#; thread - night terrors

[brokehorrorfan]

Terror Threads has released two Silent Night, Deadly Night designs by Casey Booth and Yannick Bouchard on T-shirts ($30) and crewneck sweatshirts ($45).

[storystartsanew]

After a fun night over with Luke where they just watched a few movies. Devora had quite a good time, but after a while she had fallen asleep. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable. She hated sleeping and usually covered up how sleep deprived she was with makeup. However, the sleep that she slipped into while with Luke was so peaceful she would soon regret it.

@infamousfailure

Luke smiles softly when he rolls over and sees her still fast asleep. She'd been out like a light in the middle of their last movie, so he tucked her in and turned it off before falling asleep himself.

Looking over at the clock, he notices it's still pretty early. He doubts most people would be up, but his internal clock has him waking up before sunrise whether he likes it or not.

[sixbillicnsouls]

( ❛ ╾ @acourtcfmuses )

"What's with the attitude?" The younger demon pouted at him, "can't a little sister visit her big brother without any ulterior motives?" A normal little sister, maybe, but Lux was not a normal little sister. "Azzy wouldn't treat me this way."

[aposthates]

❝ i'm doing some of my best work here and you don't even have the decency to roll your eyes at me. honestly it's hurtful. ❞

"ME? ROLL MY EYES AT YOU?" he tisks. "perish the thought, m'lady." anders gestures to the contrary, waving off the idea even with the mischievous smirk upon his face, glinted within amber eyes. "besides -- why would i do that, when frankly, your work speaks for itself?" hip juts out as he crosses his arms, satisfied with himself.

"as far as i'm concerned, you making a fool of yourself is just one of the perks of the job.. and you should know better than anyone that those are few and far between..." it can't be him embarrassing himself all of the time, surely. and faintly, from within his robes, comes an agreeable mewl - at which anders snorts in amusement.

@valorcorrupt

[adreamofsilk]

The gods give just as the gods take away. / for vhaenna asked by @stormbcrn

"That is true of any god." The priestess' voice was a rasp, damaged from years of tending fires. "All gods give and take, it is there nature. A push and pull not dissimilar to the tides." It is why so many did worship the sea as a god in and of itself.

"Many view you as a god, or at least your children. Have care in what you give, and what you take."

[musesofthemoon]

Ortho can only sigh at such a response. He knew he wouldn't be believed, even if he put it out there. He wasn't a therapist, he didn't know what words would be right to make him understand that truth. So, he drops it, but doesn't let go of him. Sometimes, he wishes for a world that treated Idia better, one where he could have been happy. Even if that would mean a world without him, it's a wish that encompasses his whole heart. But he doesn't say that, now's not the time.

Because Idia thinks that he's been bad... That he hasn't done enough. Ortho had to disagree. Idia has done so much for him, shown up when he didn't have to, helped him with anything that he could ask for. He couldn't have asked for a better big brother! If he could have, there was a good chance that he would have left when given the opportunity to do so despite it all. The two of them may not be perfect, but Ortho didn't want to be anywhere that Idia couldn't follow, aside from the dangers...

"Now who's the one saying stuff that isn't true?" Ortho asks, trying to be a little lighter, joking just a bit. "You know a lot of the reason why that is is because getting me to take help from anyone is like pulling teeth- But really, you've done so much for me. You'll help me make anything that I ask from you, you've punched someone who was mean to me, and that's coming from you, who doesn't ever get in anyone's face! Maybe we do different stuff for each other, but just because it's different doesn't mean you're not doing anything-"

"You're the best big brother in the world, at least I think so. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true, silly." He hasn't moved from his position, but he tries to catch Idia's eyes with his own despite him trying to move his face away.

"You don't have to look away from me, either. I don't mind having to clean up a little bit once you're okay, it's really okay..." He's not sure whether or not it would help him, so he just leaves the offer open, saying that it's okay to lean on him a little bit more. Because he would do so much more if the opportunity arose, plunge to the depths of the Underworld for the chance to save him. Getting a bit wet was nothing to him!

💀 PREVIOUS.

idia's chest heaves with agony. even as ortho pulls him over a little and holds him close, idia still angles himself to avoid potential component damage. everything hurts. the nightmare was brutal, and it still intrudes upon his waking weeping. such an odd conjuration of the mind prompts memories that are far more terrible. fragments and snippets that he can't piece together. he doesn't want to stitch any of it together. it makes a blank canvas anyway.

the room is still, but not quiet. idia fluctuates between sniffles and repressed sobs. he never really cried as a kid. he didn't have any reason to. there were some times that he just felt bad, but even the slightest wavering immediately caught the attention of his attendants. their comfort never felt right, yet it was enough. then he was ten, then eleven, then twelve and thirteen and he cried himself to sleep more often than not. that stopped at some point, too. it has been a long time since he had an exposed moment of sorrowful vulnerability.

he thought that was good. he thought that meant he was better. maybe he was only distracted. idia has thrown his arms around ortho now, as if his little brother is a life preserver. and ortho's voice bids him permission to cry. permission to be ugly, tear-stained and congested. idia drops his attempts to stifle any of it. he wails and cries, accompanied by the crackling and sparking from the flaming tips of his hair. the loud noises remain confined to this soundproofed dorm room.

idia only begins to quiet once his throat becomes hoarse. his breathing is still erratic. he finally shakes his head in response. it was his complaining about his tailored future that prompted everything. he was the one who disabled security and released the phantoms. his curiousity had led fate to snip a thread, and he knows it. it all ties back to his hands.

"...gotta k-know that's not true." it was, is and always will be his fault. he exhales an unsteady breath. he still clings onto ortho, gasping between residual sobs. "i... t-thanks. y-you do so much for me, but i... don't do anything. 'm... sorry th-that i'm not a g-good brother."

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[beraths]

authors note: fair warning I think the last time I wrote something (outside of the self indulgent fic living in my google docs) was many many years ago but this stupid tiktok (@myouux) message moved me enough to write something about it :D

dividers by cafekitsune!!

You stare at your phone like it just confessed a crime.

may god send you terrible men till you choose me

the message reads, timestamped at 2:47 AM

No follow-up. No emojis. Just that. A perfect little act of emotional terrorism, dropped into your night like a lit match.

You shouldn’t be surprised, he’s always had a flair for the dramatic. The kind of man who weaponizes charm like it’s second nature. Who shows up exactly when you’ve almost stopped thinking about him, tugging at the thread of you until something unravels.

You should block him. Or ignore it. Or laugh, maybe. You’re not quite sure yet. But you have to pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when his name lights up your screen. Pretend you don’t still feel him in the shape of your solitude.

Instead your thumbs hover over the keyboard like they’re waiting for your pride to get out of the way.

you’re awful

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

you love awful

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. But your chest aches too, and you don’t know which one is worse.

He sends another.

have they all been that bad?

You hesitate. Then:

worse

There’s a pause this time. A long one. Long enough that you almost put the phone down, until it buzzes again.

good. keep suffering then. till you get tired. till you come home.

You bite your lip, hard enough to taste copper. You hate that he says home like it’s something you can just return to, like it’s waiting. Like he is.

And maybe he is. Maybe that’s the problem.

Because the worst part isn’t that he sent the message.

It’s that you saved it. Tucked it away into a corner of your heart where the rest of him lies.

© beraths

[soufcakmistress]

Distance

Pairing: Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie Moore

A/N: It's been a long ass time. Of course these beautiful Black people brought me out of retirement. Let's fucking gooooo

The sun shined bright in Clarksdale as Annie waited in line for the 8:30 train to Chicago. Her protections for her home had been set in her absence, as well as on her person with a powerful mojo bag she fed the night before. The Illinois Central Railroad had a straight route to the Windy City from Mississippi. Colored folk filled the train depot almost to capacity in their finest threads, packed to the gills with their prized possessions & family heirlooms, combined with enough food to last them the trip.

It had been four years since Smoke and Stack left everything they knew behind. Including her, and their child’s memory. Pain is not sufficient for what Annie felt. She really had no idea what she was doing there at the train station. Or what she’d hope to find when she arrived to Chicago. Or what she would do when she got there. Something had to be done. Energy had to be moved. She had to see Smoke for herself.

A handsome porter helped her with her bags and helped her to get settled in the colored section of the train. She couldn’t help but be mesmerized at all the different kinds of folks that were traveling for greener pastures. The Klan terrorized northern Mississippi in hopes of keeping Black people docile. The Black communities banded together for protection, and yet could not be moved by fear or intimidation. There were grandmothers with their adult children, young families with infants and toddlers running about the cabin full of energy, single people who didn’t have much more than the clothes in their backs. All looking to a new life away from Jim Crow.

Clarksdale to Memphis. Memphis to East St. Louis. East St. Louis to Springfield. Springfield to Chicago. She made sure to get some dirt from every stop of the route — sweeping her floors with railroad dirt from various places ensured constant flow of energy and resources to find her. She stepped off the train at the last stop and she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Annie tried to not look so much a slack jawed yokel but she had never been no further than Louisiana in her life. The skyscrapers towered over the sprawling city, the winding streets that were two lanes wide were bumper to bumper with fancy cars, and there was just so many people! How could Elijah find comfort in a place like this and not with her?

She needed him. She needed him in her bones. In her blood. They were each other’s safe haven. As children, they would meet each other at the crossroads of Route 16 and Candler Road for a respite from their hectic home lives. Smoke’s father was a drunk and abused him and the rest of the family incessantly. Annie’s mother was always away — working roots for folks, doing house cleanings and driving out haints, performing exorcisms. They were both 15 the first time they kissed and 17 the first time they were intimate. They were so young then, and blissfully ignorant at how life can be.

As they aged, they were still inseparable. Both didn’t have much formal schooling. Annie grew into her power — learning herbs and recipes and how to protect, provide and punish if need be. Elijah eventually grew tired of working in the fields. Him and his brother Elias, who was the epitome of hell on wheels, made a living robbing trains. Those boys began to make a name for themselves — especially when their abusive father mysteriously ended up dead. Stabbed in the chest with an ice pick. Annie knew the truth of the matter. Smoke and Stack were growing into young men — they couldn’t tolerate the abuse any longer.

Shortly thereafter, America got involved in the Great War. The draft came to Mississippi and Annie’s worst nightmare came to fruition. Smoke and Stack were conscripted and were set to ship out to Camp Jackson for basic training.

“Put this on your neck.”

Smoke rolled his eyes and begrudgingly took the brown mojo bag. He tied it around his neck and let it fall to his chest. “You know I don’t believe in all that mess.”

“And you don’t need to. This “mess” has been around longer than we could imagine and will be around long after we return to this earth. Just keep it on. For me.”

~

The boarding house Annie lodged in was Black owned in a neighborhood called Bronzeville. All kinds of fancy colored folks lived there in their pressed suits and pristine dresses hustling to their next destination, with little time to converse. She asked a few people about Smoke and Stack andwhere they hung out at. “Elijah and Elias? About six feet, pretty teeth, dimples. They hard to miss.” But no one could point her in the right direction.

Her trip was only supposed to be for a week. Yet four days had passed and not a peep from either one of the twins. Riding the bus along Cottage Grove, she couldn’t help but to overhear two young chaps’ conversation. “Billy done fucked up for the last time. He was slow with Luzzato’s money and Smoke and Stack left him for dead on the pier. I ain’t fuckin with them twins.”

Annie knew that the twins were okay with violence and confrontation— this was not new information to her. But working for the Italians? How did they get wrangled with them? And how did they manage to stay out of jail?

Apparently Paul Luzzato was one of Al Capone’s lieutenants who was a bit more open minded when it came to race than the rest of Capone’s family. The teens made mention of a club right in the neighborhood of the boardinghouse where she was staying. This was the opportunity Annie needed to get a step closer to closure.

The Lighthouse was a cool joint for colored folks on the southside playing nothing but Chicago and Mississippi blues. Lowlit with the fog of cigarette smoke hovering at the ceiling, Annie moved gracefully to the bar scoping out the scene. Beautiful Black men and women in their finest zoot suits and bias cut gowns drinking and carrying on — she felt a bit country and backwoods around all these fancy folks. Annie wondered if these colored folks all traveled from down south as well in hopes of seeking a promised land.

The house band played a good ol southern tune that made Annie rock and sway in her seat. A young stocky man tending bar wiped off a glass, looking in her direction. “Would you like a drink ma’am?”

“I reckon so. What’s a girl gotta do to get some moonshine around here?”

The barkeep fixed her up a glass of moonshine neat. That familiar burn went down so nicely.

~

“Nigga, if you don’t count this money so I can go. Couple bitches in there dying to get broke off by daddy Stack.” Smoke and Stack sat in a dimly lit storage room counting up their money from their protection runs for the day. Capone had sway over the whole city — any business that wasn’t a patron of the mob had to pay up for their own sakes.

“Pussy hound. Can we finish this business please?” Smoke sucked his teeth at his twin’s one track mind. To be fair, they had a long day and he wouldn’t mind a nice nightcap as he hears that guitar wail and moan.

Every dollar and cent is accounted for. Stashed safely in their massive safe built into the wall, they put their suit jackets back on and spread out into the fray. Stack went immediately to coat check to seek out this young filly who had no idea how mischievous he was. Smoke however, sat alone at his usual seat on the second floor overlooking the band. He nursed his whiskey and scoped out the room. The club was full to capacity, there were no fights at the moment, alcohol flowed — he would have a good report for Luzzato.

Smoke peered toward the bar and saw Rallo, the barkeep chatting up with a dark skinned woman who filled out her dress like no one he had ever seen before. Not in a long time anyway. Imagine his surprise when he stood up gazing over the balcony to get a good look….

“It can’t— it can’t be. She said she would never leave Mississippi.” Annie had had a lot more to drink by the time Smoke recognized her and her lips and limbs were a lot looser. Smoke watched Rallo fill her glass up to the top and sat watching her gulp it down like a sucker for love. He would serve other folks and park his ass right back in front of Annie, charming her with everything he had.

“Oh fuck this.”

Smoke skipped every two steps to race towards the bar. Pulling out a cigarette Stack rolled for him, he stood behind Annie staring directly into the back of her head. Her hand rested on Rallo’s forearm, waxing poetically about the south and how beautiful Chicago was.

“Annie.”

Her heart dropped into her ass. Annie’s pulse skyrocketed head ring his southern rasp that hadn’t changed in four years. She forced herself to play it off however— he didn’t get to leave her and their home and their baby and demand immediate attention.

Annie turned to gaze him in the eye and smiled. Rallo however stood up straight as a board, having prior knowledge of Smoke’s reputation especially on the southside. He has never been on his bad side before and didn’t want to start today. Smoke was burning with rage seeing his estranged wife giggle and flirt with a measly bartender.

“I’m busy.”

She cut her eyes and returned to her moonshine on the bar. “Rallo, get the fuck outta here.”

“Sure thing, Smoke.” Rallo left Annie alone and assisted other patrons where it was safe. She huffed at his audacity and threw the rest of the liquor back.

“Still jealous, huh? You never did like my attention to be split.” She hasn’t looked him in the eye yet, staring at the mirror that spanned the backlit bar in front of her. He was still devastatingly handsome..

“What you sayin to him, huh? Had a good time socializin? Why are you here?”

“So Smoke the only one ‘llowed to leave the country? I’m looking towards a future, not the past where everything hurts too bad. Sound familiar?” Annie hissed at Smoke for daring to regulate her. He left HER. He needed to hurt now.

It sliced right through him to have his own words thrown back in his face. His jaw was locked so tight it could break an anvil. “Annie, can we talk in the back? Please?”

“Mmmm, no I’m fine just right here ,thank you so much.” Internally, she loved that she could rouse him still. He still cared. She could tell he still wanted her carnally— his eyes wouldn’t stop wandering the length of her body.

Smoke curled his lips in, gritting his teeth at her insolence. He did deserve the treatment. But he didn’t care— all he wanted was to cuss her ass out and give her all the love that had been pent up for the last four years. “Annie. Please.”

“Elijah. Please.” Her ire began to rise now. His eyes pleaded with her to cooperate and not have his business out for Chicago to see — he had a reputation to uphold. Annie acquiesced begrudgingly, jumping from the barstool and allowed him to guide her to the back. He grabbed her hand and laced their fingers like they used to. Electricity had no choice to spread through her body.

Smoke had a key to Luzzato’s office which had a bed and closet for whenever he was too tired to drive home from the club. Annie scrutinized the tall windows cased in luxurious drapes, all of the expensive hardwood furniture and floors, and fancy Art deco decor. Nothing like back down home.

“You like Rallo?”

“Tuh, you ain’t got not one lick of sense. He was friendly enough.”

“Why are you here, Annie? You said you could never leave Mississippi. You said you could never leave—“ Smoke stopped short of speaking their dead child’s name. Her name crumbled in his mouth, a raw memory that still threatened to take him down if he let it.

That made Annie’s chin tremble yet galvanized her to force the issue. “You can’t even say her name. The child we made out of love. And you can’t even do that.” She sounded so weary and exhausted.

His eyes were glassy already, and he grabbed both of her hands. “Annie…..I couldn’t stay and you know this. I fuckin couldn’t wake up every mornin seein that tiny grave every day. I couldn’t…”

Annie felt the tremors in Smoke’s hands. She couldn’t hold tears back any longer. “And how do you think I felt?! I pulled her from my womb myself. I nursed her. I prayed for her. And she wasted away anyway. What about my pain, Elijah?!”

The dam broke for Smoke, and he cried as he embraced her. She wriggled and struggled but Smoke held her in place, both shedding tears that had no end. “Annie, please forgive me. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you to the ends of the Earth. Please forgive me.” His lips sweetly grazed her chin, cheek and down to her supple neck.

She shuddered audibly, his touch still had the ability to make her knees weak like jelly. Annie hated that her body leaned into his affections without her permission. After all this time. After what he did. “You hurt me. You hurt me bad. How can I..”

Their mouths met in a whirlwind. Tongues lashing against one another, inciting soft moans from the pair. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do whatever. Spend the rest of my life doin it if I have to.” Smoke’s lips kissed down her collarbone to her chest and he tenderly pecked the top of her breasts.

Kisses turn to bites, and revert back to kisses along her cleavage, and a big bicep wraps around Annie’s waist for him to grind his hips on hers. Her moans rise in volume when he reaches under her gown, and pulls her panties to the side. Smoke folds his tongue back into her mouth while two of his agile digits swipe back and forth so tenderly across her pussy lips.

“Oh…shit Smoke…”

So much of her slick is already expelled, making a mess on his fingers just how he remembers. “I’ll just have to remind you how it feels to be loved by me..”

Smoke loves how buxom his wife is, and can’t wait another second without one of her titties in his mouth. Annie helps him pull down the straps of the dress along with her bra, showing her bare breasts in all their glory. Smoke walks Annie back to Luzzato’s massive dark oak desk and leans her up against it. She held the skirt of her dress while he played with her pussy and sucked her nipples so sweetly. He kneeled so he could look at her mound even closer, making her gasp at his anticipation. He ran his hand through her soft coils and spread her lips and put his face in between them.

Bliss can’t come to close to how sensational she’s feeling. Annie holds her husband’s head right on her clit, letting his tongue lap gently in tight circles. Two thick fingers penetrate her hole and if Smoke wasn’t holding her up, she would have slipped right off the desk.

“You…you motherfucker…don’t you stop baby…”

He has her to tilt her hips up so he can lick even more thoroughly, his handsome face covered in her essence. Smoke is proud as ever, and considers it an honor to make his wife come after the way everything went down. The telltale signs came one after the other — Annie grabbing her breast, plucking her nipple, her gritted teeth, her bewildered expression at the sheer amount of pleasure she’s receiving. Those juicy lips of his wrap around Annie’s clit and sucked to tumble her into sweet oblivion. The way his moans reverberated through her body as he took from her….she couldn’t ache for him more than she did in this very moment.

Smoke kisses her sensitive pussy for the last time and finagles with his belt and slacks. When he takes his button down off, Annie sees the mojo bag she made for him when he went to the war. Her belly fluttered, that he still kept it after all this time. Even with how he felt about her beliefs. “Turn yo ass around.”

He wipes his mouth off and sheds his underwear. Annie can feel how hard he is on the small of her back, urging a coy gasp out of her. A couple strokes of his shaft is all he needs to enter his wife. Her skirts are bunched up over her ass, and his hands can’t resist slapping both cheeks in tandem. Annie hikes her waist up, positively buzzing waiting for him to split her open. Smoke holds her open and lets the head of his dick penetrate her. They both shout in ecstasy at their coupling. It had been so long….

“I know you don’t believe me….but you the only one. You the only one, Annie…” One of his hands held her by the shoulder, forcing Annie to sit on every devastating inch of that thick dick. Her whines and cries spurred him to get in deep — make her remember that he was her husband, and she was his wife. Forever.

Her umber skin meshed so well with his, Smoke enjoying the view of him sliding in and out of her soaking wet pussy. “Good ass pussy, that good ass shit, fuck!” Smoke licked and bit at Annie’s delicate shoulders and neck, grunting like a man determined to fuck his beautiful well.

Fingers played and twisted at her nipples, until he pushes Annie’s chest to the desk so she gets everything she deserves out of him. Her pussy feels every vein and pulse of his dick caressing her walls, his heavy sack making contact with her clit on every thrust. She can’t stop smiling. Her man. Her Elijah. Their love was bone deep — inescapable, insurmountable, and unbreakable. They were a committing a sacred act that she didn’t realize how much she missed until that moment.

Smoke is beginning to twitch inside of her, and Annie starts clapping her fat ass on his pelvis. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth, feeling himself about to walk into Eden. He has to get her to come with her — he needs to make her ascend this way.

“Yeah baby, yeah baby, it’s coming — fuck fuck I—“ Smoke gives Annie three powerful thrusts and he erupts inside of her. So much cum from her and him, the floor is a mess. He stands back and spreads her open to see the amalgamation of their love inside her pussy, and she blushes. Smoke is tender and sweet, but so filthy and nasty for her, and she swears she’s the luckiest girl in the world.

He holds her from behind just taking in her scent mingled with his — Luzzato’s office smelled like old cigars and pussy. “I forgive you, Elijah.”

Smoke was startled when she spoke — there had been a comfortable silence as they held each other. He turned her to face him and held her close, looking in her eyes with hope for reconciliation. “I couldn’t quit you if I wanted to. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone.”

He graced Annie with a rare smile, one that reached his eyes. One peck on her lips turned into twenty and he thanked her incessantly for her mercy. Ever the gentleman, he assisted his wife in redressing and rearranging Luzzato’s office. The sneaky pair rejoined the festivities — still lively like they never left. Smoke got Annie a seat at his personal table on the second floor, walking tall and proud with his wife on his arm. Heads turned and gossip flowed at this mysterious woman. Smoke had never been sighted with any woman before in Chicago, not unless it was about business.

Humming in the vibrant after sex glow, Annie could do nothing but look at her husband’s face. By no means, was this going to be easy for them to grow from. But they were both ready and willing. Their love was unstoppable. Ancestral. Celestial. Smoke sensed her gaze on him and he turned back to her. Reaching over the table to kiss her, he held her hand tightly to his chest, with urgency.

“I’m comin back wit ya. I can’t let you walk away from me. I’d surely die, Annie. Will you have me?”

She squealed with utter joy at his heartfelt request. Annie sprang up and ran to him, sitting on his lap and kissing him with everything she had. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

TAGS:

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@nickidub718

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@loveeeeandaffection

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@amirra88

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[andy-15-07]

Need some hurt/comfort after episofde 2... How about reader has a nightmare of Joel dying violently and wakes up alone ? She thinks the nightmare was a memory, and cries instantly, walking in a daze in the street in her pj in the cold, only for him to be there, sharing coffee on Tommy's porch

I’ll Always Come Home

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1320 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

You wake with a start, drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like a drumbeat in an empty stadium. The blankets are tangled around you, cold air whispering against your skin. For a moment, you can’t place yourself: is that moan,was that Joel? You inhale sharply, and reality crashes over you. You’re alone.

The nightmare steals your breath. You saw him,Joel Miller,his life bleeding away in violent spasms, his fist slamming against the ground as his blood pooled beneath him like a morbid crime scene. You heard him scream your name, a ragged sound that snapped you awake, terror clawing at your chest.

In the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, you recognize the familiar layout of your home in Jackson. The cracked plaster of the walls. His guitar leaning against the rickety bookshelf. The framed photo of your wedding day, his smile radiant, his arms wrapped around you. You reach for the sheets, your fingers brushing the emptiness beside you.

Tears spring to your eyes. You clutch the blanket and press it to your face, tasting the cold cotton. A sob rattles your body, and you can’t stop it. It feels like a betrayal: you, always so strong for him; you, the one he calls home. But the pain in your chest is unbearable.

Without thinking, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed,pitter-patter, pitter-patter,and stand. You leave pillows rumpled in your wake as you pad toward the door, still in your sleep shirt and pajama bottoms. The house is silent, save for the soft hum of the generator and the distant rumble of trucks on the outskirts of Jackson.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you step into the cold, night air. Your breath clouds in front of you, ghostly puffs disappearing into the darkness. The snow crunches under your bare feet, ice scratching your soles. You don’t care. All you can think about is how real it felt,how his lifeblood stained your hands.

You stumble down the street, shoulders trembling, tears freezing on your cheeks. You don’t know where you’re going; only that staying inside would be worse. You need him. You need to see his face.

The wind bites through your pajamas. You wrap your arms around yourself, rocking gently, hummed lullabies of comfort you’ve sung for him so many times. "Stay with me, Joel. Please stay with me."

The lights of Tommy’s house appear ahead, two windows glowing amber against the midnight blue. He’s likely up late, playing cards or talking with friends. You halt at the front gate, hesitating. You’re not a child. You’re not delirious,just scared. Ridiculous.

But then you’re moving again, crossing the yard, hands shaking as you push open the door and climb the porch steps in one unsteady motion. You hear the hiss of a propane stove, the clink of mugs.

There he is. Joel. His grizzled profile lit by the stove’s glow. He lifts a chipped enamel mug to his lips, steam curling like question marks into the air. He looks up and stops mid-sip.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes, eyes filling with alarm. “What’re you doing out here? At this hour?”

You blink, overwhelmed by relief that floods every nerve. He’s alive. He’s safe.

“I,I had a dream,” you manage, your voice a cracked whisper. You step forward. He stands and is suddenly there, arms outstretched, anchoring you. “You were gone.”

He wraps you in his arms. His jacket smells like wood smoke and the faint tang of coffee. You push your face into his chest, sobbing. “I thought it was real.”

Joel’s hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. “Shh. It was just a dream, darlin’. I’m right here.”

His voice is a balm, low and sure. He leads you to the porch swing. The frigid night air nips at any exposed skin, but his body heat seeps through your pajamas, anchoring you in the moment.

He hands you a mug; hot coffee radiates through your chilled fingers. You sulk into the swing, letting the rhythm soothe you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Joel chuckles softly. “You never scare me.”

Heat blooms on your cheeks at his words. You meet his gaze, and in the lamplight, you see the way his eyes soften.

“I woke up and,you weren’t there. I thought…” Your voice catches. You look out into the yard, into the dark. “I thought you’d left me.”

He shakes his head. “Why would I ever do that? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

He nudges you playfully with his elbow. You manage a watery laugh, panic easing away. Forty-eight hours postpartum flashbacks of feral hunters, of losing Sam, of the last time half the world fell to ashes,it still haunts you. But here, in Jackson, you found safety. A husband. A home.

“Jackson’s cold,” you mutter, lifting the rim of the mug to your lips. The coffee is bitter, but you drink deeply.

“Told you you’d get used to it,” Joel teases, though his voice is tender.

“No amount of coffee will warm me up tonight.”

He leans closer. “Then get under my jacket.” He pulls yours off, tucking it around your shoulders.

You cling to him and he doesn’t let go when your lips brush his neck. In the quiet, other sounds reach you,the creak of the swing, a distant howl of coyotes, a truck’s engine low on the outskirts of town.

“Why don’t we head inside?” Joel suggests after a few minutes. “Caroline’ll kill me if she sees you freezing on my porch.”

You smile at the mention of your neighbor’s little girl, already asleep in her room. You stand as he rises, pulling you into his arms again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, one arm around you and the other balancing both mugs. “I’ll walk you home.”

Together, you trudge through the snow back to your place. His warmth sears into you, chasing away residual horror from the nightmare. When you reach the porch, Joel pauses and tilts your chin up.

“Listen to me,” he says, eyes fierce. “I am not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Good or bad, I’m yours. You’re mine. Okay?”

You nod, tears glistening. “Okay.”

He kisses you then: gentle at first, tasting of coffee and cold air, but deepening as your arms tighten around his neck. You feel rid of the dream’s shadow.

Inside, he lights the lantern on your kitchen table. The yellow light fills the room with warmth. You lean against him as he sets down the mugs and takes yours.

“Coffee’s still hot,” he points out.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’m not thirsty anymore.”

He gives you that lopsided grin you fell in love with.

“Come here.” He beckons you to sit on his lap. You obey, the curve of his spine a cradle. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in.

“Promise me,” you say after a moment, voice small. “Promise me you’ll always come back.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear. “I promise, every damn time.”

You close your eyes, pressing your cheek to his chest. He hums an old country tune,one you heard him sing once in the garden as tomatoes ripened on the vine. His voice is gravel, rough and comforting.

The nightmare is still there, buried beneath the blankets and the dark. But here, in Joel’s arms, you feel whole again. In a world that’s gone mad, you have this: a man who fights for you, who would die for you and, by God, always come back to you.

You drift toward sleep, wrapped in his warmth and the promise of morning light. Outside, snow continues to fall, blanketing Jackson in silence. But in your kitchen, all is bright and safe.

And you know, without a doubt, that Joel Miller will always come home.

[brokehorrorfan]

Terror Threads has released three Dawn of the Dead shirts designed by Sam Coyne, Dismay Design, and Toto6. Priced at $30, they’ll ship the week of April 29.

[mahalachives]

Part 6: The Cost of Rejection

TW: This chapter contains scenes of intense emotional distress, self-inflicted harm, bond-related psychological torment, violence, graphic depictions of injury, and themes of mental instability and feral behavior tied to a magical mating bond. It also includes a choking/strangulation scene.

As always, please read with care. Your well-being always comes first. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The mating bond had turned Night Court's most controlled warrior into something ancient and feral.

A predator unleashed in a world that had forgotten what true darkness could do.

The Autumn Court palace gleamed copper and crimson in the late afternoon light as Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian approached the main gates. High Lord and Lady of the Night Court demanding entry while their general flanked them, power barely contained.

Behind them, darkness moved where it shouldn't; Azriel slipping through cracks in Autumn's defenses, less male than living shadow.

His eyes burned with feverish intensity, pupils blown wide and ringed with gold.

Days without sleep. Days of the bond flaying him alive from within.

Blood seeped through his leathers, fresh cuts reopening with each movement.

He'd carved them himself, desperate attempts to distract from the internal agony with external pain.

It hadn't worked.

The bond pulled at him with vicious intensity, a barbed hook beneath his sternum dragging him forward through servant passages and hidden corridors.

Every few steps, his body convulsed with silent spasms that he forced himself to work through, shadows writhing against his skin like living tattoos.

His mind fractured and reformed with each pulse of the bond, memories and present bleeding together.

"You're not the same female I knew."

"But you have caused too much pain."

"I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

Azriel slammed his fist into a wall, the crack of bone against stone grounding him momentarily. Blood smeared the ornate wallpaper. The pain rippled up his arm, insignificant compared to the wildfire in his chest.

The family wing appeared before him, the bond pulling him with increasing urgency.

A guard stood at the entrance. Living, breathing, in his way. Azriel didn't slow. His shadows struck first, wrapping around the male's throat before the guard could shout. Azriel followed, Truth-Teller already drawn.

The guard's eyes widened in terror at whatever he saw in Azriel's face. The shadowsinger barely noticed the fear, barely registered driving his forearm into the guard's throat, pinning him against the wall with inhuman strength.

"Where is she?" he asked, voice deathly quiet. The softness of it more terrifying than any shout.

The guard choked, fingers scrabbling uselessly against Azriel's arm. Azriel eased the pressure (just enough to allow speech).

"The Lady's chambers... e-empty," the guard gasped. "She's gone, disappeared days..."

Azriel's vision tunneled to a single point. Gone.

His control, five centuries of discipline, nearly vanished like mist. Truth-Teller hovered a breath away from the guard's chest.

Only a thin thread of restraint—the knowledge that Rhysand needed stealth, needed time—kept him from plunging the blade forward.

Instead, his shadows thickened, wrapping around the guard's consciousness until his eyes rolled back. The male slumped to the floor, still breathing but deeply unconscious.

Azriel stepped over the body without looking back, already following the golden thread pulling him forward.

The door to your chamber materialized before him, carved with flame patterns. The bond thrummed with savage intensity, golden light visible beneath Azriel's skin where his leathers had torn.

Empty.

The silence hit him like a physical blow.

Your scent lingered, but nothing else. Nothing alive. Nothing yours. The bond screamed within him, an animal caught in a trap.

Azriel stumbled forward, legs no longer working properly. His shadows exploded outward in blind rage, shredding curtains, shattering furniture, blackening walls with their fury. The mirror cracked with a sound like splitting ice, fragments raining down.

He crashed to his knees, a feral sound tearing from his throat; not grief, but madness. His hands clawed at his chest, tearing through leather to the golden light pulsing beneath his skin. Blood welled between his fingers.

"Where?" The word barely audible, not a question but a command.

His shadows raced through the room, crawling into corners, seeking, hunting. They returned with fragments. Impressions of fear, of flight, of ash and poison. The crystalline residue of a shattered vial.

The distant scent of Eris.

Something snapped inside him, an essential tether to reason and restraint. The golden light beneath his skin flared brighter, pulsing in time with his erratic heartbeat.

The room darkened as shadows poured from him in torrents, smothering candles, coating the walls in writhing darkness.

Behind him, the door creaked. Azriel spun, Truth-Teller raised before conscious thought.

A servant. Young. Terrified. Linens clutched to her chest.

He was on her in an instant, blade at her throat, shadows wrapping around her limbs like serpents. Her fear registered dimly, meaningless compared to the inferno raging through his chest.

"Where?" The single word delivered with such cold precision that it seemed to drop the temperature of the room.

His face remained expressionless, which somehow made the madness in his eyes more terrifying.

She trembled, tears streaming down her face. "I d-don't... High Lord Beron said..."

The mention of Beron's name cracked something further inside him. His shadows constricted around the maid involuntarily, drawing a whimper of pain.

"Who took her?" His voice remained low, controlled, at odds with the chaos of his shadows.

"No one t-took her," the maid sobbed. "She fled. To the south... the b-border..."

The bond convulsed inside him, a spasm so violent it bent him double. The blade faltered, dropping from his hand as he released the maid. She scrambled away, forgotten as Azriel collapsed to all fours, golden light seeping from between his lips like blood.

South. Border. Fled.

His mind caught on the words, turning them over and over.

Fled. From him. From the court. From the bond.

A sound escaped him, a laugh or sob, impossible to tell. His shadows surged around him in chaotic patterns, reflecting the fracturing of his mind.

In that dark corner of his consciousness, Rhysand's voice cut through. Az. Status.

Azriel couldn't form words anymore, could only send back impressions. Empty. Gone.

Come to the Great Hall. Now. Rhysand's mental voice held the edge of command, the High Lord calling his shadowsinger to heel.

Azriel rose unsteadily, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The bond tugged southward, a hook in his chest that made each step away from it agony.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court blazed with light and tension. Beron sat upon his flame-wreathed throne, fire dancing along his fingertips.

Eris stood beside him, carefully neutral as he watched the Night Court delegation.

"Your presence is unwelcome, Rhysand," Beron was saying. "State your business and then remove yourselves from my court."

Rhysand lounged with practiced arrogance. "We come on a matter of mutual concern. One that affects the stability of both our courts."

Feyre sat beside him, power simmering beneath her calm exterior. Cassian remained standing, hand on his sword hilt, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

"Nothing concerns our courts mutually," Beron snapped, flames leaping higher. "Unless you've come to finally acknowledge your shadowsinger's inappropriate fixation on my daughter."

"A mating bond is the Cauldron's will," Feyre replied, voice like silk over steel. "Not a matter of propriety."

"The Made High Lady speaks of traditions she barely understands," Beron sneered. "The bond was rejected. The matter is closed."

"And yet," Rhysand said, "your daughter has vanished. Curious timing."

The hall plunged into sudden, smothering darkness as the shadows thickened unnaturally.

Torches extinguished, flames dying with soft hisses. Guards shouted in alarm.

Azriel materialized from the darkness, but not as they knew him.

His wings hung at wrong angles. Blood painted abstract patterns across his fighting leathers. His face was a death mask; skin stretched too tight across cheekbones, eyes sunken and feverish. Golden light pulsed beneath his skin in erratic patterns, visible through tears in his clothing, shining from within his mouth when he spoke.

"Where is she?" The question came as a whisper that somehow carried through the entire hall. Low, controlled, and all the more terrifying for its restraint.

His shadows weren't just around him anymore; they were him, extensions of limbs and wings, curling in patterns that hurt the eye to follow.

Beron rose from his throne, flames surging defensively. "What madness is this?" he demanded, though his voice wavered slightly. "How dare you bring this... abomination into my court?"

Eris stepped forward, eyes narrowed as he assessed Azriel. "The mating bond has taken him," he observed quietly. "He's gone feral."

Rhysand moved swiftly to Azriel's side, power unfurling. "Az," he said firmly. "Control it."

Azriel didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Beron, on Eris. On the ones who might know. His hands trembled violently, Truth-Teller clutched so tightly the hilt was cutting into his palm.

"She is no longer in the Autumn Court," Eris said carefully. "Her whereabouts are not our concern."

"Lies." The word fell into the room like a dropped stone, simple and cold. Shadows exploded from Azriel in a shockwave that knocked guards from their feet and cracked pillars. Furniture splintered. A chandelier crashed to the floor in a spray of crystal and flame.

Cassian lunged forward, grabbing Azriel's arm. "Az, stand down!"

Azriel turned on him with terrifying speed, Truth-Teller raised. Cassian caught his wrist, red siphons flaring to contain the shadows.

"Look at me," Cassian commanded. "Look at me, brother."

For a heartbeat, recognition flickered in Azriel's fever-bright eyes. Then the bond spasmed again, and he doubled over, body shaking violently as if something was tearing him apart from within.

"ENOUGH!" Beron shouted, flames racing across the floor toward the Night Court delegation. "This is an act of war, Rhysand! Your dog has gone rabid!"

"He is not himself," Rhysand replied, power rising to counter the flames. "The mating bond-"

"Is his own doing," Beron snarled. "He rejected it. Let him suffer the consequences."

The words hit Azriel like physical blows.

His rejection. His choice. His fault.

With a sound like tearing metal, Azriel broke free from Cassian's hold. His shadows became solid, driving Cassian back as Azriel lunged toward the throne.

"Where. Is. She." The declaration was so softly spoken it was almost tender, which made it infinitely more disturbing. Truth-Teller aimed at Beron's throat, the blade steady despite the tremors wracking the rest of his body.

Guards surged forward. Feyre's power erupted in a shield of starlight. Rhysand moved with blinding speed, catching Azriel around the waist as chaos erupted.

"She fled," Eris said, voice cutting through the mayhem. "She chose to leave. She rejected you as surely as you rejected her."

The words landed like hammer blows on shattered glass. Azriel's knees buckled, shadows coiling around him in protective spirals. The golden light beneath his skin flared bright enough to cast harsh shadows across his face, revealing tears of blood tracking down his cheeks.

"She is gone," Beron said, cruel satisfaction in his voice. "And you drove her away, shadowsinger. Your madness. Your rejection. This is the Cauldron's punishment."

Azriel's body shook so violently that Rhysand had to tighten his grip to keep him upright. No sound escaped the shadowsinger's lips, but his shadows surged outward in silent agony, engulfing the hall in darkness. Guards stumbled back, some falling to their knees as the shadows touched them.

Rhysand's power surged in response, stars piercing the unnatural night. "Azriel!" His voice carried the full weight of High Lord command. "ENOUGH."

The command froze Azriel momentarily, just long enough for Rhysand's power to wrap around him like a cocoon. Feyre and Cassian moved to Rhysand's side, adding their strength to his.

"We're leaving," Rhysand announced to Beron, the words clipped and final. "This audience is concluded."

"Take your rabid dog and go," Beron spat, flames illuminating his fury. "And know that any return to my lands will be met with lethal force."

Eris remained unnervingly calm, his eyes never leaving Azriel. "The bond will kill him," he observed clinically. "Unless he finds her."

"This isn't over." Azriel's words were barely audible, yet they carried the weight of an unbreakable vow. Truth-Teller still gripped in shaking hands as Rhysand's power contained him.

"It was over the moment you rejected what was yours," Eris replied. "Some prices cannot be undone, shadowsinger."

Rhysand's winnowing magic swept around them, tearing them from the Autumn Court in a rush of wind and darkness. The last image was Beron's face, contorted with triumph and rage, and Eris, watching with those calculating amber eyes that knew more than he revealed.

They materialized at the border of Night and Autumn territories, twilight sky bleeding purple and indigo above them.

The moment Rhysand's power released him, Azriel crumpled to the ground as if his bones had turned to water.

His wings splayed at unnatural angles, one arching too high, its joint visibly swollen and throbbing, the other dragging in the dirt, twitching involuntarily with each pulse of the bond.

Blood trickled from beneath his leathers, following the path of scars both ancient and fresh.

His eyes were bloodshot, the whites laced with crimson threads. Veins beneath his skin glowed faintly gold, pulsing like fever-lines up his throat and across his temples.

His breathing came in short, stuttering gasps, like each inhale was being stolen from him.

Like the air itself was rejecting him.

No sound escaped his lips as he curled in on himself, fingers digging into the earth, leaving furrows in the soil. The carefully constructed walls—five centuries of discipline and control—dissolved into dust.

Feyre was beside him in an instant, gathering his shaking form against her.

Her arms encircled him, not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as family to family. His shadows clung to her like frightened children, but she didn't flinch. Darkness met darkness, and still she held him.

"She left," he whispered, the words barely audible. "She left. She left me. She left me."

His voice broke on the last words, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and grime on his face. His body convulsed with silent sobs, each one threatening to tear him apart from within.

"I should've... I should've stopped her," he gasped, the words emerging between desperate attempts to breathe. Each inhale seemed to cause him physical pain, the bond constricting his lungs from inside. "I felt it... I felt her slipping..."

His hand reached out, grasping at empty air, then flinched as if burned when his fingers found nothing but wind.

Cassian stood motionless, face drained of color.

He had seen Azriel gut a man without blinking. Had watched him interrogate enemies with mechanical precision. But this? This was something else. Something unholy. The most controlled male he knew, unraveling thread by bloody thread before his eyes.

"Mother above," he breathed, the words a prayer.

Rhysand's power curled protectively around them all, but even he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes. Five hundred years of brotherhood, and he had never seen Azriel like this; had never thought it possible.

"She didn't just leave me," Azriel whispered, his gaze fixed on something none of them could see. "She left the bond. She left everything. How could she... how could she breathe through that?"

Feyre's power curled around him, not to heal, but to hold the pieces together until he could. "I'm here," she murmured, a steady anchor in the storm. "I've got you, Az."

He tried to rise, body moving before his mind caught up. The bond pulled him like a marionette with strings made of agony, dragging him toward the southern horizon. He staggered, would have fallen if not for Feyre's steady arms.

Cassian watched as Azriel's shadows twisted in patterns that reflected his internal torment. "What do we do? We can't force her to accept him."

"No," Rhysand agreed. "But we can find her. At least give him the chance to see her again."

Azriel's body continued to shake, but the wild desperation in his eyes shifted to something else—something cold and focused and deadly.

"South," he managed, each word precise despite the cost. "Border estate."

"We'll find her," Feyre promised, her power wrapping more firmly around his trembling form. "But first, you need to breathe. Just breathe, Az."

Azriel shook his head, the movement jerky and pained. "Can't breathe," he rasped. "It won't let me. Pulls and pulls and..." His words dissolved as another spasm of pain contorted his features.

With sudden, desperate strength, he gripped Rhysand's forearm.

"Please," he begged, the word raw and broken. "Now. Take me to her now." Tears leaked from his eyes, "I'll die if..." He couldn't finish, another wave of pain stealing his breath.

Rhysand knelt beside them, his face set with the cold, implacable resolve of a High Lord. "You'll die if we don't get you to a healer first," he said, voice brooking no argument. "And I will not lose you, brother."

"She's-" Azriel tried again, shadows thinning to wisps as his strength failed him.

"The moment you're stable," Rhysand promised, "we fly south. I swear it on the Cauldron."

Cassian joined them, completing the circle around their fallen brother. "All of us," he agreed, voice rough with emotion he rarely showed. "No one gets left behind."

Azriel's face contorted with a war of emotions—desperation to find you, the physical agony of the bond, the fear that delay meant losing you forever. His entire body trembled with the effort to resist the pull southward.

"She won't want me," he whispered, a confession torn from his soul. "She ran. She ran from me."

"Then we'll face that together too," Feyre said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek. "But we can't lose you, Az."

Something in her words seemed to reach him. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat but in exhaustion, in the bone-deep understanding that he couldn't fight this battle alone.

"Velaris," Rhysand said, gathering his power around them all. "Hold onto him."

As the darkness of winnowing enveloped them, Azriel's shadows stretched southward in one last, desperate reach—toward you, toward what was lost, toward what might never be reclaimed.

His eyes, more gold than hazel now, closed as the bond pulsed beneath his skin in weakening waves. The last thing he whispered before consciousness fled him was your name, a prayer, a promise, a plea.

Then the night swallowed them whole, carrying them home to Velaris.

As the last light faded from the sky, Azriel's shadows stretched southward, seeking, hunting, following the golden thread that bound him to you, whether that path led to salvation or destruction remained to be seen.

A week at Lucien's border estate had taught you several important things.

First, the ash tea worked wonders for muting the bond's pain, but did absolutely nothing for boredom.

Second, Lucien's definition of "stocked kitchen" meant an alarming quantity of expensive wine and virtually nothing edible.

Third, fire bunnies should never, under any circumstances, be allowed near curtains, pillows, or anything remotely flammable (which, unfortunately, was everything).

"I'm making breakfast," you announced, padding barefoot into the sunlit kitchen where Lucien sat nursing a mug of something steaming.

You tripped slightly over a rug edge but caught yourself with as much dignity as you could muster. "Real breakfast. Not whatever sad excuse for food you've been surviving on."

Lucien glanced up from the letter he was reading, metal eye whirring softly as it focused on you. The mechanical click-whir always reminded you of a tiny camera shutter. "There's bread."

"Bread is not breakfast," you replied, already rummaging through his sparse cupboards, accidentally knocking over several empty containers in the process. "It's an ingredient in breakfast. Like... a supporting character. Important, but not the star."

Ember and Sizzle hopped excitedly at your feet, their tiny flame ears perked with anticipation. You'd quickly discovered they had excellent food radar.

For creatures made of fire, they had remarkable enthusiasm for eating. Also for causing chaos, but mostly eating.

"Do you actually know how to cook?" Lucien asked, one eyebrow arched skeptically.

You paused, a dusty jar of what might have been preserves (or possibly very old paint) in your hand.

The truth was complicated.

In your previous life as a human, you'd been decent enough in the kitchen. But your body's current owner, had probably never even seen an uncooked egg.

"How hard can it be?" you replied breezily, blowing a strand of hair from your face. "Heat plus food equals meal. I'm basically just doing math with fire."

Lucien's lips twitched. "Says the female who set three towels on fire yesterday."

"That was Sizzle's fault," you protested, as the bunny in question hopped onto the counter and began sniffing at a bowl of fruit with suspicious intensity. "And I put them out very quickly."

"With wine."

"It worked, didn't it?" You fumbled with a spoon, sending it clattering across the counter. "And the towels weren't that important. They clashed with your decor anyway."

Lucien set his letter aside, leaning back in his chair to watch the impending disaster with barely concealed amusement. "By all means, continue. I haven't had entertainment this good in decades."

You huffed dramatically, pulling out the few ingredients you could find—eggs, some questionable-looking herbs that might actually be weeds, cheese that was thankfully still edible, and the aforementioned bread.

"I'm making..." you paused, assessing your options while trying to look confident, "a frittata."

"A what?" Lucien's brow furrowed in confusion.

"It's a... fancy egg thing." You waved your hand vaguely, accidentally knocking over a salt cellar. "Trust me. It's going to be amazing. Or at least edible. Probably."

Ember, clearly sensing an opportunity for chaos, leapt onto the counter beside Sizzle. Between them, they managed to nudge an apple off the edge, sending it rolling across the floor. You lunged for it, missed completely, and nearly face-planted into a cabinet.

"Your therapy animals are stealing my breakfast," Lucien observed dryly.

"They're helping," you insisted, straightening with as much dignity as possible.

Lucien snorted. "Is that what we're calling it?"

You cracked eggs into a bowl with more confidence than skill, several bits of shell following the yolks. You poked at them ineffectually with a finger, trying to fish them out. "Extra calcium," you muttered.

As you reached for a fork to beat them, you felt the bond pulse uncomfortably.

Even with the ash tea's dampening effects, certain movements still triggered sharp reminders of what lay beneath your skin, waiting to consume you again.

You must have winced, because Lucien was suddenly beside you, his movements silent and graceful.

"Here," he said, taking the bowl. "Let me."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though you let him take over. "The tea works. Mostly. Sometimes. When it feels like it."

"Most of the time," he agreed, beating the eggs with practiced ease.

The sight of the feared son of the Autumn Court whisking eggs was incongruous enough to make you smile. "Where did you learn to cook?"

A shadow crossed his face. "After Tamlin's... difficulties, staff was limited. I adapted."

"You're full of surprises, brother dear. Next you'll tell me you can knit or something." You peered at him suspiciously. "Wait, can you knit? Because I'd pay good money to see that."

The endearment slipped out without thought.

Lucien's hands stilled for just a heartbeat before resuming their work. You'd noticed he had a complicated relationship with the word "brother," perhaps because his blood brothers had tried to kill him, or perhaps because the one he'd chosen had betrayed him.

"Someone in this house needs practical skills," he replied lightly. "Particularly when sharing space with three fire hazards."

"Three?" You looked around in confusion.

His mismatched eyes met yours, amusement dancing in them. "I'm counting you."

Before you could formulate a suitably indignant response (which was definitely going to be brilliant and cutting, given enough time), Sizzle chose that moment to sneeze. A tiny fireball shot across the kitchen, singeing the edge of Lucien's sleeve.

"Cauldron boil me," he muttered, patting out the spark.

You couldn't help it. You burst out laughing, the sound so unexpected it startled you.

When was the last time you'd laughed? Before the bond. Before Azriel's rejection. Before the pain.

Lucien stared at you for a moment before his own lips curved upward. "You find my immolation amusing?"

"Your..." You gestured to his perfect posture, immaculate clothing, and general air of deadly competence. "Your dignified outrage. Over a bunny sneeze." You demonstrated, mimicking his affronted expression with exaggerated horror. "It's like watching a war general get taken down by a kitten."

He tilted his head, considering. "They're not actually rabbits, you know. They're flame sprites who just happen to take bunny form."

You blinked. "Wait, really?"

You looked down at Ember, who chose that moment to scratch behind his ear with his back foot in a quintessential rabbit move. "Have I been patronizing powerful supernatural entities this whole time?"

Lucien's face remained serious for precisely three seconds before cracking. "No. They're just magical rabbits who happen to be on fire."

You grabbed a handful of herbs and threw them at him. "You're terrible! I was ready to start a flame sprite worship cult!"

He dodged easily, grinning now. "And you're gullible."

"I am not..." You searched for words. "Okay, I am, but in my defense, nothing makes sense here. Last week I saw a bird with twelve wings and the face of an old man. A flaming rabbit isn't even in the top ten weird things."

Your protest was cut short as Ember, apparently jealous of the attention Sizzle had received, decided to hop directly into the bowl of beaten eggs.

Lucien lunged to catch him, but too late. The bowl tipped, sending its contents cascading down the front of his fine shirt.

Silence fell, broken only by Ember's pleased chirping.

Lucien looked down at his ruined clothing, then back at you, his expression so perfectly affronted that you couldn't contain another burst of laughter.

"Oh gods," you gasped between giggles. "Your face! It's like someone told you the Spring Court has better fashion sense."

"If you value your continued existence," he said with deadly calm, "you will stop laughing immediately."

This, of course, only made you laugh harder, clutching the counter for support. The bond in your chest gave a peculiar flutter, not pain this time, but something lighter, as if amused by the absurdity alongside you.

With deliberate slowness, Lucien reached for the remaining eggs on the counter. "You realize," he said conversationally, "this means war."

Your eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare. You're a dignified... um, whatever you are. Diplomat? Spy? Professional brooder?"

His metal eye clicked and whirred as he raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?"

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Eggs flew. Flour from some forgotten cupboard clouded the air.

You shrieked and ducked, accidentally upending a canister of what turned out to be cinnamon. The fire bunnies, delighted by this new game, bounced between you, leaving tiny scorch marks on everything they touched.

When Eris found you an hour later, you were both sitting on the kitchen floor, covered in food, surrounded by ecstatic fire bunnies, and laughing so hard you could barely breathe. You had a streak of flour across your nose and what appeared to be egg yolk in your hair.

He paused in the doorway, amber eyes taking in the disaster before him.

"I leave for three days," he said with exquisite disdain, "and return to... this."

Lucien didn't bother standing, just lifted his egg-crusted chin with mock dignity. "We were cooking."

"Clearly," Eris replied, stepping carefully over a puddle of what might have been honey. "I see it's going exceptionally well."

You exchanged a glance with Lucien, a silent communication passing between you.

The bond in your chest hummed quietly, for once not a source of agony but simply there.

A part of you. Manageable.

"Actually," you said, smiling at your eldest brother as egg dripped from your elbow, "it is."

The kitchen was still a disaster zone, but you'd at least managed to clean yourselves up. Mostly.

There was still something sticky in your hair that refused to be identified. Lucien had changed into a simple linen shirt, more casual than you'd ever seen him, while you'd washed the worst of the egg from your person.

Eris paced the length of the sitting room, his movements controlled and precise. Too precise.

You'd learned that Eris at his most controlled was Eris at his most dangerous. Like a snake coiling before it strikes, or a wine bottle about to be uncorked after being violently shaken.

"The Night Court came to Autumn yesterday," he said without preamble, his amber eyes fixing on yours. "Not as guests. As intruders."

The bond in your chest gave a sharp pulse, golden light briefly visible beneath the skin of your wrist before the ash tea smothered it again.

You curled your fingers into your palm, trying to mask the reaction.

"Why?" Lucien asked, leaning against the doorframe, his posture deliberately casual though his hand strayed near his knife.

"For her," Eris replied, nodding in your direction. His lips curved in a cold smile. "Your shadowsinger appears to be experiencing complications."

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water.

You kept your face carefully blank, even as your pulse quickened.

"Explain," you said, proud of how steady your voice remained.

Eris studied your face, as if searching for something specific. "They arrived openly at the gates. The High Lord and Lady, plus the general. Very diplomatic. Very proper." His eyes glittered. "While the shadowsinger slipped into the palace like a thief, incapacitated guards, and tore through the family wing straight to your chambers."

You found yourself oddly still, like a prey animal sensing a predator. "And?" You fiddled with a loose thread on your sleeve to keep your hands from shaking.

"When he found your chambers empty, he nearly brought the ceiling down." Eris's expression was calculating, weighing each word for its impact on you. "It took all three of them to contain him. A display of power that..." he paused, something like reluctant respect in his voice, "was impressive, even by their standards."

"So what you're saying is," you said, trying to keep your voice light, "I should definitely send him a bill for the damages."

Lucien shot you a warning glance, but Eris merely continued, ignoring your attempt at humor.

"And you stood with Beron?" Lucien asked, his eyebrow raised.

"I stood where I needed to," Eris replied coldly. "As I always do."

You pushed away from the table, needing to move, to process.

The bond pulsed steadily beneath the ash tea's numbing effects, neither painful nor pleasant, just there. A reminder of what had been forced upon you, like an annoying song stuck in your head, but with more existential dread.

"You need to leave," Eris continued. "Tonight. The bond is a beacon, ash tea or no. It's only a matter of time before the shadowsinger traces it to this place, and I doubt he'll be in a reasoning mood when he does."

"Leave and go where?" Lucien asked, his metal eye whirring softly as he studied his brother. "She's barely mastered not setting the bath towels on fire."

You shot him a betrayed look. "That was one time!"

"Three times," he corrected.

Eris's expression suggested he was reconsidering his entire plan. "The Dawn Court," he finally replied. "Thesan owes me a favor, and it's the last place they'd look. The shadowsinger's abilities are weakened in constant light."

You looked between them, these brothers with centuries of mistrust and shared secrets between them.

"And why would you help me get there? Not that I'm doubting your generosity," you added hastily, "but you don't seem like the helping type. More the 'watching people struggle while sipping wine' type."

Eris's expression remained unreadable.

"Because Beron is calling their intrusion an act of war. Because he's looking for someone to blame for all this." Something almost like genuine emotion flashed across his face. "And because I've seen what bond-madness does. To both parties."

Ember materialized in a tiny burst of flame beside your hand, his warm form coalescing from your own power. Sizzle appeared moments later, hopping across the table as if she'd been there all along.

These extensions of your fire magic (not pets, but manifestations of your ability to create and sustain life from flame) had become such a natural part of you that you barely noticed the small flare of power it took to maintain them.

Eris watched the bunnies with narrowed eyes. "You'll need to keep those under control in Dawn. They won't blend well with Thesan's menagerie of light beasts."

You ran a finger along Ember's spine, feeling the connection to your own magic. "They're a part of me. Like really adorable, flammable emotional support animals."

"Then contain them," Eris said simply. "I've arranged passage through a series of winnowing points. Thesan's sentries will meet you at the eastern border." His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Unless... you want the shadowsinger to find you?"

The question hung in the air between you.

You considered it, truly considered it.

This bond you never asked for, with a male who had made clear what he thought of it. Of you.

You almost made a joke about how terrible his communication skills were, but something in Eris's expression stopped you.

But this wasn't just about Azriel anymore. This was about you. About finding space to breathe, to think, to be something other than a pawn in games between High Lords.

"I'll go," you said, the decision crystallizing within you like frost on glass. "But not because I'm running from him."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No." You let a small flame dance across your fingertips, trying not to look too pleased when it didn't immediately get out of control. Ember and Sizzle chirped in harmony with the display. "I'm choosing myself this time."

Something that might have been respect flickered across Eris's face before it vanished beneath his usual cold mask. "Be ready at midnight. Bring only what you can carry."

After Eris had gone, Lucien moved to sit beside you. "You don't have to go," he said.

You glanced at him, surprised. "You think I should stay?"

"I think choosing yourself is the right decision," he replied, his scarred face solemn in the fading light. "But you don't have to do it alone."

You stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Lucien's mismatched eyes met yours, something resolute in them. "I'm saying I'll go with you. To the Dawn Court."

"What about your estate? Your position?" What about Elain? hung unspoken between you.

"This estate is just a pretty prison Beron lets me keep." He shrugged, the gesture attempting casualness but not quite succeeding. "And as for positions... well. Neither of us seems to fit where we're supposed to be, do we?"

You leaned your head against his shoulder, this brother who had become something like a friend in the strangest of circumstances. "They'll come after us. Both courts."

"Not in Dawn," Lucien said confidently. "Not even Rhysand would risk offending Thesan by barging into his territory uninvited. And Beron has never had good relations with the Dawn Court, too many centuries of mutual distrust."

Ember and Sizzle hopped between you, tiny flames dancing along their ears in excitement or perhaps resonating with your own feelings. As manifestations of your power, they often reflected emotions you hadn't even acknowledged to yourself.

"I need to pack," you said finally.

With a thought, you called the bunnies back to you, their forms dissolving into twin flames that curled around your fingers before vanishing beneath your skin.

It would take concentration to hold them there, but it was good practice for the Dawn Court where your fire creatures would be immediately recognized as Autumn Court magic.

Lucien nodded, something like admiration in his eyes at the display of control. "We leave at midnight, then."

For the first time since arriving in Prythian, you were writing your own story. And hopefully it wouldn't involve setting too many things on fire. Intentionally, anyway.

Madja completed the final healing seal over the last of his wounds, the golden light fading from her fingertips as she stepped back from the bed.

"You need rest," she said firmly, her ancient eyes seeing more than Azriel wanted to reveal. "At least three days. The bond-sickness has ravaged your system."

Azriel said nothing, lying perfectly still until the healer gathered her supplies and left his chambers in the House of Wind. The moment the door clicked shut, he was moving.

His body screamed in protest as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Wounds—both those he'd inflicted on himself and those sustained in the Autumn Court—pulled tight beneath fresh scars.

The bond pulsed steadily in his chest, calling to him with a voice that drowned out all reason, all duty, all previous attachments.

Not a tether. Not a chain. A lifeline.

His shadows, which had been suspiciously docile during the healing, erupted around him the moment he stood, dancing with renewed vigor.

They whispered to him in languages older than Prythian itself, but for once, they weren't telling him secrets of others. They were telling him his own truth.

She is yours. You are hers. Two halves finally finding wholeness.

How strange that he had spent centuries believing his shadows knew everything, only to realize they had been waiting all this time to tell him the one thing that mattered.

You.

He moved to the wardrobe, each step more steady than the last as certainty replaced pain. He dressed methodically in fighting leathers, his movements reverent, like a priest preparing for sacred rites.

Truth-Teller slid into its sheath at his hip, the blade singing softly in greeting.

For centuries, he had believed the knife's name referred to its function—to extract truth from others.

Now he understood it had always been about confronting his own.

The bond guided his hands as he prepared. This wasn't madness anymore. This was clarity.

He moved to the window, which opened onto a sheer drop from the House of Wind. Velaris spread below him, a city he had helped protect, helped build.

A home he had always served faithfully.

Until now.

His shadows surged forward, testing the night air, then returned with confirmation—Autumn's southern border. A hidden estate where you waited, whether you knew it or not.

Azriel unfurled his wings, feeling a strength in them he hadn't felt in centuries. As if the bond had stripped away not just his delusions but the weight of five hundred years of isolation. Of believing he was meant to stand apart, to watch others find happiness while he remained in shadow.

The Cauldron, in its twisted wisdom, had given him the one thing he never believed he deserved.

A soft knock at the door broke through his revelry. Before he could respond, it opened to reveal Elain standing in the doorway, a small basket of healing herbs in her hands.

"Madja asked me to bring these for your-" Her words faltered as she took in his appearance: not a healing invalid, but a warrior prepared for flight. "You're leaving."

Azriel turned to face her fully, allowing his shadows to recede.

For so long, he had believed himself in love with her, this gentle, quiet female who represented everything he thought he should want.

Safety. Comfort. Normalcy.

Looking at her now, he felt only a distant fondness, like remembering a dream upon waking.

The bond had burned away the illusion, leaving only truth behind.

"I'm sorry, Elain," he said, his voice steady with newfound conviction.

She set the basket down slowly. "For what?"

"For not understanding until now." His gaze met hers directly, no more hiding, no more half-truths. "I thought I loved you because you were safe. Because wanting you was less terrifying than facing what I truly needed."

The golden light beneath his skin pulsed brighter, illuminating the darkness between them. Not hiding anything anymore.

"It's her," Elain said softly. Not a question.

"It's always been her," Azriel replied, the truth of it resonating through his entire being. "I just didn't know it until the bond showed me." His voice softened. "She was made for me. Every broken piece of me fits with every broken piece of her."

Saying the words aloud felt like setting down a burden he'd carried his entire life: the belief that he was too damaged, too dark, too scarred for real connection.

Elain's eyes shimmered with tears, but something like understanding flickered in their depths. "The seer in me sensed it, I think. That's why I always kept my distance, even when you..." She didn't finish the thought.

"Even when I tried to convince us both otherwise," he completed gently.

The bond surged beneath his skin, impatient now, reminding him that every moment spent here was a moment away from you. His wings twitched in response, readying for flight.

"She's with Lucien," Elain said softly.

At the mention of Lucien's name, Azriel felt a strange calm knowing you're with one of your brothers.

"I know. Ironic, isn't it?" A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"What will you do?"

"Whatever I must," he answered simply. "She is mine as I am hers. Even if she doesn't know it yet."

Elain studied him, seeing perhaps more clearly than anyone else ever had. "You've changed."

"I've awakened," he corrected gently. "Everything before her was a half-life. A shadow existence."

Understanding passed between them, a final acknowledgment of what might have been and what never truly was. Elain nodded once, acceptance in the gesture.

"Cassian went to find Rhys," she said. "They'll try to stop you."

"I know."

"Go," she whispered. "Find your completion."

Azriel held her gaze for one final moment, gratitude in his eyes for this unexpected blessing. Then he stepped backward off the ledge, wings snapping open to catch the night air.

As he banked sharply southward, shadows streaming behind him like wedding ribbons, he felt the bond singing through his blood.

Not the desperate, painful tug of before, but a joyful, certain pull—like coming home after a war, like finding shelter after a storm.

Like a soul finally recognizing its other half.

He flew toward you with the absolute certainty that whatever happened next—whether you accepted him or not, whether you fled or fought—this was the truth his entire existence had been building toward. You were made for him, as he was made for you, two pieces of the same impossible puzzle.

And nothing in Prythian would keep him from you again.

"Are you certain we can't bring any of Eris's wine?" You folded another tunic into your travel pack, trying to keep your movements casual despite the excitement thrumming through you.

Dawn Court. Freedom. Or at least something resembling it.

Lucien leaned against the doorframe, his metal eye whirring as it tracked your movements. "We're fugitives, not thieves."

"Says the male who packed sixteen of Eris's daggers," you countered, nodding toward the impressive array of weapons laid out on the bed.

"Those are technically mine. He stole them first."

You grinned, about to respond when the bond gave a sudden, violent pulse beneath your skin. It flared for a moment before the ash tea suppressed it again, but the urgency in the sensation was new. Different.

"What is it?" Lucien asked, noticing your expression change.

"Nothing," you said automatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "Just the bond... acting strange."

Lucien frowned, his hand dropping to the knife at his hip, a gesture so automatic he probably didn't realize he'd done it. "Strange how?"

Before you could answer, Ember and Sizzle materialized beside you, their tiny bodies coalescing from flame without your conscious summons. They weren't playful or curious as usual; their ears were flattened, bodies crouched low in alarm.

"That's... not normal," Lucien observed, pushing away from the doorframe.

A crash from downstairs shattered the moment—glass breaking, wood splintering. Voices, unfamiliar and angry, shouted commands to each other.

"Find her! The Lady owes us blood!"

Your eyes widened. "What in the hell-"

Lucien was already moving, grabbing your pack with one hand and your arm with the other. "Back exit. Now."

You stumbled after him, mind racing. "Who would-"

"Later," he hissed, pulling you toward the servant's stairs at the back of the hall.

You'd barely taken three steps when a figure appeared at the top of the main staircase—a male Fae with skin that resembled bark and branches twisting from his scalp like antlers. His eyes glowed an eerie green as his lips pulled back to reveal thorn-sharp teeth. "There she is! The bitch who betrayed our grove to the Summer Court hunters!"

You blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Another crash downstairs, and more voices joined the first. Lucien swore under his breath, yanking you toward the stairs.

Lucien propelled you down the narrow stairs, his movements efficient and practiced. "Apparently," he said between breaths, "You had quite the talent for making enemies."

"Oh." Wonderful.

Not only were you trapped in a Fae body, bonded to a shadowsinger, and hiding from multiple courts, but now you were being hunted for someone else's crimes. Perfect.

You reached the bottom of the stairs only to find your escape route blocked by two more intruders—females with skin like polished stone and vines twisting through their hair, wielding wickedly curved daggers of bone.

"There's nowhere to run, traitor," one hissed, her voice like leaves rustling in wind.

Lucien pushed you behind him, his hand wreathing in flame. "Look, there's been a misunderstanding-"

A bone dagger flew through the air, missing his head by inches.

"No misunderstandings," the second female snarled. "Just vengeance."

Ember and Sizzle, still hovering at your sides, suddenly charged forward in twin streaks of flame, startling the wood nymphs and giving Lucien the opening he needed.

Fire erupted from his hands, driving them back long enough for you to dart past, Lucien close behind.

"The kitchens," he directed, "through the pantry!"

You ran, heart hammering in your chest. The bond pulsed in time with each beat, as if responding to your fear.

You tried to summon your own fire magic, but the ash tea had dampened your power to a flicker. Ember and Sizzle, extensions of that same magic, seemed weaker too, their flames dimmer than usual.

More crashes behind you, the sound of furniture splintering. How many were there?

You burst into the kitchen, skidding on the floor still slick with egg from your earlier escapades. Lucien caught your arm before you fell, steadying you.

"Almost there," he encouraged, guiding you toward the pantry door that led to an external courtyard.

A massive figure stepped through the doorway ahead, blocking your path. Nearly seven feet tall, with skin like ancient oak and eyes that glowed forest green, he carried a spear of living wood that dripped with some viscous sap.

"The Lady of Autumn," he rumbled, his voice like branches breaking in a storm. "Your treachery cost me three saplings."

"I'm not-" you began, but he was already lunging forward, spear aimed at your heart.

Lucien shoved you sideways, the spear grazing his arm instead. He hissed in pain but returned with a slash of his knife, forcing the giant back.

"Run!" he ordered. "The window!"

You scrambled toward the kitchen window, throwing open the shutters. It was a tight fit, but possible. Behind you, the sounds of fighting intensified; more of the wood nymphs had entered the kitchen, surrounding Lucien who fought with brutal efficiency, fire and steel flashing in deadly arcs.

Ember and Sizzle darted at the intruders' faces, small distractions that bought precious seconds.

You were halfway through the window when a hand closed around your ankle, yanking you back inside. You crashed to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

The antlered male from upstairs stood over you, mouth stretched in a terrible grin. "The bounty on your head will feed my grove for a year," he snarled, reaching down to grip your throat.

His hand closed around your neck, bark-rough skin abrading yours as he lifted you off the ground. The ash tea had weakened you too much to fight back effectively. You clawed at his arm, trying to break his hold, but his grip only tightened.

"I'll deliver your heart to the Grove Elder myself," he hissed, face inches from yours.

Black spots danced at the edges of your vision as you struggled for air. The bond in your chest pulsed frantically, golden light seeping through your skin despite the ash tea's effects.

Just as consciousness began to fade, an arrow whistled through the air, striking you in the shoulder. The antlered male loosened his grip in surprise, and you dropped to the floor, gasping and clutching your bleeding wound.

"Idiot!" one of the stone-skinned females shouted at an archer across the room. "We need her alive for the bounty!"

"She moved!" the archer protested.

You crawled backward, blood seeping between your fingers where you clutched your shoulder. The arrow had gone clean through, but the pain was blinding.

Lucien was still fighting by the pantry door, now facing four opponents at once. He'd lost his knife and was fighting with pure fire, but even he couldn't hold them off much longer.

"Lucien!" you called, your voice ragged from the strangling.

He glanced your way, taking in your wounded state with a single look. His face hardened into something dangerous.

"Enough," he said, his voice deadly quiet.

Fire erupted from him in a wave, not the controlled flames from before but a roaring inferno that engulfed the kitchen. The wood nymphs shrieked, their forest-adapted bodies especially vulnerable to fire. They retreated, but Lucien wasn't giving them the chance to escape.

"You came to the wrong house," he snarled, the fire growing hotter, climbing the walls, catching the rafters.

The antlered male stumbled toward you, apparently determined to complete his mission despite the flames. You kicked out desperately, catching him in the knee. He fell forward, his antlers slicing your arm as he went down.

More of your blood spilled, splattering across his face. He recoiled, wiping at it furiously.

"Lucien!" you shouted again as the fire spread, the heat becoming unbearable.

In three long strides, he was beside you, scooping you into his arms. Your blood smeared across his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Hold on," he commanded, his voice tight with fury and fear.

The fire was everywhere now, consuming the kitchen, racing through the house with unnatural speed. The wood nymphs were in full retreat, those who could still move dragging their injured companions.

"What are you doing?" you gasped as Lucien carried you not toward an exit but deeper into the burning house.

"Making sure they can't follow," he replied grimly. "And covering our tracks."

He kicked open the door to Eris's study, strode to the desk, and shifted you in his arms just long enough to grab a small wooden box from a hidden compartment.

"Now we go," he said, tucking the box into his pocket.

The house was fully engulfed now, the structure groaning as support beams weakened. Ember and Sizzle had vanished, either returned to your body or consumed by the larger fire.

"Can you winnow us both?" you asked, the pain in your shoulder making it hard to focus.

"Let's find out," Lucien replied, tightening his hold on you. "Because we're out of options."

He closed his eyes, gathering what power he had.

The roof above you creaked ominously, beginning to collapse.

The last thing you saw before the world dissolved around you was fire, everywhere, consuming everything, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

Azriel descended through the night, the bond a molten thread in his chest that pulled tighter with each wing beat.

The smoke from Lucien's burning estate rose in angry plumes below, golden embers dancing against the darkness like a perversion of starlight.

His shadows writhed across his skin, agitated and hungry in a way he'd never experienced before. They weren't just extensions of him anymore; they were sentient with purpose, with rage.

I reject you. I don't want anything to do with you.

His own words haunted him as he landed silently on the ridge overlooking the burning manor.

The memory of your face when he'd spoken them, the devastation, the raw hurt, clawed at him from within. The arrogance of it. The blind, willful rejection of what the Cauldron had designed for him alone.

Below, figures moved through the fiery ruins—lesser fae from the border territories, picking through the remains like carrion birds. The sight of them touching what had been your temporary sanctuary sent a wave of territorial fury through him.

"Nothing worth salvaging," one called out, kicking at a collapsed beam. "The Lady of Autumn escaped before we could finish the job."

The bond twisted at those words, spearing white-hot pain through Azriel's chest.

His vision blurred momentarily as golden light seeped from beneath his skin, not just at his collar now, but at his wrists, fingertips, even the corners of his eyes.

His shadows surged outward, independent of his command, tasting the air and returning with information that made the light beneath his skin pulse like a war drum.

Blood.

His focus narrowed to a bark-skinned male with antlers twisting from his scalp. There, on his hands: dark stains. Not ash or soot, but something his shadows recognized instantly.

Your blood.

The golden thread inside his chest vibrated, attuning to the specific rhythm of your spilled blood.

For one terrible moment, Azriel felt exactly what you had felt when that blood was drawn, the sharp pain of an arrow, the crushing pressure of hands around your throat.

Something inside him broke.

He dropped from the ridge, shadows streaming behind him like war banners. He landed in their midst without a sound, the impact crater in the ash the only indication of his arrival.

They froze, conversation dying as they registered his presence.

Recognition rippled through them, not of him specifically, but of what he was. What he represented.

Death. Vengeance. Night itself given form.

"You touched what belongs to me," Azriel said, his voice so soft it seemed to absorb sound rather than create it.

They backed away instinctively, hands moving to weapons.

Too late. Far too late.

"We meant no offense to the Night Court," the antlered male stammered. "Our business was with the Lady of Autumn-"

"Your business," Azriel interrupted, each word carved from ice, "is now with me."

His shadows whipped forward, tasting the stains on the male's hands. They returned to their master with confirmation that sent golden light blazing from beneath his skin, so bright it cast harsh shadows across the burning wreckage.

Externally, Azriel remained perfectly still, not a muscle moving, not an expression changing.

But inside, where no one could see, the carefully constructed walls of five centuries crumbled to dust. The civilized being he had pretended to be, the controlled, disciplined shadowsinger, dissolved.

What remained was something ancient and merciless. Something that had existed long before Prythian, before High Lords and courts and politics.

A mated male whose mate had been harmed.

The antlered male saw the change happen in Azriel's eyes, watched hazel irises be consumed by molten gold that seemed to burn from within. He backpedaled, suddenly understanding the true danger.

"She's your-"

The words died in his throat as Azriel's shadows thickened around him, blocking out what little light remained. The rest of them scattered like leaves in a storm, primal instinct driving them to flee what they now recognized as death incarnate.

Azriel watched them run, head tilted slightly as his shadows mapped their escape routes, their breathing patterns, the tempo of their terrified heartbeats.

He memorized the specific cadence of the antlered male's footfalls, the one whose hands were stained with your blood.

His lips tilted into a sick smile.

He gave them a head start. Thirty seconds of desperate hope. Enough time for their lungs to burn with exertion, for their minds to imagine they might survive.

The antlered male reached the tree line first, glancing over his shoulder to see nothing but darkness behind him. Relief flickered across his features as he plunged into the forest, believing himself unseen.

Azriel's wings snapped open with a sound like distant thunder. He took to the air, a shadow among shadows, moving with the terrible patience of a predator who knows its prey cannot escape.

The male crashed through the underbrush, lungs heaving as he tried to put distance between himself and the burning estate. He paused at a small clearing, bending over to gasp for breath.

"I think we lost him," he wheezed to his companion. "Even the Night Court wouldn't risk war with Autumn by hunting us this far into their territory."

When no response came, he straightened and turned, only to find himself alone.

"Teren?" he called, voice barely above a whisper.

The forest fell silent.

Not the natural quiet of night, but the absolute stillness that comes when every living thing recognizes a superior predator in their midst. Even the insects ceased their songs.

Drawing his knife, the male turned in a slow circle. "Where are you?" he demanded, false bravado unable to mask the tremor in his voice.

A soft sound behind him, not quite a footfall, more like the settling of ash after a fire.

He whirled, knife extended.

Nothing.

Another sound, to his left. He pivoted again.

Empty air.

"Face me!" he shouted, panic rising as he realized he was being toyed with.

"As you wish."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, cold as midwinter frost. Before the male could move, shadows solidified directly before him, coalescing into Azriel's form. Not a wingspan away, close enough that the faerie could feel the unnatural chill radiating from his skin.

The knife slipped from nerveless fingers.

"Please," the fae breathed, "it was just a job. The Grove Elder paid for her capture, not her death. We didn't know she was mated-"

"You put your hands on her throat," Azriel interrupted, the words barely audible yet carrying perfectly in the still air. Through the bond, he could feel exactly where your bruises were forming, could trace the pattern of the male's fingers on your skin. "I felt her struggle to breathe."

"It was an accident," the fae pleaded. "We were supposed to take her alive. The arrow wasn't meant-"

"The arrow," Azriel echoed, his voice flat but his eyes flaring brighter. The bond throbbed in time with your wound, a phantom pain in his own shoulder that fed his rage.

With fluid grace, he closed the remaining distance between them.

Truth-Teller slid between the fae's ribs with surgical precision, angled upward to find his heart. The male gasped, eyes widening as he stared into Azriel's face.

"You tried to take my heart," Azriel whispered, the intimacy of his tone more terrifying than any shout. "I'll take yours as payment."

"Where is she?" Azriel asked, his voice gentle now, almost soothing as he twisted the blade slightly.

Blood bubbled at the faerie's lips as he struggled to form words. "Dawn," he choked out, the truth spilling from him along with his lifeblood. "Vanserra... taking her to... Dawn Court."

As the light faded from the male's eyes, Azriel felt a peculiar sensation through the bond, a distant easing of pain, as if some cosmic scale had been partially balanced by this death. Your unconscious recognition of vengeance exacted in your name.

He withdrew Truth-Teller with the same care with which he'd inserted it, lowering the body to the forest floor.

Blood, not yours, but blood shed for you, dripped from the blade's edge, each drop sizzling slightly where it touched the golden light still emanating from his skin.

"One," he whispered to the night.

His shadows twisted expectantly around him, carrying the scent of the remaining fae, five more who had dared to harm what was his.

Five more debts to collect before he flew to Dawn. To you.

The bond pulled tighter, urging him toward completion of both tasks. He could feel your pain even now, across the miles that separated you, the throbbing wound in your shoulder, the raw ache in your throat, the exhaustion of terror and flight.

Then he dissolved once more into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but a cooling corpse and the promise of five more to come.

Author’s Note:

Azriel said “emotional regulation is for the weak” and proceeded to unravel like a bloodstained tapestry. This chapter is feral, a little unhinged, and full of golden light and bad decisions. Thank you for loving these chaotic disaster soulmates as much as I do. 💀💛

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt

[sixbillicnsouls]

( ❛ ╾ @theirhorrorstories )

Lux knew she smelled another demon - a familiar scent, well familiar-ish. "I know you, or about you. You're the son of Aym, right? Wait, don't tell me.." The girl thought for a moment, "Lyle?"

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Glocking Out

Friday night should mean a cozy night in with a TV show and a bowl of ice cream. But instead, here I am, working late in the office, trying to finish a project to deliver to my boss by Monday morning. There’s no one else in the office, and when I finally finish up nearing midnight, the entire corporate building is empty, lights long dimmed.

I drag myself out of the building, ready to get home and collapse into bed to sleep for the entire weekend. The click of my heels is the only sound that rings through the night as I exit the elevator into the parking garage and let out a tired sigh into the quiet air.

I click my car fob and open my trunk as I approach the car, tossing my purse into the back and digging around to look for a pair of slippers to change into. I’m absolutely too tired to make the drive home in heels and the idea of fuzzy slippers around my feet is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

While I’m still bent over, buried head-first in my trunk, I suddenly feel a presence behind me. Before I can react, I feel the cold, hard press of metal against my back and the ominous click of a gun’s safety coming off. I freeze in terror and my throat pushes out a pathetic whimper of fear.

I hear a deep laugh echo around me and a man’s voice, “Stay still, princess. I’d hate to paint the inside of your trunk with your blood.” A big, warm hand presses against my spine, pushing me even further into the trunk while the gun digs uncomfortably against me.

I let out a choked gasp, “What do you want? Take my purse! I have cash, take whatever you want, please don’t hurt me!” My voice is shaky and I can feel tremors of fear wrack my body.

He laughs again. “Oh, princess, I don’t want money. But I will be taking whatever I want from you,” he purrs, the innuendo clear in his voice. His hand leaves my back to run down my body and he grips my ass hard before landing a harsh spank against me. I whine out a plea, “No! Please! Please, just let me go!”

“No can do, princess. A pretty little thing like you, all alone, in the middle of the night with no one around. It’s like you’re beckoning to me,” he growls as his hand continues to knead my ass over the skirt I’m wearing. Tears are in my eyes now as I stare blankly into my trunk, my face pressed against the rough car trunk mat.

Moments later, he threads a hand through my hair and grips me hard, pulling me out of the trunk and onto my feet. He spins me around and for the first time, I get a good look at him.

He’s huge, in both size and height, his massive frame towering over me. Even without the gun, he could probably break me easily, and that thought sends more fear slithering down my spine. His eyes are filled with a sadistic gleam that makes me want to curl up and hide. A harsh yank from his hand in my hair makes me cry out in pain and he leads me to the passenger side of the car.

“Get in the car and don’t do anything stupid. I’d hate to have to kill you before we have any real fun,” he says menacingly. I slide into the car on shaky legs and he slams the door shut. He makes his way to the driver side and without another word, he peels out of the parking garage.

A little while later, he pulls the car off the main road onto a tiny trail that I’d never even noticed before. Several minutes of random turns and paths in the pitch black forest that I would never be able to remember or identify bring us to a tiny little cabin. It would be quaint if it weren’t inhabited by the psychopath holding me at gunpoint.

He drags me out of the car, the gun never leaving my side and we step into the cabin. He herds me into the bedroom and the door clicks shut behind us. The room is awash in a soft yellow light and decorated in soft fall tones that, in any other circumstance, would be incredibly romantic.

He smiles with a sparkle in his terrifyingly sadistic eyes and a shiver runs down my spine. “Strip for me,” he says as he steps back to sit at the edge of the bed, gun still leveled at me.

I shake my head desperately, “No, please! Please, anything but that, please!”

He laughs at me, “Come on, pretty princess, I’m not a patient man. Either you strip for me or it gets ugly.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I blink them back. I glance towards the door, I’m closer to it than he is, maybe if I can surprise him, I can get out of the room before he gets a chance to stop me.

He sees my line of thinking and chuckles again. “You might outrun me but you can’t outrun a bullet, princess.”

His words land like a punch to my stomach and I look back at him with defeat. My shaky hands move to the buttons of my blouse as I comply with his initial request. He smiles.

I pull off my top and slide it off my shoulders before going to unzip my skirt and stand before him in my bra, panties, and stockings.

“Bra off, leave the rest on,” he says, his voice deep with desire. “Come here,” he commands, gesturing towards the floor between his legs with the gun.

I unclasp the bra and let it drop to the floor, where I fix my gaze. I pad towards him and stand in front of him for a moment before I lower myself down to my knees, my form fitting into his spread legs.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, princess. Such a good girl,” his deep voice sends shivers down my spine. I keep my gaze on the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with him. He doesn’t like that.

I feel the cold metal of the gun slide beneath my chin and I gasp as he raises my head with his gun. My wide eyes meet his and I see the satisfaction in his gaze as it locks onto mine. He leaves the gun against me as he jerks his chin downwards. “Take my cock out, princess.”

I glance down and see the outline of his hardness pressing against his pants. He looks huge. He sucks his teeth at me, “Come on, don’t keep me waiting now.”

My fingers shake as I undo his belt and the fastening on his pants before I reach in and pull his hard cock out. I let out a quiet whine when I see it. He is huge, tip already leaking precum and an angry shade of red that looks so mean. I shouldn’t be turned on by my attacker’s cock but I absentmindedly lick my lips and I catch the leer on his face that makes my thighs clench.

“You know what to do, princess,” he purrs, tangling his free hand into my hair. I give in and lean down to run my tongue gently along the vein that runs through his cock. He tastes divine, the clean smell of his skin combined with the warmth and weight of his cock in my mouth making my brain go fuzzy. I hear him groan above me, “That’s it, suck my cock, princess.”

I give him a few more kitten licks before I wrap my lips fully around the crown of his cock and suck. “Fuck,” his groan is guttural and his grip tightens on my hair. I moan softly around his cock and I feel him twitch in my mouth. I breathe in through my nose as I swallow more of his cock down my throat.

“Fuck, that’s it, good girl. Take my cock down your throat,” he groans and his fingers dig harshly into my scalp. I slowly work my way back up his cock and set a smooth rhythm, bobbing my head up and down and wrapping my hand around what doesn’t fit into my mouth. There’s a pleasant haze that surrounds me right now, his cock in my mouth and his fingers in my hair. I squirm a little on my knees, my pussy clenching as warmth settles into my core.

Suddenly, he yanks me off his cock without warning. I gasp and look up at him. “I want you to ride me,” he says, smirking at me and gesturing toward the bed with his gun. The gun that I’d almost forgotten about. Seeing it now sends another shock of fear through my body, pushing away some of the arousal from earlier.

He lays back onto the bed, sprawled out like a king, hard cock jutting out from between his legs. I absentmindedly clench my thighs together and I know he noticed because he laughs. “Come on, princess. I know you want to.”

I stand and slide my panties off before slipping onto the bed, slinging a leg over him to get situated. He stays still, watching me with a predatory look in his eye, gun now retrained on me. “That’s it, princess,” he purrs as I settle myself over him.

“Is your pretty pussy wet for me?” He asks. I want to lie and say no but it’s no use, I’m so wet I’m dripping all over him. I whimper and nod and he laughs again. “Better put that pussy to use then, come on, ride me, princess.”

I brace my hands against his chest and lower myself onto his cock. The delicious stretch of him filling me makes me whine and I dig my fingers into his chest. He moans at the feeling of my wet heat surrounding him and his hips come up to meet mine, forcing the last bit of his cock into me.

He feels so fucking good inside of me and every single cell of my body wants more. I let out a low moan as my hips start to move, every single movement making his cock rub up against my g-spot. “That’s it, ride my cock, princess.”

I let out a broken moan as my hips keep up their movements. My back arches and I let my eyes flutter closed as I lose myself in the sensations. Suddenly, I feel cold, hard metal brush against my clit and my eyes fly open with a cry.

I look down and my blood freezes when I see him, running the tip of the gun against my clit. He grins up at him, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. “Don’t stop now, princess. You’re doing so well, I’m gonna help you and play with this little clitty.”

I whimper as he pushes the gun harder against my sensitive, swollen nub, the friction making delicious shivers run up and down my spine.

“Come on, princess. You’re going to cum all over my cock while I rub your clit with my gun,” he says, each pass of the gun over my clit pushing me closer and closer to an orgasm.

The fear and pleasure mix into a dark combination that forces my body higher and higher. I can feel the cold metal of the gun warming against the burning heat of my cunt and every nerve in my body seems to be coiled tight as a spring. My hips are jerkily moving on top of him as I chase my own release.

Suddenly, he moves underneath me and slams him cock deeper into me while holding me down. I shatter with a wail as my pussy clenches around him. I hear his curse as his release quickly follows, his hips never stopping their relentless assault on me and the gun never moving off my clit as he fucks me through my orgasm.

Eventually, he pulls the gun away and I collapse down onto his chest, boneless and limp. I feel his fingers thread through my hair gently and his arm comes up to wrap around my body, keeping me pressed against his chest.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs into my hair as he presses soft kisses into the crown of my head. I make a soft noise back at him and I hear him laugh softly and affectionately.

I stay in his arms a little longer before I raise my head to look at him. “Thank you, honey,” I say before pressing a sweet kiss onto his chest.

He hugs me tighter, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I will say, you were in the office for so long, I was soooo bored waiting for you.”

I giggle at him, “If I’d known you were waiting, I would’ve finished faster.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, “Well I think I did a pretty good job helping you “glock�� out.” He waggles his eyebrows at me and I choke out a laugh.

“Shut up and sleep.”

—

pls appreciate the title because i thought of it and just had to write something to fit it teehee

[himasgod]

hello :3 i just discovered your blog, and your incredible! so i wanted to request smth for twisted wonderland! housewardens with a yuu who made music in their world & has stopped after coming to twisted wonderland? their genre is sad indie rock, like lana del ray or jeff buckley!! up to you how they find out! thank you for your time!!

Where they discover that you are a composer and singer of sad songs

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

How would the housewardens react if they somehow found out that in your world you were a writer and singer of sad indie songs, and that you stopped when you arrived in Twisted Wonderland?

It contains a bit of angst? Not too much, rather gentle. reader sings to express their feelings.

From the first day you arrived at NRC, you became a source of questions for Riddle. You weren't a troublemaker like Ace or Deuce. You didn't break the rules. But there was something that puzzled him: the way you looked at the world. As if you'd already lost everything.

Riddle noticed it when he accidentally heard you singing. It was one early morning, when he was returning to his dorm after an inspection. He found you sitting in the greenhouse, with an old guitar Cater had gotten for you. He was going to be furious, because he didn't know what you were doing out of your bedroom at that hour, but listened to you a little. The strings creaked a little, but your voice… it hurt. It was low, fragile. Like a silver thread about to snap.

“And if I ever loved, it was among the ruins, where no one listens and the sky falls…”

He froze in the doorway. Those lyrics weren't meant to be heard by just another student. They were pure confession. Riddle didn't know what to say and stepped back quietly. But from then on, he couldn't get you out of his mind.

Over time, he approached you. He asked about your world. About that music you no longer composed.

"Why did you stop composing?" he said to you one day, while you were drinking tea together in Heartslabyul.

"Because no one here wants to hear sad songs. They don't fit with the tea, the rules, or the cardboard smiles."

Riddle clutched his cup. He'd never cared about music, but with you, it was different.

"Maybe… you should break a rule," he murmured without looking at you.

It was the first time Riddle invited you to do something outside of protocol. Not because he wanted to break the rules, but because he couldn't stand seeing you suppress the only part of you that spoke without fear.

From then on, he let you use the greenhouse at night. And sometimes, just sometimes, he sat beside you and listened in silence.

Azul had always been a man of contracts and cold logic. But you… you caused him an inexplicable terror.

Not because you were dangerous. On the contrary. Because you were too honest.

In the lounge of the Mostro Lounge, you found an old dusty piano. You offered to play one quiet night, without customers. Azul accepted, thinking it would serve as a distraction for him.

He hadn't expected your songs to unearth emotions he'd sealed in the deepest corners of the ocean.

Your voice was like the sea currents that drag sunken ships.

“Everything you promised washed away with the tide… and yet, I stayed underwater waiting for you.”

Azul gulped after the first song. He didn't say anything. He just cleaned his glasses and returned to the lounge. But he started calling you more often, asking you to “practice” after closing time. He paid you with free drinks, even though you knew it wasn't for business.

It was because he wanted to hear you.

One day, while you were composing in a notebook by the aquarium, Azul approached and spoke to you, almost breathless:

"I don't understand how you can be so vulnerable without fearing being destroyed."

"Because I've been broken before. Singing is the only way I have to rebuild myself."

Azul looked at you as if you were an impossible-to-categorize creature. He wanted to understand you, he wanted to protect you…

And at the same time, he was afraid that your songs would start talking about him.

Because if you ever dared to write about Azul Ashengrotto… he knew he wouldn't be able to hide.

Leona had no patience for sentimentality. Or so he said.

When he met you, you were “that strange person who doesn't talk much and spends her time in the gardens singing depressing things.”

But over time, your melodies began to follow him, even during his naps.

Your voice drifted through the sands, like a memory he didn't want to recall.

“If the sun never rises again, promise me you'll sleep with me, among the rubble of what we once were…”

He didn't say it, but he listened. Always. And one day, after a grueling workout, he sat next to you under a tree. He didn't say anything at first. He just closed his eyes and let you sing.

“Why do you sing those things?” he asked you later, without opening his eyes.

“You seem to be carrying the weight of the world on you.”

“Because it's the only thing I have left of home. My songs were my refuge. Here… I feel like they no longer have any meaning.”

Leona looked at you then, without mockery, without annoyance. For the first time, seriously.

"You don't need a reason to keep doing what you love. The world is shitty enough without taking that away from us too."

And in that instant, without warning, he leaned against your shoulder.

As if he, too, needed a refuge.

From then on, Leona never asked you to stop singing. On the contrary, he sought you out when he needed silence. Not from outside, but from within. Because your voice, though sad, calmed him.

And when, finally, you wrote a song about him, he didn't stop you. He just closed his eyes and listened to the end. And when you finished, he murmured:

"Stay. Even if you don't sing anymore… stay."

Vil found you by accident. A recording of yours was playing in the music club. A lost file someone had rescued from an old MP3 player. When your voice resonated through the speakers, everyone fell silent. Even Rook.

“They sold me dreams in perfume bottles… but they smelled of goodbye from the start.”

Vil stood there, motionless. No one knew it was your voice.

No one except him.

He confronted you that same afternoon. Not with anger but with an unusually serious interest.

"Why didn't you tell me you wrote things like that?"

"Because everything here is for show. And my music isn't."

Vil pursed his lips, as if you'd spoken a truth he didn't want to admit. He, who lived among filters and perfection, felt your lyrics cruelly but necessarily strip him bare.

"Your songs don't need any lights. They're authentic. Brutal, even. But why let them die in this world just because they don't fit in?"

Over time, he offered you something he never offered anyone else: emotional honesty. He listened to your lyrics before anyone else, in private. Sometimes he criticized technical details, but never the soul behind them.

And when you wrote a song inspired by his constant struggle to maintain his perfect image, Vil said nothing for a long time. Finally, he murmured:

"That part where you say 'being beautiful hasn't saved me from emptiness'… it hurts. Because it's true."

From then on, he allowed you to sing for him after his private shows. Not for others. For him.

For Idia, sadness has always been a constant, like a wallpaper you don't even notice anymore. That's why, when he happened to hear one of your old recordings—filed nameless in a corner of the computer system—he thought someone else had hacked his soul.

“I'm still here, even if no one looks for me… like a dead star that still shines in the darkness.”

Idia was scared. Literally.

He avoided you for days. Not because he didn't like you. But because your music made him feel exposed. As if you were reading his darkest thoughts without asking permission.

But one day, he left you an anonymous note along with some headphones and a recording of himself.

“I'm not a poet or a singer, but this is what your music made me feel. Sorry if it's garbage.”

It was a distorted, glitchy sound file, full of static… but in the background, there was your voice, mixed with his, singing a phrase of yours:

“If you get lost, I'll wait for you in the void.”

From that moment on, a strange connection was born between you. You never spoke much in person, but he would send you remixes of your own songs, text you comments, and ideas for new lyrics. Sometimes you would share lyrics without a melody, and he would send you back sounds that felt like digital wails.

And although Idia would never admit to crying to one of your songs… he did save one in his “life.exe” folder.

Kalim was the sun. You were the rain. But for some reason, he kept looking for you.

The first time he heard you sing, he was organizing a party in Scarabia. It was all noise, laughter, and colors. Until you sat down at the piano unbidden.

“Happiness slips through my fingers, like sand underwater…”

The party didn't stop, but something changed. Kalim watched you as if he'd just discovered the sky could cry, too.

After that, he searched for you constantly. He asked you about every lyric, every note, every unspoken tear.

"Did you always feel all that? Even when you smile?"

"Smiling doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, Kalim."

He didn't fully understand, but he wanted to. He started reading your notebooks. Learning your silences. Inviting you to play in more intimate moments, away from the hustle and bustle. Even though he was cheerful, Kalim never made fun of your sadness. On the contrary, he embraced you with all the tenderness he possessed.

"Maybe I don't write sad songs," he told you one day.

"But if you need them to breathe, I want to be there to listen to each one."

And secretly, he began to compose little melodies for you. Poorly written. Out of tune. But made from the heart.

Malleus didn't quite understand the music of your world. At first, he thought it was a strange form of spell. How could a melody have so much power… without magic?

The first time he heard you sing was in a secluded corner of Diasomnia, an old tower with some gargoyles, where you went to avoid being disturbed.

“I am the last word in a story no one wanted to finish…”

Malleus said nothing. He just watched you from the shadows, as if you were a ritual he shouldn't interrupt.

Days later, he appeared before you.

"Your music reminds me of the voice of time, human. Sad. Irreversible."

It surprised you that someone like him understood something so human. But he did. Malleus understood loneliness. Isolation. The feeling of being eternal in a world that ends too soon.

"Why don't you sing so much anymore?" he asked you one night in the rain.

"Because I feel like there's no one who truly listens here."

Malleus approached, slowly, taking your hand.

"I listen. And every word of yours stays engraved in me like a spell. Don't deprive me of that magic."

From then on, he invited you to sing under the stars. Just for him. Because in you, Malleus found something that not even power could give him: a truth that wouldn't disguise itself.

A sadness that wouldn't hide.

And when one day you cried between verses, Malleus simply embraced you with his arms. You were not alone anymore.

[adreamofsilk]

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