision that left no room for hesitation.

Some of them looked nervous—understandably so.

“We are the most skilled healers in this court,” you told them, your voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. “And we are going to prepare for this war with the same discipline and knowledge that we apply to every patient who walks through these doors.”

“But,” one of them hesitated, shifting uneasily, “this is war. We’re not trained soldiers. What if… what if we can’t handle it?”

You met their gaze evenly, unshaken. “Would you rather be unprepared when people are dying at our feet? Would you rather look down at a soldier in agony and know you don’t have the tools to save them? Because I won’t accept that. I won’t accept that from myself, and I won’t accept that from any of you.”

Silence filled the space between you, but the weight of your words settled deep.

This wasn’t just about fear. It was about responsibility.

Finally, one of the elder healers—an Illyrian woman with sharp eyes and a steady hand—nodded. “Then we make sure we’re ready.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the group. And just like that, the doubt faded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders, and returned to work.

You moved through the day in a blur—checking inventories, counting supplies, overseeing preparations. Ink stained your fingers from endless letters, and your legs ached from the constant motion.

But still, you didn’t stop.

Because there was no room for failure. Not this time. Not when the war was already at your doorstep.

By afternoon, there was something else you needed to take care of—something that required a conversation with Rhysand.

With a stack of papers tucked under your arm, you made your way to the River House. The walk was brisk, the cool air sharp against your skin, but it kept you awake, kept you grounded.

When you arrived, you barely had time to lift your hand before the door swung open for you.

Not by magic.

By the house itself.

A small smile ghosted your lips as you stepped inside, the warmth immediately wrapping around you like an old friend. The place had always carried a quiet sentience, as if it knew who belonged here and who didn’t. And today, it welcomed you like one of its own.

Without hesitation, you made your way through the halls, past the grand sitting room and the sunlit atrium, heading straight for Rhysand’s office.

The doors were already slightly ajar, as if expecting your arrival.

Inside, Rhys was seated at his desk, a pen in hand, reviewing a document with the same sharp, focused expression he always wore when dealing with matters of war and strategy.

At the sound of your steps, he looked up. His violet eyes met yours, and with the barest lift of his brow, he smirked.

“Come in, Y/N,” he said smoothly. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today.”

You entered Rhysand’s office quickly, your steps brisk, purposeful—but gods, you were exhausted. And judging by the way Rhys was rubbing his temples, leaning back in his chair, he was just as drained as you.

Still, when he saw you, he straightened slightly, offering a small smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to burden you for too long,” you smirked, settling into the chair across from him.

Rhys let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You never bother me, Y/N.”

You exhaled, placing the stack of letters you had been carrying onto his desk. “I just came to update you quickly before heading back to the clinic. I sent messages to the healers in the Night Court, outlined the emergency protocol, and made sure we have supplies ready. I also tasked Cassian with delivering the instructions to Illyria while he’s there. I would’ve gone myself, but…”

“You don’t have the time,” Rhys finished for you, nodding. “I know.” His violet eyes darkened slightly with understanding. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

You waved off the gratitude. “This is my home too, Rhys. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it.”

His smile was small but genuine before he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The High Lords have responded—most of them, at least.”

Your expression turned serious. “Most?”

“Tamlin hasn’t responded.”

You sighed, unsurprised. “Of course he hasn’t.”

Rhys reached into the stack of letters on his desk and slid one toward you. “But you might be interested in this.”

You picked up the letter, recognizing the elegant handwriting before you even opened it. Lila.

Your eyes flickered over the parchment, scanning its contents. She had confirmed Tamlin’s presence at the meeting, which was something, at least. But the rest…

Your grip on the letter tightened.

“She’s worried,” you murmured. “The Spring Court is barely holding itself together. Their armies are still fractured, their stability fragile.”

Rhys nodded grimly. “Which means Tamlin might not be as much of an asset as we’d hoped. If his court isn’t prepared, he may not have much to offer in terms of military support.”

You set the letter back down with a sigh. “Then we’ll have to plan around that.”

Rhys studied you for a moment before saying, “Azriel must have informed you, but you’ll be coming with us to the meeting.”

You nodded. “Of course. I expected as much.”

“Feyre is working with Nesta, Amren, and some of the priestesses in the library, trying to find anything that could give us an advantage.”

“That’s good.”

“Cassian will be back from Illyria later tonight,” Rhys continued. “Lucien went to the human lands to meet with Vassa and Jurian.”

Your brows furrowed slightly at that. “Do we trust him?”

Rhys hesitated for a brief second before nodding. “Lucien is many things, but he isn’t a liar. And he has his own reasons to want Koeshiev stopped.”

You considered that before nodding.

“What time are we leaving?” you asked.

“Tomorrow morning. We’ll all meet here before heading out.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Who’s staying behind in Velaris?”

“Mor, Amren, Nesta…” Rhys paused for a beat. “And Elain.”

You nodded, keeping your expression unreadable. “Good.”

“And Nyx?”

“Amren is positively delighted to keep him safe.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I can imagine.”

Rhys returned the smile, but there was something heavier beneath it. A shared understanding of the weight pressing on both of you.

“See you tomorrow, Rhys,” you said as you stood.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you just as you reached the door.

You glanced back.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You gave him a small, steady smile. “Don’t thank me for trying my best to protect my home.”

His expression softened, and he simply nodded.

As you descended the stairs, the warmth of your brief smile faded slightly when you entered the living room.

Elain was there, playing with Nyx.

She looked up when she noticed your presence, her delicate fingers still curled around one of the babe’s tiny hands.

For a moment, you and Elain simply acknowledged each other with a glance—no words, no forced pleasantries.

There were far more important things to focus on than whatever was simmering between you.

So you left, walking out the door without a second thought.

The exhaustion clung to your bones as you stepped away from the clinic, the weight of the long night pressing down on you. You hadn't returned home at all, caught up in the endless planning, the intricate strategies of war and survival. Organizing field healers, establishing protocols for emergency treatment both on and off the battlefield—it had consumed you.

It would never be perfect. No amount of preparation could make it so. But you could ensure that the Night Court—and all of Prythian—stood the best chance possible.

With a final round of instructions given to Elira and the other healers, you exhaled a slow breath, knowing that for the next two days, they would handle things in your absence. After the High Lords’ meeting, depending on its outcome, the real movement would begin.

The streets of Velaris were quiet as you walked home, the familiar city bathed in cold starlight. It was late, and the warmth of the Sidra’s glow barely took the edge off the winter chill. Your fingers tightened around the lapels of your coat as your thoughts drifted—to Azriel.

You could still feel him through the bond, even with the distance between you. He was focused, sharp, immersed in whatever he was doing on the continent. But even so, you had sent him waves of love and reassurance since he had left—little nudges to let him know you were still here, still thinking of him. And each time, he had answered, a soft pulse of warmth in return, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that tethered you together.

Still, a dark thought crept into your mind as you neared your home. When you were no longer here, what would that feel like for him? When all that was left of you was an echo through the bond, a connection to something that no longer existed—

You clenched your jaw, shaking off the thought before it could take root.

You had just reached your front door when a knock echoed from the other side.

Frowning, you hesitated only for a moment before opening it.

Mor stood there, wrapped in a thick cloak, her golden hair slightly tousled by the wind. She looked at you with those keen, knowing eyes—like she already understood everything you hadn’t yet said aloud.

“Hey, stranger,” she said with a small smile, though there was something behind it. A softness. Concern.

You blinked in surprise before stepping aside to let her in. "Mor," you greeted, shutting the door behind her. "What are you doing here?"

She unfastened her cloak, shaking the chill from it before draping it over a chair. “I came to help you get ready for the High Lords’ meeting.”

Your brows furrowed. "You didn't have to—"

Mor cut you off with a look, her arms crossing as she leaned against the table. “Yes, I did. I know you've been drowning yourself in work, Y/N. You’re prepared, but I also know you haven’t stopped for even a second to think about what’s coming next. And I know,” she added before you could protest, “that Azriel told you, but I wanted to hear it from you. Are you ready for this?”

You swallowed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t think any of us are truly ready.”

She nodded, her gaze searching yours. “Fair. But are you ready to face them? To walk into that room not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to?”

You hesitated.

Mor sighed, pushing off the table. “You’ve built relationships with the High Lords. They trust you. You are not just Azriel’s mate, not just a healer, not just the person who got that letter—you are a force in this war, and they need to see that.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling deeply. “I know, Mor. I just—” You paused. “It’s all happening so fast.”

Mor’s eyes softened. “It is. But that’s why I’m here. To go over everything with you, to make sure you walk into that room knowing exactly what you need to say.”

And just like that, the two of you got to work, combing through every possible scenario, every question that might arise—because, you would not just be speaking as a healer.

You would be standing before Prythian’s most powerful leaders, ensuring that they understood exactly what they were up against.

Mor studied your face carefully as you took in the outfit, the soft silk cascading over your body, the embroidered stars and moons shimmering under the dim light of the room. The deep blue fabric contrasted beautifully against your skin, the high neckline regal yet delicate. But it was the open back that made you hesitate.

You turned slowly, glancing over your shoulder at the reflection in the mirror. The scars on your back were there—undeniable, raw remnants of the past. You had grown used to them, learned to live with them, but seeing them now, so exposed, left you feeling vulnerable.

Mor noticed the shift in your expression. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “If you’re not comfortable, we can try something else,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual.

You looked down at where her fingers rested, warmth radiating from her touch. Then, without hesitation, you reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “No,” you said, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “I love it.”

Mor searched your face for any sign of doubt, but when she found none, she squeezed your hand back, her signature smirk returning. “Good. Because you look incredible.”

You let out a soft laugh, running your fingers over the delicate embroidery on the pants. “Did you really have a backup outfit just in case?”

She shrugged dramatically. “Please, do you know who I am? Of course I did.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, turning back to the mirror as she stepped behind you, adjusting the fabric slightly. “You’re going to make an impression,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

You let out a breath, nodding slightly. “I know.”

Mor met your gaze in the reflection. “And you’re going to do just fine.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor. For everything.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t get sentimental on me now,” she teased before pulling you into a quick hug. “Now, let’s finish getting you ready, because, you’re walking into that meeting not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to.”

You nodded, determination settling in your chest. The meeting was coming fast, but for now, you allowed yourself this moment of quiet preparation, of friendship, of certainty.

Because no matter what awaited you in that room, you would be ready.

As you sat in front of the mirror, Mor’s gentle hands moved through your hair, styling it with a precision that only she could manage. The soft tug of her fingers, the quiet hum of her concentration—it was grounding, a moment of calm before the storm.

One of Azriel’s shadows lingered near you, curling faintly around your wrist like a whisper of reassurance. You didn’t know if Azriel had sent it or if it had simply decided to stay with you of its own accord. Either way, its presence was comforting, as if a piece of him was with you, holding onto you even from miles away.

Mor soon moved to your face, her gaze sharp as she worked. The exhaustion from the past few days had taken its toll, but by the look of satisfaction on her face as she pulled back, she had managed to make you look like you had actually rested.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, admiration in her voice. “You are beautiful, Y/N.”

You met your own gaze in the mirror, eyes scanning over the work she had done. The long, dark lines of exhaustion under your eyes had vanished, replaced with a soft glow that made you look almost ethereal. She had done an incredible job, as always.

A small, grateful smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor.” You leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She grinned, hugging you from the side before pulling away with a playful smirk. “Alright, alright. Enough of that. Go get your shoes—we need to leave, or you guys are going to be late.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you grabbed them, slipping them on swiftly before the two of you made your way to the River House.

When you entered, everyone was already gathered, finalizing preparations.

The sight before you was breathtaking—every single one of them dressed in their finest, the weight of their roles as warriors, rulers, and protectors settled heavily over them.

Rhys stood near the fire, his wings out, the dark crown atop his head a striking contrast to his violet eyes. Feyre stood beside him, a vision in an intricately designed gown, her crown sitting elegantly atop her golden-brown hair. She truly looked like a queen tonight.

You exchanged greetings, small smiles and quiet words passing between the group. Feyre and Rhys kissed Nyx one last time before Feyre turned to you, her fingers finding yours.

“Ready?” she asked, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, inhaling deeply. “Ready.”

Rhys reached for Cassian while Feyre took your hand, and in a single breath, darkness enveloped you.

The High Lords' Meeting awaited.

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

Text

Eight | A Heart Laid Bare | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.1k

Warnings - Descriptions of tending to wounds (minor), angst

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The day had passed too quickly, blurring by in a haze of aching silence and unspoken words.

Thesan, ever gracious, had offered us the night. A pause. A reprieve. A temporary refuge beneath the gentle light of his palace, so we could speak further, discuss what had been said, had been done.

I had stopped listening. I hadn't heard any of it, not really.

Not after the sound of Tamlin's voice, fractured and sharp, still echoed in my mind.

The others had tried—tried to offer comfort, distraction, anything. Even Cassian, who rarely knew what to say but always knew when someone needed holding.

His arms had wrapped around me in the hall outside that terrible meeting, broad and warm and solid in the way only a warrior could be. I let him hold me. Just for a second.

But it wasn't what I needed.

I pulled away, gently. Cassian's arms loosened without question, but his brows furrowed as he looked at me, concern and something softer flickering in his eyes.

He didn't stop me then. Just nodded once, like he understood. Like he always understood.

All I could do was follow him. Follow Azriel.

I don't even remember walking after him, don't remember how I came to stand at the threshold of his room.

Only that he'd opened the door. Only that he hadn't told me to leave. Not like he ever would.

Inside, the quiet was thick. His shadows coiled along the walls like smoke, restless and watchful, until they sensed me and softened. Drifted. Welcomed me in that strange way only they could.

He hadn't spoken. Neither had I.

In his bathing chamber, I moved on instinct my fingers finding a towel, soaking it in warm water that steamed against my skin. I turned to him, gesturing silently. An offer. A request.

Azriel sat on the edge of the marble bench, his wings half-furled behind him, dragging slightly against the floor.

There was tension in his body that didn't quite reach his face, and exhaustion beneath his skin, in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way his mouth pulled tight against the pain.

There was blood on his shirt. On his hands. A smear on his temple.

I sank to my knees between his legs, the cool marble unforgiving beneath me as I gently brought the towel to his brow.

His shadows, always curious, flickered across my shoulders and arms, humming their approval, their trust. I felt them settle into my hair, tug softly at strands like children seeking comfort.

The silence stretched.

"You did well in there," he murmured at last, his voice so quiet I nearly missed it beneath the sound of dripping water.

I didn't look at him. I couldn't. Instead, I brought the cloth to his temple and brushed it there, gently, reverently but more to give my hands something to do than to tend his wounds.

More to avoid those eyes.

"I did nothing," I said, and even to my own ears, my voice sounded hollow. Thin. "I only showed weakness for our court."

He tensed beneath my touch.

I felt it, the tightening of his jaw under my fingertips, the tremor in his chest. His wings twitched slightly, one membrane flexing in discomfort. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, before one of them drifted—tentative, uncertain, toward my gown. Just barely grazing it.

"I would not call it weakness," he said.

"Then what would you call it?"

He didn't answer.

The silence that followed, it was deafening. It screamed between us. I hated how much I wanted him to say something, anything, that would make it all feel less like I was drowning.

My fingers dropped from his face. I set the towel aside, my hand trembling now, refusing to obey the calm I tried to fake.

"They don't lie," I whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "They saw it. I let him make me weak. I gave him every weapon, every wound, and he wielded them in front of the world like trophies. Like proof."

I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat.

"Proof that there is weakness in our court. Because of me."

Azriel didn't move. Didn't speak. But the stillness of him, it wasn't the cold, calculated kind. It was the kind that came just before a dam broke.

I reached for his hand. Held it carefully in both of mine. Forced myself to still the shaking enough to pick the towel back up and press it gently to his torn knuckles.

"I do not know how to stop grieving the version of myself I let him kill," I breathed. My voice cracked on the end of it.

And that did it.

Azriel's hand turned in mine, fingers wrapping around my wrist—not tight, not forceful. Just there, grounding. Steady.

His other hand reached up, slowly, as though giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, he cupped my cheek with all the gentleness of a man holding something too fragile to survive another fracture.

Then his fingers dipped lower, brushing the line of my jaw, the slope of my neck. He traced the chain of the necklace he gave me, where it rested against my skin, the touch featherlight, reverent, almost.

As if the charm it held, and the heart it guarded beneath, meant something sacred to him.

"She's still in there. She's just waiting for you to let her out," he said, his voice rough, raw.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't breathe with him looking at me like that, with those hazel eyes that had seen too much, suffered too much, and still somehow held space for me. For the broken pieces of me that I couldn't even name.

Our eyes locked, and neither of us looked away. Seconds passed. Minutes. Maybe lifetimes.

Finally, I looked away. I didn't want to but I had to. The weight of his gaze, that quiet storm in his hazel eyes, was too much. Too knowing.

I rose from where I knelt between his legs, and in the movement—so subtle, so unintentional, my fingers brushed the delicate membrane of his wing.

He stilled. So did I.

The contact was brief. Featherlight. But it was enough to make my heart stop, to make my breath catch and lodge somewhere in the pit of my throat. I opened my mouth, an apology on the tip of my tongue, but he was already standing.

And he was breathing. Faster. Harder. Like he was fighting something inside him and losing.

Something unspoken shifted between us then, something ancient and enormous and trembling with the weight of everything we had never dared say. The air pulsed with it, sharp and urgent and wrong.

I knew. I knew.

I could hear the warning bells, low and shrill, in the back of my mind. Could feel the door creaking open to something that couldn't be closed again.

A part of me wanted to run. So I did what I always did—I turned away. Took a step toward the door, toward the safety of silence.

But he didn't let me.

He caught me, his hands wrapping around my arms, firm but not unkind, stopping me mid-stride. And when I turned back, when I finally dared to lift my eyes to his—

He was already looking at me. And what I saw there—what I saw.

Years. Centuries. A lifetime of restrained longing and stifled words and nights spent burying pieces of himself for my sake.

His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight but his eyes... they were burning. Unfiltered. Raw. Bare.

"Let me love you. Please. Just—please let me love you. Stop torturing yourself."

He whispered the words like they were killing him. Like he couldn't stop them even if he tried.

Time stopped. The words hit me like a blade between the ribs.

After hundreds of years, of lifetimes of half-truths and shared glances and moments that could have changed everything if only—he said it.

Finally. He confessed.

The truth of it hung in the air like a death knell. Soft, ringing, final.

Never, not once, had Azriel said it aloud. Never, not in all the times he held me through grief, not in the silence after our battles, not when he carried me home half-broken and bleeding. Not when he brushed a strand of hair from my face like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He had loved me quietly. Secretly. Faithfully.

And now, he had said it. Laid himself bare. Placed his heart in my hands like it was nothing more than an offering on an altar already scorched by loss.

I couldn't take it.

His grip loosened the longer I didn't speak. As if with each second of silence, the hope drained from him drop by drop. As if he already knew what I was going to say.

My mouth opened.

I wanted to explain. To give him every excuse, every reason, every shattered piece of logic that made sense in my mind. That told me I wasn't worthy. That told me love—his love, was too bright for someone who lived in the shadows of her own ruin.

But all that came out—was one word.

"No."

Barely a breath. Barely a whisper.

His face didn't change. Not immediately. But I felt it. Felt something in him fracture so deeply, so quietly, that it made my knees weak. His hands fell away from me like dead weight.

I turned. And I walked.

Because love like his deserved something whole. Something light. And I had nothing left to give but ashes and regret.

I left him standing there, in that quiet room that now felt like a tomb.

But I had to walk away. I had to.

Because I wasn't someone who deserved to be loved like that. Not by him. Not anymore.

In a quiet wing of the Dawn Court palace, beneath a ceiling painted with sunrise and eternity, shadows crept where they should not go.

They did not belong in the light—did not thrive in it but they came anyway. Slipping like ink beneath the doorframe. Sliding along the golden floors, silent and cold, and curling like smoke around the feet of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.

Feyre had felt them first.

She sat upright in bed, her breath catching before the sensation fully registered. Not fear. Not threat.

Pain. A pain that didn't belong to her, but came anyway, delivered by the shadows, their usually obedient whispers unravelling into a chaotic, fractured wail.

Across the bed, Rhys stirred, his instincts sharpening in an instant as he sat up beside her, eyes narrowing.

"They shouldn't be here," he said, voice rough with sleep, yet already shadowed with dread.

"They disobeyed him," Feyre murmured, her hand already reaching for the tendrils of darkness at her feet.

The shadows trembled under her touch, desperate, wild with the ache they carried. They didn't need words.

Azriel was breaking.

Far away in another wing of the palace, hidden behind stone and silence, something inside the Spymaster was unravelling—finally, utterly, and the only witnesses were the shadows that had clung to him for centuries.

"We should do something," Rhys said, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. There was tension in his every movement, his power coiling in his veins.

His brother was in pain, and doing nothing went against every instinct he had.

But Feyre stopped him. A gentle hand on his chest. Warm. Steady. Certain. She met his gaze, her own heart aching with the echoes of a grief she could feel pressing in around them.

"We cannot interfere," she whispered.

Rhys's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. "He's falling apart."

"I know," she said softly, her voice barely more than breath.

He stared at her, violet eyes burning. "He confessed. After all this time. After everything..."

"And she still walked away," Feyre finished.

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

The shadows curled tighter around them, murmuring fractured pieces of the scene they had just fled, pleas that went unanswered, silence that stretched too long, a single word that tore through centuries of buried hope.

No.

Just that.

No.

It echoed through the bond Rhys shared with Azriel, distant, dimmed, but enough. Enough to make his fists tighten in the sheets, to make his wings twitch with helplessness.

"She doesn't see it," Rhys said. "She doesn't see what he's offering. What he's always offered."

"She sees it," Feyre replied, her voice threaded with sorrow. "That's why she ran."

Rhys looked at her then, and there was something in his face—something ancient and tired. "He won't come back from this."

"He will," she said, her hand still on his chest, grounding them both. "But not because we carried him. He has to choose it. Choose himself. Choose to keep loving her, or stop. Choose to wait, or let go. No one else can make that choice for him."

The shadows curled once more, as if in mourning, before vanishing back into the stone, returning to the one they were bound to.

Back to the broken male sitting in a room alone, whispering her name into the quiet.

A/n - JUST HEAR ME OUT—ik reader’s response is painful (some might say cruel), but she has her reasons. Trust that it’s all part of her arc, and it will make sense as things unfold.

When I say slowburn, I mean it, we’re over halfway through the story now, and I promise things will start coming together soon!!

This part is special because we FINALLY get a verbal confession and yes, we’re leaning into the beloved tending to wounds trope :))

I included the Feyre and Rhys moment at the end to offer more insight into both Azriel’s and reader’s emotional states. They’re not on the same page yet, and that’s important.

As always, I love hearing your thoughts! Your comments truly make my day. Thank you for reading and feeling all of this with me <3

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

Text

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Twelve- Tragedy

Summary: Out of money and low on morale you make a drastic move.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror. SA, please be aware. You are responsible for your own media consumption, this part is highly 18+

Word Count: 2.8k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

January 2014 Boston QZ

You haven’t been here in nearly a year. The last time you were here, you’d lost your boyfriend to a delusional cause. You wiggle in your stool, sipping at the shitty moonshine thats being served, it burns your throat as it goes down.

Your shirt is too tight, pinching at your sides as you try to make yourself look “desirable”. The shirt had been sitting at the back of your dresser, a gift from Tommy for your birthday, but it hadn’t fit, too tight on your chest. Now, it might be the way you’re going to pay your rent. It’s light blue lace,

A man slides into the stool next to you, motioning at the bartender for two more cups of the shit that was passing as alcohol. The air feels warm as you turn to face him, low light making it harder to see. The sound of the other patrons drowns his voice as he speaks to you.

“What?” You ask

“Nice shirt.” He compliments, leaning in closer to you.

“Thanks.” You say

He slides you one of the glasses as the bartender serves them. He’s got sandy blonde hair, it falls into his eyes a bit, and bright green eyes to match. His tan skin reminds you of the old Abercrombie models you used to see at the mall near your house. You’ve never seen him before, but he exudes confidence, perhaps a Fedra soldier off duty. At least that meant he’d be good for the payment.

“Haven’t seen you here before.” He grins

“Uh, yeah, just uh…Here for a drink.” You awkwardly lie. How do you even go about telling this dude you’ll sleep with him if he can pay enough to cover the balance of your rent?

He laughs, like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world, “Hot stuff, this is what we guys like ta’ call whore corner.”

He gestures to the way the two of you are nestled into the corner of the bartop. You’d picked this spot because you thought it was invisible, of course it was whore corner.

“Oh, uh, you caught me.” You give him a weak smile

“What’s your rate?” He smiles

You tell him, and he gives you another smile. What the hell was he smiling so much for? Sure he was looking to get his dick wet but that didn’t mean he needed to walk around like the fucking cheshire cat.

“Steep rate. You owe someone money?” He asks

“Rent’s due soon.” You blandly say

He’s not interested in you, he’s interested in speaking to your tits like they’re the only thing in the world.

“Gotcha. Don’t wanna go to the shitty group homes. I wouldn’t wanna either.” He rests his hand on your thigh, you’re thankful you wore jeans.

“You gotta a name or is hot stuff it? Baby sounds nice too.” He comments, “Y’wanna be my baby tonight?”

Your brain fills with memories of Tommy and how he’d more often than not call you baby.

“Hot stuff is fine.” You say, you don’t want anything about this guy to be associated with Tommy. Those memories were yours to keep safely locked away.

“My name's Nathan.” He says, pulling you from your stool and slinging an arm around your shoulders before tossing some cards down for your drinks, “Gonna need ya to scream it for me tonight.”

You have to hold your scoff in. From the way he’s talking himself up not to mention the way he’s already palming the front of his cargo pants, he’s probably going to be the world’s shittiest lay.

Nathan leads you back to his apartment. It’s around 10 blocks from your place, closer to the orphanage where you’ll be early tomorrow morning.

The door slams and you jump, this has all gotten just a bit more real. Nathan’s stripping, pulling clothes off like they’ve offended him as you sit neatly on the bed, too scared to move. You haven’t had anyone but Tommy in 10 years, you’re used to him being sweet to you, knowing exactly what to do, and how to do it so it feels good for you.

Nathan is on top of you, fumbling with your bra as he tries to undo it now that your shirt is gone. Your hands fist the sheets as you bite your tongue, you need these cards, no backing down.

It’s all so wrong as he finally gets the bra off, his inexperience showing through. He’s probably the same age as you, but he’s clearly not used to undressing a girl; they probably do it for him.

“Not bad.” He surveys as he roughly gropes your chest

“Thanks.” You mumble, unsure if that was actually a compliment

Your pants are next, he wiggles them off your hips and you’re left in simple black panties, nothing fancy, you only have three pairs to your name afterall. His hand grinds into your center, too rough and harsh, not at all what you’re used to.

“That feel good?” He hums

You turn away from him, tyring to ignore the discomfort as he slides his hand down the waist band of your panties. He’s barely just touched your clit and you gasp out. “Stop.”

“Stop?” He asks, “Haven’t even started yet.”

You can’t do this. You’ll get the cards another way, maybe Joel and Tess can lend them, you can work your debt off, anything but this.

“I don’t wanna anymore. “ You explain trying to wiggle away from under him but he keeps you pinned to the bed

An angry look falls on his features, and his hand comes up, fisting at the fabric of your underwear before ripping them right off you.

“Are you fucking serious. You’re not leaving me with blue balls you fucking whore.”

“Stop!” You yell trying to push him off you as you feel him prod at your dry cunt

You yelp when he grabs you, turning you onto your belly, your entire body flat to the mattress as he climbs back ontop of you

“Just…stay there.” He huffs, hands pinning your wrists to the bed as you twist under him, hot tears streaming down your face, theres no escaping this, “This is what you girls are good for.”

A big hand pushes your face deep into the mattress as he pushes into you. Your arms flail in the sheets, a muffled cry leaving your lips. You’re dry as a bone, too scared to even ask him to try to prep you as he groans above you in pleasure.

Your body tries to push him out, clenching as you cry into the bed, he laughs above you, telling you something about being tighter than a virgin. His hand lets up and you suck in a breath of air, lungs heaving.

You’re not sure how long this goes on, it feels like hours but according to the nightstand’s clock it’s only been about 15 minutes. Warm cum slips out of you as he eases out, a sharp slap to your ass as you flinch.

“Fuck.” He groans, “Not bad.”

You can’t move, sharp pains stab your lower belly as you cry. Nathan doesn’t say anything after that. He moves next to you, patting your back twice before nodding off, uncaring about what he’s just done.

An hour passes before the pain in your stomach subsides a bit, you roll out of the bed, Nathan passed out as he snores away. Your legs shake as you stumble around, grabbing your clothes, slipping into them. The sun is setting, curfew is soon.

Your payment is nowhere to be seen, but once both your shoes are on, you’re sliding out the door, lower body throbbing in pain. You cry as you walk down the sidewalk, you’re so fucking stupid. You didn’t even get paid, and now you probably wouldn’t even be able to walk to your actual job tomorrow morning.

Home is too far away, your body is aching, and you need to lie down. Your body moves on autopilot, you know where you are and who is close by. He might not want to see you but he’s the only person you know who can help you in this damn city.

The door is locked when you get there, slamming your fists against the door, a cry leaves your lips as you melt into the door frame. No one is home. You rest your forehead against the door, and the steady thrum of pain between your legs has you crying out. Blearily, you try to keep your eyes open, thinking of your mistakes. His name falls from your lips as your eyes flutter shut, hands cradling your belly as you go.

“Joel.”

Joel’s dead tired as he walks up the steps to his apartment. Tess is about ten paces ahead of him, talking about what Bill and Frank need as she goes. She’s only a few years younger than him but she might as well be 20 years younger with the way she’s outpacing him right now. He’d had a shitty night of sleep last night, nightmares plaguing his mind as he uselessly tried saving Sarah over and over again.

His eyes are fixed on the stairs as he focuses on not tripping, his laces are untied, when did that happen? Tess calls his name frantically and his gaze is snapping up. Even from here he can tell who it is curled up in the doorframe.

He hasn’t seen you in almost a year, he’d presumed you were living your life probably pissed at his brother and that you had no reason to interact with him anymore. Joel never expected you’d be passed out in his doorway, pale as a ghost and in the worlds most impractical clothing.

He picks you up, carrying you into his and Tess’ place bridal style. He gingerly places you on the couch and he gets a better look at you. Your hair is messy atop your head, fresh tears streak your face and your skin is all wrong, the color you normally have is missing.

Tess presses her hand to your forehead, “No fever. Least I don’t think so.”

Joel and Tess jump back when your eyes snap open, a screech leaving your lips as your eyes dart around.

“No, no! No more! Let me go home!” You wail, arms wrapped around your body tightly, “Please!”

Joel reaches forward, grabbing you by the shoulders and yelling your name, “Hey, hey! It’s me. You’re safe. It’s me n’ Tess.”

“Joel…”You wheeze wild eyes looking at him as your breath comes out uneven, “Please don’t make me leave.”

He gives Tess a look as she stares down at you with concern on her face. He knows the two of you never got along great but even she can tell somethings wrong.

“Not gonna make you leave.” He says, “Lay down, I uh, I got some food you can eat.”

Tess excuses herself to the bathroom for a shower as Joel sits across from you in an armchair while you eat on the couch. He hasn’t seen you eat this voraciously in well…ever. You scarf down the bowl of canned greenbeans and paractially inhale the can of tuna he’s set down.

“When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” Joel asks, taking note of how skinny you were. You definitely weren’t like this a year ago.

A small shrug falls from your shoulders as you gulp down the water. Joel stares at you, taking in your messy appearance, greasy hair that is falling from a ponytail.

“Whens the last time you showered?” He asks, suddenly noting the smell from you, it’s masked by some floral perfume but it’s there, body odor.

“A week ago.” You mumble, “My shower stopped working.”

Joel nods slowly, you’re not at all what he remembers. The last time he saw you, you were healthy, clean and well, angry at his brother, but nothing like this. It’s clear something has happened to you beyond the shower and the apparent lack of food.

“When Tess is done, you can shower. Y’can use my soap.” He says

You look at him, hesitant, your sad voice fills his ears, “I don’t…I can’t pay you back.”

“S’free. You’re stinking up my home.” He waves you off

Joel never let anyone go debt-free. Why was he being so soft on you? Was it because you used to be with his brother? Perhaps it was your shared past, you were his babysitter for Sarah oh so long ago. He didn’t know, all he did know was that you were curled in on yourself, hands wrapped tightly around your middle as your back faced him.

You shiver and Joel stands up, pulling at the blanket that is on his chair, he gets closer to you ready to toss it on you but something catches his eye dark red, blooms under your ass and stains the old couch that you were cuddled into.

“Hey,” Joel calls, shaking your shoulder, “Hey, you’re bleedin’. Your period started.”

He walks off, the bathroom is free, and Tess is off getting changed in the bedroom. He pulls the mirror open, grabbing a tampon before returning to you. You’re sitting up, staring at the floor as you refuse to look at him.

“Christ, get up, I don’t want you stainin’ the couch I got a tampon, go get cleaned up in the shower.” He says, not interested in trying to get blood stains out of the furniture, his clothes were enough of a hassle already.

You shove past him, head bent low, not even bothering to grab the brightly colored period product from his hands. Joel watches as you walk to the bathroom gingerly; you almost look like an old woman with the way you walk.

Under lukewarm water, you frantically scrub your body. You rub your skin raw with the shitty washcloth Joel and told you was in the linen closet. There’s not enough soap in the world to make you feel whole again as you step out of the shower, trying to stop your sniffling and tears as you dry off. Neatly folded on the toilet seat is an oversized green t-shirt along with a simple pair of women's sweatpants. On top of it all is the tampon he’d offered you, unaware of the true source of the bleed. You ball up toilet paper, shoving it into what was probably an extra pair of Tess’s underwear.

You emerge from the bathroom only to find Joel and Tess sitting at their cluttered table. They’re quietly talking as you try to slip by, your body aches and you want to lay down.

Back on the couch, you try to hide your puffy face in the cushions, making a mental note to clean the blood off tomorrow.

Your nose whistles as you listen to the hazy voices of Joel and Tess, they’re probably discussing business or perhaps when they could kick you out. Your mind drifts to Tommy, you wonder where he is or if he’s even alive. Your heart squeezes, you wish he was here to hold you, to wrap you up and tell you everything is okay, to erase what had happened today.

You don’t know when you fall asleep; all you do know is that the next time your eyes open, it’s morning. Joel is gone, and Tess is in the kitchen, moving pots and pans around. You push yourself off the couch, you’re not as sore as you were yesterday, but your body still aches. You quietly pad to the bathroom, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, but stop when a loud gasp falls from Tess’s mouth.

You turn around to see her pointing at your torso. Your shirt has ridden up and is pushed askew, revealing horrible purple bruises in the shape of hand prints.

Nathan. He must’ve been gripping you harder than you thought yesterday.

“Fuck.” You curse, fixing your clothes

You’re shuffling to the bathroom, embarrassed that she’s seen you, but her voice stops you.

“It’s not your period, is it?”

Joel comes back from the markets with an armful of stuff, cans of food and a few new pairs of socks, even new shoelaces for his shitty boots. He expects to come home to you and Tess arguing, or even you gone completely, unable to deal with the other woman in the apartment. Instead, he’s met with quiet. Tess is boiling water for that hot water bottle she keeps, and you’re bundled up on the couch, a ploom of blankets around you. Where the hell did you get those? He kept those in the closet, usually. Your eyes are glassy, and you’re off in your own world, not bothering to greet Joel as he walks into the kitchen area.

“You good?” He asks Tess as she stares at the tea kettle.

Tess nods, a tired sigh escaping her lips, “You know anyone named Nathan?”

Next Part

Spoiler alert: Nathan will die. Not right now but he will, eventually.

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter; I carry the tags over to each part.

@freythecrazyfae @rae-gar-targaryen @keseqna @eniepascal @jakecockley @aphroditesblunt @soberbabes @daisyhams

@h0neylemon @womenlover0 @ghostofseattle

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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Pedro Pascal in Materialists | First Look | A24

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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ACOTAR Fics Masterlist:

Key: Indicates Smut🔥, Fluff 💖 , Angst 😭

Rhysand x Reader:

Warm Me Up 🔥

Under a Star-Flecked Sky 😭💖

Heavy 💖

Stay 🔥💖

Vacation Days 💖🔥

Claimed 🔥🔥 (an A/B/O AU)

Desperation 🔥 (an A/B/O AU)

Vamp!Rhys x Reader

Dancing With the Devil 🔥

In the Moonlight (ft. Azriel) 🔥🔥

Mine 🔥💖

Ancient Recipes 💖

Messy 🔥💖

Series:

Datura, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4 , Pt 5, Pt 6, Pt 7, Pt 8, Pt 9, Pt 10, Pt 11, Pt 12 Pt 13, Pt 14, Pt 15, Pt 16🔥😭 Epilogue 1 💖

In Love and War, II , III, IIII, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 🔥 (On Hiatus)

Poly!Feysand x Reader:

Wicked Games 🔥

Poly!Bat Boys x Reader

Solstice Gifts--A werewolf!bat boys AU 💖🔥🔥

Ludos Imperiales , 2, 3 , 4, 5 , 6, 7 , 8, 9 , 10, 11, 12 😭 🔥

Spooky Season Masterlist

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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𝐂𝐇.𝟐 → 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭. 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬.

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. The days slip by in golden blinks, time is faster here. Feedbags, hoofbeats, heat heavy on your forehead. But when you're with Joel, time forgets to move at all, like even it is trying to look at him a moment longer.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ cowboy!Joel x fem!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, age gap

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: HEY YALL!!!! part 2 is here! it took some time cuz i wanted the first part to get at least 100 notes, see if u all really like it. ANYWAYS here's joels part!! hope u enjoy p.s hope u enjoy my short poem at the beginning 🐇🎀🤠 (short taglist: @thoughts-of-bear @chewingbunny @mukeovernetflix )

𝐂𝐇.𝟏 | ...

❝The sun dips low, but I am still away

Fingers brushing against the edge of night

Do you hear the wind?

Saying things I don’t yet know how to say?❞

ㅤ ♰

It's been three weeks.

The days unfurl like parchment creased by dust, smoothed by sun. Mornings begin before the world stirs, with dew on the grass and coffee already steaming in the kitchen. The wind blows softly, the animals still asleep in their stalls. It starts to feel normal.

Joel’s already outside, like always. You see him through the kitchen window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, that same weathered flannel unbuttoned just enough to show the curve of his throat, his skin sun-warmed and golden. He’s fixing something near the paddock, hammer in one hand, a cigarette dangling loosely between his lips.

You don’t mean to watch, but you do.

Later, when you’re washing dishes, he comes in. You feel it before you hear it, his presence always lands first. "That casserole last night," he says, setting down his gloves on the counter. "Think I died a little."

You glance over your shoulder, smile twitching at the corners. "Didn’t know you cowboys were so easy to please." He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. "We’re not. You just got a touch." And maybe it shouldn’t feel like that. Like that praise is wrapped in flint, but your heart catches fire anyway.

That evening, you're sweeping near the porch, dust swirling at your feet, when Joel walks past you. No words. Just a low, amused hum in his chest. You speak before you think.

"Do you ever smile?" He stops. Turns just slightly. The brim of his hat hides most of him, but his voice is all gravel and molasses when it comes. "Only when I mean it." Your stomach flips.

He doesn’t linger, but he doesn’t go far either. Just sits on the edge of the porch as the sky burns pink and gold behind him. You finish sweeping slower than you need to.

Later, you join him, bare knees brushing the wood, the air between you hotter, a little awkward. You offer him half an apple, and he takes it, fingers brushing yours. It’s nothing he thinks.

It’s everything for you.

“You ever miss the city?” he asks. You shake your head. “No. It started to feel like rot. Like everything I touched would turn to mold.” He nods like he understands. Like he feels it too. The slow erosion of something once bright. "You don’t talk much," you murmur. He chuckles low. “Don’t need to, usually.”

You turn to look at him then. Really look. “I like that about you."

He meets your eyes, and it hits you like a nail through soft wood. A glance that stays long after it ends. There’s silence after that, but your heart is singing and dancing.

And maybe that’s the danger of him, you think. Not the calloused hands or the scars on his forearms, not the steel-toed boots or the pistol always clipped to his belt. It’s the quiet. The steadiness. The possibility. Like a fire that hasn’t yet caught. But God, how it wants to.

ㅤ ♰

Another day comes and passes by just like that.

Joel was already outside when you wandered past the barn. The sun had dipped low, all melted honey and tangerine spilling across the sky, and there he sat, on a worn stool beside the horse sheds, one boot pressed into the dirt, the other knee drawn up. A guitar rested on his lap.

You didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed by the fence post, your once bright yellow sweater sleeves half pulled over your hands. He didn’t look up, but you could tell he knew you were there. His fingers moved across the strings like a prayer, coaxing out something low and slow. “You play beautifully,” you said at last, voice soft as the dusk around you.

Joel glanced up, shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Ain’t nothin’. Just somethin’ I picked up years back.” He replies, almost shy. “Helps the horses settle. Helps me settle, too.” You stepped a little closer, your shoes crunching quietly on the gravel. “Mind if I stay?”

His eyes flicked toward you. “S’pose not.”

So you sat on the low fence rail, watching his hands more than his face. Big, calloused fingers that could fix broken hinges, wrangle cattle, and still pull music from a six-string like it was made of breath and bone. You didn’t realize how close you were until the last chord faded into the evening air. He looked over at you and you felt your face burn up again.

“Y’got quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured, voice rough but not unkind. You swallowed. “Just…Umㅡ thinking.”

“‘Bout what?” You didn’t answer right away. What were you supposed to say? There was a breeze, and it tugged a strand of hair across your cheek. Joel reached out and tucked it back behind your ear. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Your eyes met and his thumb hovered near your jaw. Close. And for a moment the world stopped. So close.

But the moment passed.

Joel leaned back, dragging in a breath like it hurt. And in a way it did. “Should head in. Gets cold out here once the sun drops.” You nodded, heart a thudding mess beneath your cardigan. “Right. Y-yeah.”

He stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and offered a hand to help you down from the fence. When you took it, you swore you felt something pulse between your palms.

“Night, darlin’,” he said. You smiled, cheeks warm all over “Goodnight, Joel." And when you walked back toward the house, his song still hummed, wrapped around your neck like a locket.

ㅤ ♰

That night, you can’t sleep. You twist in the sheets until they feel like ropes and chains. You are restless. You slip outside barefoot, cardigan tugged over your nightdress, and the door creaks behind.

The moon is high. Everything glows in that strange pale way, like the world’s been half-remembered. The grass is wet under your feet. You walk without thinking, past the porch, around the old woodpile.

You don’t mean to go far. Just to the old swing hanging from the crooked oak out back, weathered rope, wood worn smooth by years of use. You find it in the dark by memory, settle onto it softly, fingers curling around the fraying edges.

The stars are out tonight. Scattershot and trembling. You breathe deep and slow. Peaceful.

The swing creaks again under your weight, the night folding heavier around you. Then a sharp crack from the treeline. You jolt upright, heart lurching. The swing groans as it rocks back without you, and in your panic, you stumble straight into the solid warmth of Joel’s chest.

Strong hands catch your arms before you can tumble backwards. His palms are rough, steadying you like it’s nothing. “Hey, hey,” Joel says low. “Easy, darlin’. Just a branch. Wind picks up, things snap.”

You realize, belatedly, how close you are, pressed so near you can feel the heat coming off him in waves. His flannel is open over a thin, worn t-shirt, and you can smell soap and pine and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, mortified, trying to pull back.

But he doesn’t let you go right away. His grip softens but stays firm. He’s grounding you. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, girl.” he murmurs. His thumb brushes, barely, against the inside of your elbow.

You stare at the open collar of his shirt, too shy to meet his eyes. Your pulse stammers at the base of your throat. “I guess…” you start, voice too small, too breathless. “I guess I’m still not used to it being so quiet. City was always loud. Noise kinda...filled up all the spaces.” Joel huffs a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Out here, you hear yourself think more. Sometimes that’s worse.”

You manage a tiny smile. “You don’t seem scared of the quiet.”

“I ain’t.” His voice drops even lower. “Learned a long time ago it’s better to listen to what the quiet’s tryin’ to tell you.”

You finally dare to glance up at him. His hat’s pushed back a little, shadows painting the sharp lines of his face, the cut of his jaw. His eyes are unreadable. You wish you could drink the moonlight off of his face.

The swing creaks again behind you, swaying lonely on its ropes. Joel’s hand slips from your arm slowly, like he's giving you the choice to stay close or step back. You should probably move away. Put some space between you.

But you don’t. Neither does he. The wind picks up a bit. The night deepens, crickets singing somewhere out in the dark. You think he might say something else. You think maybe you should.

Your hands twitch at your sides, desperate to fidget. He notices, of course, and without thinking, Joel reaches out brushing his thumb against the edge of your sleeve where some srings are unraveled.

It’s a tiny thing, but it undoes you anyway.

“Y’cold?” he asks gruffly.

You shake your head. “No. Just...nervousㅡ I guess.”

Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. Like he knows exactly what you mean. He leans just a fraction closer, enough that you catch the shift of his shoulders, the way his breath catches. And for one reckless second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth. You don't breathe.

But he stops.

You see the moment he reins himself back, muscles pulling taut, a low sigh escaping through his nose like it costs him something to let it go. He steps back, hands sinking into the pockets of his jeans.

“You oughta get inside,” he starts, “Gonna get colder once the moon’s up.” You nod, heart knocking against your ribs. “Yㅡeah. Okay.”

Neither of you move right away.

Joel tilts his head toward the house, a silent nudge, and you finally force your legs to work, stepping backward toward the porch light. Your skin still tingles where he touched you.

When you reach the door, you glance back once. He’s still there, standing in the dark, his hat low over his eyes, the swing swaying slow behind him.

Watching. Waiting.

You step inside, closing the door with a soft click. Press your back to it and try to catch your breath. Outside, the wind picks up again.

In the dark of your room, you peel off your sweater with shaky hands. Crawl under the covers and stare at the ceiling, wide awake, the swing still creaking in your mind, the ghost of Joel's hands still warming your arms.

You tell yourself it’s fine. It was nothing. Still, you wish he hadn’t pulled away.

Downstairs, Joel lingers in the kitchen longer than he needs to. He taps his fingers on a half filled whiskey glass, and stares out the window into the blackness beyond. He can see the swing from here. You were trying so hard to be brave. Like you’d have let him if he just leaned in.

He brings the glass to his lips but doesn’t drink. Instead, he presses the rim against his bottom lip, eyes narrowing.

Christ.

He should’ve kissed you.

It sits heavy in his chest. It coils hot in his gut. That faint sadness he caught in your eyes when he stepped back. He sets the glass down harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face.

He’s too old for this. He knows better. Knows what it would mean if he crosses that line. You’re young. New to this place. You look at him like he hung the damn moon some days, and he feels like a goddamn fool for wanting to reach out and take what you don’t even know you're offering.

Still, he can’t forget about you not even for a second. Since you got here it had been torture. Joel sighs, and pushes off the counter.

In his room, he doesn’t bother with the light. Just sits heavy on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards like they might give him answers.

He can still smell you. Soap and summer and something soft. He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll put more distance between you. Stop hanging around so much. Stop looking so damn hard. But even as he thinks it, he knows he’s lying.

He knows. He’s already too far gone.

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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Little Star | Azriel | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Summary - Rhysand’s sister—the little star of the Night Court. Beloved. Brilliant. Until Rhys went Under the Mountain… and she stopped burning. Bit by bit, she let herself be reduced, forgetting how to shine. Believing love meant pain, and healing was for other people.

But Azriel? He sees all of it. Always has, always will. And all he wants is for her to let him love her.

A story of a girl who lost herself, and the male who would burn the world to bring her back. Of the family who never stopped loving her, and the Shadowsinger who would wait a thousand years more if she asked.

Tags - slow burn, friends to lovers, healing, found family, yearning so intense it hurts, saved and saving.

Contents -

☆ One | The Calm Before the Storm | 2.9k words

☆ Two | How the Star Faded | 2.9k words

☆ Three | Where Smoke Lingered | 2.2k words

☆ Four | Falling Awake | 2.7k words

☆ Five | Breathing Room | 2.9k words

☆ Six -

☆ Seven -

☆ Eight -

☆ Nine -

☆ Ten -

☆ Eleven -

☆ Twelve -

☆ Thirteen -

☆ Fourteen -

☆ Fifteen -

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing. I'm so excited to finally share this—I already have a few parts written, so it’s just a matter of editing and posting from here on out.

I haven't written for ACOTAR before, so I appreciate any and every thought. Please don’t hesitate to like, comment, or reblog along the way, it truly means the world to me. <3

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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　　　　 .✦ 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ✦.

　　　　 ── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

MafiaBatboys x Reader

The reader is a waitress in a notorious restaurant ran by the biggest criminals in Velaris, and she has no idea what really goes on behind those closed doors. She definitely shouldn't be working there and she definitely shouldn't have agreed to go out with her bosses.

acotar masterlist | main masterlist

　　　　 ── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

(more coming soon)

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

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Why Pretend? (Part X to Why Me?)

Azriel x rhys sister! reader!

angst/eventual comfort (A little bit of fluff a little bit of angst because nothing in life is free)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX if you missed them!

Azriel has a shadow and while he is accustomed to having many shadows the shadow he is referring to is not his. It follows him around constantly, not offering him even a second's respite. He shadow is on his heels at all time and unlike the elusive nature of his shadows this one was corporal.

The shadow he is referring to is the pet fox you had recieved from Eris of course. Whenever you were busy or not home the fox would follow Azriel around like a lost puppy which in some sense it was. It was fun at first but it was starting to get on his nerves, the fox followed him everywhere. He means everywhere.

At one point he was doing his paperwork and had looked away for a second and when he looked back the fox was gnawing on his pen. The pen was still in his hand. Another time they had came inside the bathroom and had just stared at him while he took a bath which was uncomfortable at the least and creepy at the most.

But it wasn't permanent; whenever you would come home the fox would run excitedly to you, it's owner and you would excitedly sweep him up in your arms littering his head in kisses. Azriel cannot believe that he is jealous of a cauldrons-damned fox and he believed that the fox knew it too, always staring at him with his sly foxy smile as you held him and gave him all your attention.

Azriel sulked over his bitterness towards the fox for a few days until he redeemed himself by hissing at Eris and trying to bite his hand. Azriel had snuck him some of the steak from the previous night's dinner as a reward ad he considered that truce enough.

Azriel hadn't properly spoken to you since the fateful night in your room, where in his sleepy jealousy-addled mind he had thought boisterously flirting with you the way that Eris or Cassian would could be the way that he could sway your affections. He was so jealous that he thought he could out-Eris Eris at his own game and it backfired, horribly.

He not only made a fool of himself, but had actually worried you. Instead of swooning over his flirty words, you had instead became worried thinking he had been going mad. He didn't know whether to apologise to you or to pretend like it had never happened, but it didn't matter because he had barely seen you this past week.

You had constantly been with Nesta and the rest your book club or with Madja working or showing Eris and Lucien around Velaris. He's also pretty sure he saw Rhys and Feyre sneaking out to breakfast with you. At this point you were regularly hanging out with everyone except for him, he even saw you having tea and biscuits with Elain, Mor, and Amren. You were spending more time with Amren than him.

Whenever he would catch you he would ask to properly make plans and talk, but you had brushed him off every day this week with a different excuse. First, it was busy, then it was you already had plans, by the time you hit the seventh excuse and said that your fox was attention depraved and needed one-on-one bonding time it was getting ridiculous.

Everything should have been fine between the two of you, so why were you ignoring him. He doesn't think it's the remarks he made because your sleep-addled brain was likely not processing anything as much as he had been. He knows you get cranky when you're woken up, and you're so focused on complaining that you're tired that you can't fully process anything going on around you. He found it adorable, actually.

So Azriel sat on one of the living room sofas and continued to interrogate the fox.

"Okay so blink twice if she's upset with me again and sneeze if she isn't."

The fox looked at him deadpan. At this point he was judging Azriel too and who could blame him.

Time passed and the fox continued to blink, unaffected by the words of the shadowsinger.

"AHA! I KNEW IT-"

Azriel stood up so quickly that he had lost his balance and toppled over the couch.

"Introducing the most feared warrior in all of prythian. Asking animals for love advice and toppling over couches, be afraid."

Cassian was cackling and Azriel was looking up at him deadpan from his position on the floor. This only made Cassian laugh more which led to him spilling his drink all over the floor.

Nesta walked in holding a rag like she was already anticipating this was going to happen. "Why are you acting like this is a new thing you haven't heard Azriel talk to him yet?" She points to the fox.

Cassian's face goes straight and then he erupts in laughter clutching his stomach and bending over unable to catch his breath.

"Mother help me." She throws the rag over his face and went over to help Azriel up.

Lately, you've felt like you're being followed. You can't escape the feeling of being watched, you swear there are phantom eyes peering over your shoulder anytime you leave the house of wind.

If you had known any better, you would say that you're being followed, but you have a feeling you already know who the perpetrator is, and you would rather accept ignorance's comfort than deal with the burden of truth.

Truth would be a blow taken to the walls you have built up; one that could be strong enough to tumble them completely. Your defenses have been lowered since your emotionally charged discussion with Azriel, but he wasn't deserving of your unyielding attention anymore.

You didn't even want to give him half of it. The idea that he would only now start becoming drawn to you because of this bond that he knows nothing about is a bitter poison, just like the one you are currently infecting the plant on your desk with.

The plant sits on one of Madja's dark oak working desks in the back of her office adjacent to the vials of mysterious glowing neon liquids boiling on burners with different colored flames. The liquid you're working with is a dark purple boiling on a flame of pink.

You need to infect the plant with a mercurial disease, one that slowly drains its life force, only showing external signs of danger when it's teetering on the brink.

You will then try to heal it back to health with one of the various bubbling potions and elixirs you have been working on. Open books were strewn everywhere accompanied by the quills scattered from your note taking.

Black ink spilled on empty pages eerily reminding you of the spies lurking in all the corners of the room, likely reporting your movements back to your alleged stalker.

You knew that they were spying on you from the difference in how the shadow he gave you behaves and the shadows he sent. Although they are scattered in the room, you could recognise where the shadows hide. You look at the potted tree that sits in front of one the bookshelves and see that the shadows are a bit darker than usual and that they are a bit sharper. The movements are calculated and rigid and you know those shadows are on duty.

You try and go back to your work. You've been ignoring the owner of the shadows lately your confrontation took a toll on you and you just didn't want to deal with him.

You've been getting to work early and staying late, Madja doesn't know whether to be impressed or concerned. Every time you try to evade him the Mother always has another plan.

It started when you misplaced a vial that you had been brewing all day of a possible healing potion. Exhaustion and frustration had taken a toll on you and tears began brimming in your eyes when you saw the vial rolling towards you on the ground.

Since then random things have began appearing, always in your aid. Random baked goods you've been known to like, caffeinated beverages during your afternoon slump, misplaced items being mysteriously found, and even a bowl of steaming soup one day when you forgot to eat.

Confronting who is behind this would lead to a lot more confrontations that you just weren't ready to face and let's face it you were so tired that it was a huge help.

You mentally reprimanded yourself for looking forward to the ministrations of your little helpers and you told yourself that if you told him you would be giving him the satisfaction, so you would continue to pretend like you don't notice.

At this point you were fighting a ghost; the push and pull of your feelings towards the shadowsinger were something that had been brewing inside of you and while you had partially aired it out there was a lot more brewing under the surface.

You looked back at the plant, the vivid green colour had begun to slowly fade, and you knew that the toxin had begun to take effect. Just a few more minutes and then you could start experimenting with your various potions.

You had been there since the morning and had lost track of how many hours it had been since sunset. Madja and her apprentices had all left hours ago, leaving you muttering to yourself in her study. You looked more mad scientist than healer, and you knew that if anyone saw your current state, they would be very alarmed and slightly terrified.

When you focused on something, it consumes you; the mere thought of it takes over your mind until you can only focus on that one thing, and right now it was your research. You've heard rumours of a disease spreading throughout Prythian, one that is immune to healing magic due to its degenerative nature.

Your head began to spin. How long had it been since you've eaten? It must have been a little while, but it must have been longer since the last time you had felt the fresh air on your skin.

You sat down on one of the chairs and put your head in your hands, hoping that it would offer you some respite from the sudden onslaught of dizziness.

A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. Did one of the apprentices leave something behind?

"Come in." You try to say as normal as possible, but even that comes out weary like the exhaustion has even worn down your vocal cords.

You feel him before you see him, cobalt siphons glowing under the darkness of night. Wings tucked in and hazel eyes twinkling with the reflection of the stars that shimmered on the hilt of the weapons he bore. A warrior in a place of healing. A destructor in a place meant to fix and heal.

The glow of the candlelight made him look softer; the lines of his face were much less harsh in this light and even his shadows looked less sharp. He almost looked at place in the warm golden golden light surrounded by life and knowledge, you swore the shadows cast by the plants and books had almost turned towards him beckoned by his call.

Right now, he wasn't the terrifying shadow of a warrior's blade, perfectly honed for destruction and so sharp you could barely see it. He was the sun's shadow at dawn, the respite after a long, cold night, lazily stretching out over the horizon. He was the shadow that children play with, the one you find comfort in when your truly alone.

He approached you carefully, like you would run away from him screaming if he got too close. He placed a bag on the table next to you and knelt in front of you.

Picking up your head from your hands, he looks you in your eyes, scanning your face to see what's wrong. His cold gloves are a relief on your warm skin and you begin to close your eyes exhuastion taking over.

"Hey hey. Stay with me now." The words quickly leave his lips and you look up remembering where you are and who your with.

He pulls out something from his bag and hands it to you. Bringing it to your lips you drink what appears to be some sort of enchanted water meant to enhance hydration. Madja must have put him up to this.

He leaves you for a moment to collect yourself, you can't even form words at the point of exhaustion you have reached. When was the last time you had an actual conversation with another individual?

He walks around, taking in the state of your workspace, the various books, potions and piles and piles of notes. You know he's been trying to catch you, trying to spend time with you, but anytime you haven't been here in your little lab you've been with different members of your family to try and make up for lost time.

The back and forth between self-isolation and completely locking yourself up has caused you to burn yourself out. He knew it, and you knew it. Ignoring him was a bit selfish and petty on your part, but you don't have it in you to pretend to care at the moment.

You can't help people if you don't find a cure, and you can't find a cure without working.

You feel your temperature start to lessen and your head is growing less hazy, whatever liquid Azriel had given you had worked wonders.

"So are you going to lecture me now and drag me outside my lab because I will give you the same answer I gave Rhys-"

He cuts you off with a sigh.

"I would never tell you what to do, I only wish you would take care of yourself more." He looks at you, his eyes carrying the weight of secrets that he knew he could never spill. The feelings that he lost the right to divulge.

He would never command your attention directly and after his attempt at trying to emulate Eris had greatly embarrassed him he decided to follow his own approach. Azriel's love was a silent whisper in the dark, it was not meant to be loud or seen for that would defeat the purpose.

If he could make your life only a little bit easier that would be enough for him, he didn't need your care or your devotion the promise of your wellness was enough for him. He was told to back off, but he just couldn't watch you slip away into your work so he sent his shadows to be your silent assistants.

The honesty that shone in his eyes was enough to have your resolve crumbling because this was the Azriel that had admired greatly for so long. The loyal Azriel who would put other's first and cared more than he would ever let on.

He pulls out a sandwich from the mysterious bag he had brought and hands it to you, grabs a chair, and plops himself down directly next to you.

"If you're not going to slow down, then at least let me help you. Whatever you wish me to do, name it and it will be done."

He speaks each word like it's a promise and you look at him wide-eyed, "Do you not have spymaster duties to attend to?"

Without missing a beat, he says, "This is my priority at the moment, any other task is secondary."

You look up at the Mother, she really isn't offering you any sort of respite. Oh well an extra pair of hands is an extra pair of hands and you needed the help considering just a moment ago you were teetering on the brink of collapse.

You begin to eat your sandwich, feeling your energy levels slowly rise. "Alright, but this is only for tonight."

He nods, a look of surprise written across his features like he couldn't believe you didn't shoo him away and that you were actually letting him help. His shadows even perked up and began excitedly swirling around. Is this how your mother felt when she told little you and Rhys that you guys could help her in the kitchen?

You immediately realise that you have never had anyone directly assist you in your lab. You were very particular about each and every thing, which led to you declining help because having someone else in your space was unpredictable and could lead to events out of your control, like how you and Rhys accidentally burned the dinner you were helping with and then were banned from the kitchen by your Mother.

You began giving him instructions on what herbs to grind up, and for each one, he would ask what it was and what it did, asking questions and even looking surprised at the potency of a mere plant. You were actually very excited to tell him about everything; you couldn't talk about it with the healers since they were already so knowledgeable and you didn't want to bore your family to death with idle talk about plants.

He would ask what would happen if you combined various plants and why certain mixtures had to be prepared the way they did. You excitedly divulged on how the properties of certain plants could be enhanced or completely change when mixed with others or exposed to heat.

He stayed out of your way and followed your directions to a tee. When your plant had began to show external bruising you cut it up and began to apply the different elixirs on the different pieces of decaying plant.

Azriel just sat back and watched you work in awe and had his shadows transcribe notes for you in scathing detail, looking it over just to make sure they didn't miss anything. He knew you always complained about how time-consuming the write-ups can be post experiment.

You were on your last elixir, a lilac liquid that was about the same thickness as mud and had smelled like rock dust. The midnight sky was beginning to lighten into a similar color as the potion and you feel your eyes becoming bleary from staying up all night.

Azriel moved your hand to spill a few drops on the final plant stem fragment and you watched the graying decay stop in it's track. You smiled to yourself.

It's not a cure, but it's progress. The first big sign of progress you had made. You look over to Azriel, and he was already looking at you and smiling. His arms were out and next thing you knew, you were buried in his arms, both of you happily laughing.

He picked you up and spun you around. You don't know why the last few times you've seen him have always when you've been so sleep deprived that your inhibitions are borderline non-existent.

He looks away for a moment and nods towards his shadows. They wash over your workspace, like a tidal wave of night, and when they return to him you notice that everything on your desk is in order.

They swirl around his shoulders and he looks proud that he could help you in any matter he could.

"Come on, let's go home." You tell him, scared of the direction this was going in.

He packs up the bag that he brought and holds out his hand.

"If that is what you like, then so be it." You thought he was going to winnow you, but instead, he leads you out the door and down the hall towards a golden spiraling staircase.

You follow him until your senses are assaulted by the elements. Wind on your face and the light that flirts with the horizon. You may have been doomed but your sleep schedule was obliterated.

You walk over to the edge and take a deep breath. You had spent so long cooped up indoors that you had forgotten how nice it felt to feel fresh air on your skin. You go up to the railing of the roof, and Azriel follows, standing right next to you.

He was silent, and you were glad for it. The lack of words somehow made this moment even more intimate, and you cursed your treacherous heart for the way it beat perfectly in tune with the shadowsinger, as if you were playing a duet.

"I don't know if I ever told you this, but you truly are a genius. You are truly in your element. I could spend eternity watching you work and wish for an eternity more only to see it again."

His voice is shadows and whispers and everything you have to fight yourself to get lost in.

Light breaks over the horizon, and a sliver of sun catches the gold in his eyes. You can't even tell which is brighter, and you think it may be the smile he wears. He's looking at you as if you were the first light of day after a hundred years of night, you see awe, admiration, and something else you don't want to read too much into because it would be your ruin if it were true and your destruction if it were false.

That you could immortalise this moment and never let it go. That you could pretend that all the history and pain had never happened and you could just be existing like you were right now.

"I used to think the same way when I first saw you fight with your shadows. Before, it seemed like they controlled you, but those times when they become an extension of you, you become night incarnate, and it never fails to leave me in awe."

Your voice is soft, your words a silent admission, for his shadows are an extension of himself, and while many look away in fear, you admire them and by extension him. Azriel has fought in wars, he has won valor and admiration from his time on the battlefield.

He has medals and a title that only a few warriors can claim and in the face of all he has achieved this single compliment from you may be the single greatest accomplishment that he has achieved in his long fae life. He wishes he could imprint your words on his skin and wear it for the rest of his days.

His cheeks redden, you notice. The almighty shadowsinger doesn't blush. Have you embarrassed him? Did you say something wrong? Oh gods maybe you shouldn't have said anything about the shadows.

You open your mouth to apologise when he swiftly scoops you and shoots towards the sky.

"Azriel!" You yell at him, the surprise of the moment catching you off guard, and then he is laughing. You guys soar through the skies, taking in the beauty of the sunrise. Lilac, gold, pink and orange blending together in perfect harmony.

You are so entranced you didn't even realise you made it home until Azriel plops you on your feet and you almost sink to the floor tiredness hitting you all at once making your legs feel like jelly.

He smirks and then picks you up bridal style and triumphantly carries you into the house, with the stealth that one only obtains from years of being a spymaster. You felt like you were teenagers sneaking around after you'd been forbidden to see one another.

It's a feeling you're cherishing a lot more than you would care to admit. It's not until you make it to your room and his shadows close the door behind you that he begins to grin before throwing you on your bed.

You land with an "Oof."

You give him a look of betrayal.

"I had to make up for being softer on the landing than usual somehow."

You both look at each other and burst into laughter.

The mask of the spymaster left broken in tatters somewhere on the floor of your lab hours ago, and he didn't even care to look for it.

"Who knew you had a had sense of humour Az. Where have you been hiding it all these years?"

You had called him Az. At this rate he would turn into Cassian, stupid jokes flying from his mouth in rapid succession just to hear you call him Az.

"Is that what you want for me to turn into another Cassian?" He asks jokingly, well at least half joking.

You looked at him and then doubled down on the fit of laughter you were having, tears streaming from your eyes.

"As much as I would love to see that, I think Cassian would throw a temper tantrum at you taking his spot. I like you as you are, you are my calm in the everlasting storm, becoming a clown doesn't suit you."

You say as you begin to catch your breath from all the laughter and wipe your tears from your eyes.

He doesn't understand how you could just make these world-breaking statements and just look completely fine while his stomach was in knots and his heart was in a twist from your words alone.

He gives you a small smile, one reserved for only you, and he begins to depart. You needed your rest and so did he.

"I would tell you goodnight, but I'm afraid we are way past that at this point. So until next time, I will bid you farewell."

He looks to you to see you already strewn out on your bed fast asleep. He leaves his shadows to change you into your nightclothes and make sure you are comfortable in bed and he smiles to himself as he closes your door and heads to his room where sleep welcomes him instead of drags him under for the first time since he had fallen asleep in your room.

Your words to Azriel about his assistance being a one time thing had turned into a lie. He would show up at odd hours whenever he had down time, sometimes before a mission sometimes directly after.

You guys had fallen into a routine of sorts, and it was actually helping your productivity and you got to get out of writing those treacherous reports.

You had preferred him to come at night though, since an Illyrian warrior did tend to draw a lot of attention during the day and all the apprentices and even Madja herself give you a knowing look whenever Azriel enters the building.

You had been getting a lot closer with your final result with Azriel's help and while you haven't fully figured out a way to reverse the cell degradation you had managed to stop it and in combination with other potions you, with the help of Azriel, had developed you could at least stabalize a patient enough that their life could be saved.

Huge progress. Groundbreaking progress. The night you had made that discovery you let out a scream so loud that Madja came rushing in from her dwelling on the floor above. Her worry had quickly turned to elation as you guys stayed there excitedly reviewing your work while Azriel just silently lingered in the background.

She then brought both of you into a bone-crushing hug with a strength that no one her age should possess, and made you present your findings to all the healers at her monthly briefings and then again to the inner circle.

They were all eyeing you and Azriel curiously, you weren't surprised by this since they knew that he was your mate and everything that had gone down since that discovery.

Right now you were still tinkering with the potion, seeing if there was a way to make it more effective when Madja had walked in with a smirk.

"Your shadowsinger is here to see you." Mother above you swear she could be worse than the adolescent apprentices at times.

"He's not my anything, you don't have to say it like that." You give her a retort and feel like your back in school pretending you don't have a crush.

"If you say so." She says shit-eating grin plastered on her face. The lines around her eyes reflect all the years and experience she has on you, and while her words were lighthearted, there is wisdom behind them.

Azriel strides in looking frantic, his shadows were rapidly swirling around him, and he was obviously in a rush. He rushes to you and grabs your arms in his hands.

"I have a mission, it's urgent, and I don't know how long I'll be gone."

Your heart fell, you're going to miss his company, but he is never this way when he goes on a mission. You then realise why he's here. He doesn't know if he's going to make it or not.

You've only seen him this way on a handful of missions, and each time he returned from one, he had come back on the brink of death. His line of work asks for payment in the form of risk and for once you wanted to ask him to stay. You had a bad feeling.

"You have my shadow if you need it. If anything happens, you can tell him." Azriel tells you like he is briefing his soldiers for war or his spies for a mission.

You nod your head scared your voice would betray you. You hide your face in his chest and he wraps his arms around you. Half the reason was you wanting to be closer before your separated and the other half is to hide the tears threatening to spill over your waterline.

You stayed there for a minute until you felt the pulse of his shadows. He's being called somewhere. He has to go.

You pull away and his hand goes from your head to caressing your cheek wiping away the stray tear that begins to fall.

"Come back to me in one piece. I mean it Azriel." You whisper to him like commanding him to be safe would protect his life. You gave him a lifeline, but even that wasn't enough to soothe the worry beginning to bloom in your chest.

"I would fight the Mother herself if she stood between us. I mean it." The words are a vow and you knew he spoke the truth.

Before you could say anything else he disappeared in a wave of shadow, leaving only a small silver bag in his wake. You can't bring yourself to open it not right now.

You knew in your chest that Azriel was not going to be back for a little while if at all. You fall to the ground and cry as Madja holds you together.

The next 2 weeks had felt like an eternity. No word from Azriel, Rhys refused to divulge what kind of mission he was on, and Cassian missed his training buddy. Even your pet fox seemed down in Azriel's absence.

You opened the silver bag a week later, and it had been a little plush bed for your fox with a note that read:

"For your new apprentice, may he keep you good company in my absence. - Az"

You missed him. You weren't even going to pretend like the questioning eyes of the healer's apprentices silently asking you where your Illyrian went and if everything was alright didn't get to you.

That the occasional stabbing of fear and worry down the bond didn't cause sleepless nights and that you woke up from countless nightmares, clutching your chest to make sure the bond was intact and he was still alive.

14 days it had been.

The longest 14 days of your life.

You were in Madja's, well basically your, office when you felt him. He was near. He had to be. You felt the bond light up and then start screaming and then he emerged from the shadows.

Your excitement had quickly turned to horror as you saw that the leathers on his chest had been singed, almost disintegrated off and his skin was a darker color than the shadows.

"Azriel!" You screamed physically and mentally for Rhys, for Madja, for anyone who could hear.

Rhys was there in a second, and Madja right after, running through the doors. Feyre, Cassian, and Feyre winnowed in mere moments later.

A jolt of pain like you never knew burned in your chest and you felt the bond flicker.

Madja rushed to her shelves, quickly beginning her work, no time to spare to even process what's happening.

Rhys looks at you with a look of complete panic on his face, "What's happening? You can feel him."

"He's slipping away Rhys. I can't-"

Madja yells your name, a reminder that the longer you spend panicking over Azriel's, the less time he has to live.

You rush to Madja, the bond act like a physical hourglass making you feel Azriel's time slowly run out, and race against it to save your Mate.

Somewhere which also happens to be nowhere the Mother is about to make her next move when she sees Azriel's piece, which is ironically white and not black like the colour of his shadows, has a gray spot. It's the gray of ash and destruction not the gray of swords and stones.

She looks at face, confusion written in her features to meet an identical expression.

"This is not my doing. Not even when time ceases to exist and we are all that's left in this plane of existence would I resort to this kind of cheating."

The gray begins to burn through the piece, a visible plague infecting it from within.

The Mother and Fate pause.

He stills. "You don't think?"

He couldn't even get the words out, scared that the dark reality would come true if he even spoke of it.

The Mother's features become grave. "There is a dark magic in Prythian, I fear it's now up to them to stop it."

Note: Hey guys, long time no see. This is actually the longest chapter of why me? that I have written. I wanted to make up for the little break that I took. I felt like I had lost my footing in the story and now I really know where I want it to go. This chapter did take a turn or two or three, but at the heart of this chapter is their relationship and those good moments that we haven't seen that many of. It's the first chapter that I can wholeheartedly say they are being their true selves and it felt really good to get to the point of writing this. I'm sorry I had to leave it on a cliff hanger, I can't be too generous, I have to keep you guys on your toes. Gasp** a dark magic? I guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out what it is. Until next time my darlings!

note note: At this point you all know I have a problem with editing, it just takes so long to write you can't ask me to sit down and basically rewrite it again what am i a professional? (in truth i am just lazy). So thank you to my typo police that catch anything that makes the story slightly illegible I appreciate y'all and all my readers for following along with me <3

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐇.𝟏 → 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞.

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Fresh out of college and aching for quiet, you trade the city skyline for wide skies and greener grass, accepting a job out on a remote ranch with three men you’ve never met. All you were supposed to do was tend to the house and find some peace. But the men you meet are nothing like what you expected, and they stir something in you. What will this new beginning bring to you? ˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ cowboy!Joel x reader, cowboy!Logan x reader, cowboy!Arthur x reader, fem!reader, reader is described shortly to be somewhat girly, age gap (reader is in their mid twenties), she’s so silly and so in danger (😈), slow burn.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey guys remember that one post i made like months ago? guess what?? ive finally decided to write it!!!! and its a mini series, yeppeeeee!!! no smut YET but i know youll love it. enjoy this first part :p love ya 🩷🌟🐇

❝ the night wears its breath in silver, and for a moment, so do we. ❞

ㅤ ♰

You found the ad on a whim, nestled between job postings you’d never dare apply to— corporate things with shiny promises and empty souls. It was printed on aged parchment, like someone had scanned it straight from 1892:

“Looking for help around the homestead. Cooking, cleaning, light tending to the animals. Room and board provided. Good hands preferred. Contact J. Miller, Three Pines Ranch.”

No photos. No email. Just a number and an address at the bottom that looked like it had been forgotten by the rest of the world. It tugged at something in your chest.

So you packed.

Left behind the heavy city, with its teeth and steel, its empty stares and plastic smiles. Left behind the noise that made your skin itch, the professors who told you that literature wouldn’t take you far, the friends who faded like chalk on pavement. You weren’t running. Not really. You just wanted something slower. Something quieter. Something that smelled like flowers and dirt and sun, maybe.

The drive out to Three Pines felt like slipping into a dream. Past towns where gas stations still had cassette players, past fields that rolled on like sighs, golden and soft. The closer you got, the more the land seemed to speak. Trees leaned in with curiosity. The air thinned out, made room for thought.

By the time the ranch gates came into view, rusted and proud, you could already feel your shoulders easing. The house rose out of the horizon, sprawling and worn, white paint peeled by sun and wind, wraparound porch with creaky planks and a lone rocking chair moving like a heartbeat. Chickens clucked somewhere to your left, and the scent of hay, woodsmoke, and something rich, cinnamon maybe, danced in the late afternoon air.

You stepped out of your car with your suitcase in one hand and a stomach full of nerves. A breeze caught the hem of your skirt, and you brushed your hair from your eyes. The gravel cracked beneath your ballet flats. Wind stirred the porch swing and made it creak in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“This is how that one horror movie starts,” you mumbled under your breath, staring up at the place.

The screen door banged open, and a man stepped out, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, built like a barn with arms crossed over his chest. He looked you up and down like he was trying to decide if you were worth keeping or throwing straight back into your car.

Two others followed.

One with hair swept back and sideburns that made him look like he’d been born in the wrong century, leaner than the first, but something in his eyes was more dangerous. Not cruel, exactly. Just like he’d seen too much.

The last looked half-feral. Not in the dirty way. Just in the way he moved, slow and tight, like he could snap at any second. His tank clung to his frame, and you could see the veins in his arms before he even got close. He didn’t smile. None of them did.

You were suddenly aware of the ridiculous pink on your nails, the soft bow in your hair and those stupid ballet flats. You pushed a smile through the nerves.

“Hi,” you said. “I’m here for the housekeeper position. Please tell me I’ve got the right address and this isn’t a setup for a murder.” The first man blinked at you, then rubbed a hand over his beard. “You’re the one who called about the ad?”

You nodded. “That’d be me.” He stuck out his hand. Rough, calloused. Solid. “Name’s Joel.” The one with the cowboy gait tipped his hat lazily. “Arthur. Don’t let the boots fool you— I only shoot snakes.” The last grunted, still watching you with suspicion, like you might burst into flames on his porch. “Logan.”

“Well,” you said, dragging your suitcase up the first step, “I can cook, clean, and I don’t spook easy. I’m pretty good with animals and I like things quiet.” You paused, then added, with a hopeful smile, “Also, I make a mean apple pie.”

Arthur chuckled. “If she’s lyin’, I’ll be the first to call her out.” Joel tilted his head. “You ever worked on a ranch before?”

“No, sir.” Your voice softened. “But I’m good at taking care of things. I learn fast.” That earned you a long, shared look between the three of them. Logan finally turned toward the door. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel opened the screen wide and nodded for you to come in.

The house swallowed you up in wood and warmth as you stepped inside. It smelled like cedar and dust, and underneath it all, something smokey. The dim light from the setting sun was filtering through the dust-riddled windows.

“Go on in,” came a gruff voice and you turned to find Joel his broad shoulders filling the doorway motioning for you to step forward inside. He led you down the hallway, past the creaking floorboards and faded portraits hanging crookedly on the walls. Joel stopped at a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. “This’ll be your room for now.” He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter.

You stepped into the small, cozy room, surprised at how warm it felt despite the rough edges of the house. A simple bed, an old wooden dresser, and a window that framed a slice of the sprawling fields outside. It was waiting for you to claim it. And you did, immediately.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you with those quiet, assessing eyes. “We keep things simple around here. No need to worry about much. Just keep to the routine— help out with the house, keep things in order. We’ll figure out what’s what as you settle in.” You nodded, your throat a little tight from the nerves that still buzzed in your veins. “I can do that.” you respond quietly, still taking it all in.

Joel’s gaze softened just a fraction, and the lines on his face seemed to ease as he gave a small grunt. “Good. That’s good.” He paused, watching you a moment longer. “If you need anything, just holler. Don’t be shy.”

With that, he gave you a nod and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room.

You sighed and ran your hand over the bedspread, feeling the coolness of the fabric beneath your fingers. You soon started unpacking, pulling clothes from your bag and neatly folding them into the dresser. You set your favorite pillow on the bed, the one with the ducks in dresses, trying not to laugh at how utterly ridiculous it looked in this stark, rustic room. But, it f elt right, in a way. You took your time shifting your things around, figuring out where to place each item.

The sounds of the house creaked softly as you lay there, the occasional breeze from the open window making the curtains flutter gently.

But as the moon climbed higher, you found yourself unable to sleep. The soft glow from outside caught your attention again. A glance out the window revealed someone in the yard, silhouetted against the rising moon. You squint, recognizing the broad, sturdy frame of one of the men. The figure was shirtless, his back glistening with sweat as he washed his hands in the moonlight, the water catching the light in a way that made him look almost unreal.

It was Joel, you realized.

Your heart skipped a beat, eyes lingering on him for just a little longer than you probably should’ve. The sight was undeniably captivating. Strong, worn, and oddly beautiful under the cool moonlight. You shifted away from the window quickly, heart pounding in your chest as you realized just how much you were staring. You hope he didn't see you, breakfast would've been real strange.

You sank back into the bed, eyes closing as you tried to settle the buzzing in your chest. But despite the sleepiness that tugged at your limbs, your mind kept drifting back to him. And maybe to the others too, though you had no idea what to expect from them yet.

Still, you were here now, tucked away on this ranch in the middle of nowhere. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were right where you needed to be.

ㅤ ♰

The soft murmur of the world outside hadn’t yet reached your ears when you stirred awake, the edges of the night still clinging to your thoughts. The room was cloaked in a stillness that felt both foreign and intimate, a kind of quiet you couldn’t remember feeling since you were a child, tucked away in the soft folds of home.

It was still dark outside, but the faint outline of the sun's promise touched the horizon in a soft, golden hue. You didn’t need the clock to tell you it was well before dawn, a time when only the hardworking and the restless were stirring, when the world was half asleep. You pushed the blanket off, the cool air of the room creeping up your skin, and sat up, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms.

You hadn’t come here to sleep in.

You stood up, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet as you moved to the window. The moon was still high, casting its silver light over the land, stretching endlessly into the distance, as if time itself could never reach the horizon. A deep inhale. And then when you were all ready, you were moving, feet steady against the floor as you found your way to the kitchen.

The house was cold in the early morning air, but the warmth of the stove made everything feel just right. It took a moment for you to find where everything was. You prepared your breakfast quietly, smiling to yourself as you made sure everything was perfect. You reached for the heavy mug of coffee, the warm steam rising to your face, filling your lungs as you let the scent of it settle deep in your chest.

By the time you set the table, the sun had begun to rise, the sky turning the color of old gold and ash. You had prepared enough for them, the plates full and hearty, and the coffee strong enough to bring anyone back to life. The thought of surprising them and showing them you were capable gave you a little thrill. You hadn't felt that in some time.

And as you set down the last of the plates, you felt your heart quicken with a touch of excitement, half-nervous, half-sure.

You could hear the heavy thump of boots.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders and dusting off your apron as you turned to face the sound. You didn’t know what to expect from them. But it felt like they wouldn’t mind you. They might even like it, who knows. You had to test the waters somehow. And then, with the door creaking open, they entered the kitchen, one by one.

“Well, look at this. Someone’s up early,” Joel said, his gaze flicking to the spread you had made. Arthur followed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, but there was a warmth there you hadn’t expected. "Trying to impress us already, young lady?"

"I hope I didn't wake you up..." you reply soflty, making the latter chuckle. Logan didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered over the breakfast you'd laid out.

Joel laughs "Now, didn't know yer an early bird like that." you smiled, trying to ignore the slight warmth spreading across your cheeks. It was all still strange. “Well, guess we’ll see how it tastes, then,” Arthur said with a grin, sitting across from you.

“So, you used to cook like this back in the city?” Logan asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

You hesitated for a moment, setting your fork down, thinking of how to answer. "Well, I mean, I tried to make things work in the city. But it always felt rushed, you know? I hope it won't feel like that anymore..." You smiled softly, leaning back in your chair. “Ain’t no better place than here for that.” Arthur reached for his coffee, giving you a sly wink. “Hell, with how much work we’ve got, you’ll be makin’ all sorts of things before long, darlin’.”

Joel chuckled, reaching for a piece of bacon. “We’ve got more food than we know what to do with. But a good cookㅡ Well, that's somethin' we don't got around here.” He stops for a moment. “Guess we’ll see if you really have what it takes, huh?” Joel teased, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening “Iㅡ suppose you’ll be the judge of that,” keeping your voice steady, though you could feel the heat creeping into your cheeks again.

Logan finally spoke up “Just make sure you’re ready for it.” His eyes caught yours, the faintest smile curling at the edge of his lips. You nodded, taking another sip of your coffee to steady your nerves.

And as you finished your breakfast, the conversation slipping back into easy laughter, you felt more at ease than ever. Maybe you'll miss the city, who knows?

But right now this feels just right.

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thesilentmage · 2 months ago

Text

You tell Arthur (3/3) - Sir Leon x Reader, Arthur x Sister!Reader

Hi!!! This is part 3, you will find part 1 here, and part 2 here!

To read this as x OC instead of reader insert: Click here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note:

1: I don’t own any of the gifs used, nor any already established characters, so credit to the authors and original creators - You have done a phenomenal job :)

2: English is not my native language, as I was born and raised in Sweden. I have, however, studied English for almost a decade, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem, I just thought I’d let you know ;)

+ CEFR level C2 (due to passing the C1 advanced test with an A)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word count: ≈ 2k

Warnings: Blood, injuries, awkward flirting

Enjoy! :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(y/n) - your name

(y/n/n) - your nickname

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You tell Arthur (Part 3/3)

He sat down and made sure to place (y/n) on his lap to keep her injured body away from the cold floor. She sighed deeply and began closing her eyes.

“No, no, (y/n), you need to stay awake, alright? Do you hear me? Please, you must not close your eyes."

He ripped a piece of fabric from his coat and secured it against her wound using his belt. The soldier who brought them down had ripped the arrow from her chest violently, so the main focus now was to put as much pressure on it as possible. Leon noticed her drifting off to sleep again and panicked.

“(y/n/n), I need you to keep your eyes open, please! You-I... Why don’t you tell me a story? Something interesting you read in a book? Just talk to me, I beg you.”

And so they did. Together, they kept the conversation going all through the night, until the morning when Gwen was let into the cell by some of the guards.

“Guinevere.”

“It’s all I could get.”, she said, handing Leon a small piece of bread and a tiny bottle. “It’s alcohol.” Leon send her a questioning look before she quietly added, “good for cleaning wounds.”

(y/n) sent Gwen a tired but thankful smile before Leon kept talking.

“I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

“Morgana sent me to talk to you, to make you see sense.”

He spat the bread out on the floor. “I’d rather starve.”

“Listen to me!! I’m going to help you escape!”

“You know what will happen if you get caught.”

“We have to find Arthur.”

“I have a good idea where he’ll be hiding.”

“Then I need to get you out of here.”, she glanced worriedly at (y/n). “Both of you.”

“How? It’s impossible, surely?”

“I am a trusted member of the court.”

Gwen explained her plan before quickly leaving to get back to work. Leon wasn't sure about the plan, sure they had no other choice, but it was dangerous for everyone involved. Gwen would be in serious trouble if Morgana found out what she had done, and (y/n)… he hated the thought, be was sincerely doubting if the princess - his old friend - would make it out of this battle alive. She was beaten up, still bleeding, and struggled more and more to stay awake with every passing hour, though, he reminded himself with a smile, she was still trying. Still fighting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roughly a day later, they were brought out of their daydreams by a jangling sound and noticed the key Gwen was pushing down the window. Leon grabbed it quickly and as soon as the sun had set, picked (y/n) up and left for Gwen’s house. The princess was looking even paler now, but he knew that this was their one chance.

They made their way through the woods as quickly as possible and found the cave where Leon thought Arthur was hiding before noon the next day. Gwen walked first and was suddenly grabbed by someone who luckily turned out to be Arthur.

“Guinevere!”, he pulled her in for a hug instead, relieved to find out that she was alright, and greeted his knight with a polite nod. “Sir Le-” That’s when he noticed his sister resting in the arms of their old friend. “(y/n)!?” He ran over and took her into his arms. “What happened to her?!”

Merlin took notice of the increased level of anger in Arthur’s voice and decided to interfere. “Arthur, she needs to be taken to Gaius. Now!”

The prince turned towards the cave but turned back around at the sound of Elyan’s voice from the cliffs above.

“We’ve been found! They’re almost upon us.”

Arthur turned towards Merlin. “Get Gaius!” He then addressed the rest. “We need to get out of here. Run!” He looked down at his sister, now unconscious in his arms. “Hold on, (y/n). Just a little longer…”

And then, they ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How is she, Gaius?”

“I’m afraid it is still too early to say, Sire. She lost a lot of blood and being severely dehydrated and malnourished is not helping.”

“But she will make it, right?”

“I would love to give you a definitive answer, but I do not want to lie or give you any false hope. I managed to stop the bleeding, no vital organs seem to have been hit - thankfully. The best we can do now is keep her warm and let her rest. If and when ska wakes she needs food and water at once.”

“If?!”

(y/n) heard the discussion between Gaius, her brother, and her best friend, but her eyes simply would not open. She could tell that someone was holding her hand, so she tried to squeeze it as hard as she could. It wasn’t much, but enough!

“(y/n)?!”

It was Arthur, and she desperately wanted to talk to him. Ask if he was alright. But alas, she couldn’t. Arthur had his moments, though, and seemed to catch on immediately.

“(y/n/n), (y/n/n), listen to me now. If you can hear me, please press my hand, okay.”

She did what her older brother asked, and heard him breathe a sigh of relief.

“You’re alive! Hah! She’s alive!”

(y/n) heard multiple people shuffle towards her and felt someone else grab her other hand - Leon. She took a deep breath and used all the strength she could muster to slowly open her eyes.

“Hey”, she whispered as loudly as she could and Arthur’s face instantly came into view.

He smiled kindly and bent down to give his sister a gentle hug. “Hey”, he said, his voice muffled by her hair. He then put his hands on her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Never do that again. Never. Promise me that.”

She smiled and nodded.

“(y/n), seriously, I am going to need to hear it. Promise me that you won’t take a risk like that ever again?”

“Arthur” She let out a series of strained coughs causing Arthur and Leon to carefully help her sit before Merlin helped her with a bottle of water. She drank for a moment and swallowed deeply. “Thank you. Arthur, you know I can’t. No one knows what the future might hold. I promise that I will do my very best, though.”

Arthur did not seem particularly satisfied with that answer but chose not to argue about it now. “Right… Do you feel okay? Can you sit? Does anything hurt?”

(y/n) let out a chuckle, which unfortunately hurt so badly that she doubled over in pain. She quickly sat back up though and smiled gently at her extremely worried brother. “Yes, yes and yes - in that order. I feel, you know, as expected but still alive. It seems like I can sit up just fine, though it still hurts.”

“Where?”

“Mainly my stomach, but pretty much everywhere if I am honest. How are you doing?”

“As good as new.”

“Good” She smiled and turned to Leon instead. “And you?”

“(y/n)…”, he answered. “Do not worry about me, it’s you who are injured. I am so sorry I did nothing to save you. I-”

But (y/n) interrupted him. “Did nothing?!” She straightened up and reached for his hand. “Leon, I may not have been in perfect health these past… two? three? days, but I do know very well that I would not be alive now if it was not for you, and for that I am forever grateful.”

Arthur looked in confusion from his sister to their old friend. They had known each other for so many years now, but the prince noticed something new. Some kind of deeper understanding between the two of them - one he had never noticed before and did not quite understand…? He chose not to ponder upon it now, as there were more important matters at hand and walked over to Gwen after telling (y/n) to let him know immediately if she needed him or something changed. She nodded and turned her attention back to her friend.

“Here”, she mumbled. “Let me see.”

She pushed up the sleeves of Leon’s coat and gently brushed her fingers against his wrists. They were even worse than hers - nasty, blue bruises and dried blood.

“(y/n)… You need not worry, I assure you, I have had much worse.”

She sighed, pulling the sleeves down again. “You know, simply because matters could be worse does not mean they shouldn’t be regarded as serious.”

He looked at her adoringly. “You are right, of course. As always.” He moved closer and brushed some of her blond hair behind her ear. He took her face gently in his hand and they both leant closer but were abruptly interrupted.

“Here!” Leon pulled back immediately at the sound of Arthur’s voice. “Come and join me.”

(y/n) picked up on parts of her brother’s pep talk, listening proudly as he spoke of the round table and the equality it represented, but quickly felt herself giving in and falling back into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment she woke up, she felt someone staring at her. She sat up slowly, still hurting, but feeling a lot better than she had before. (y/n) struggled only for a second and instantly felt a hand on her back helping her up.

“(y/n), you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“Leon!”. She felt warm inside as she realized who it was, and ignored the pain as she embraced him tightly. “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay?”

“Yes, (y/n/n), we are good. Listen, the battle is won, we need to get you back to Camelot. Your bother is waiting and Gaius wanted to treat your wound properly.”

“And what about my father?”

“He is alive, do not worry. He is understandably quite upset due to Morgana’s sudden betrayal, though I am sure he will be pleased to know that you are alright. Here, let me help you.” He put his arm around her shoulders and hoisted her to her feet. “Can you stand?”

She took a deep breath. “Almost, let’s go!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were almost back in Camelot when Leon swallowed deeply and said, “Listen, (y/n)… When happened back there, before we left for battle...”

“You mean what almost happened?”

“I-”

“But didn’t thanks to Arthur?”

“Right.” He appeared more nervous than (y/n) had ever seen before. “I am deeply sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Leon.”

“-Especially not when you were in such a weakened state-

“Leon.”

“But I want you to know that when you- or, or if you want to, then-”

“Leon!” He finally went quiet as she managed to catch his attention. She send him a kind smile and put her hand on his arm, causing him to take a step closer. “I do want to.”

“I-I… Are you sure?”

She giggled slightly. “About what - you?”

“I suppose?”

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“Well, in that case…”

He pulled her closer and the two childhood friends finally shared their first kiss. Their friendship had evolved over the years, at first mainly gotten stronger, but eventually blossomed into something the two five-year-olds who used to push each other into lakes and race to the top of trees never could have imagined.

They eventually pulled away and glanced nervously at each other.

“So…”

“That was...

“Yes…”

He cleared his throat. “Ehm.. perhaps we should head back?”

“Of course, you are right.” He reached for her hand and grabbed it gently.

“So, (y/n), what would you say about a picnic tomorrow? And perhaps a ride once you have healed properly?”

She blushed and smiled at his suggestion. “That sounds lovely! I have one condition, though.”

He froze at her words, not particularly liking the way it sounded, but naturally gave her a solemn nod. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked at him seriously, however quickly failed to keep the act up and sent him a sweet smile instead. “You tell Arthur!”

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