#He was supposed to be struck by something (i think it was a chain??? but he wasn't aware and he thought

[luxurysystems]

Do you remember the day I saved you?

[lixzey]

Letters.

The Tenth Letter.

warnings: mentions of depression

Timothée was about to open the tenth letter, when he heard the sound of pattering on the roof and the sound of thunder roaring in the distance. He chuckled, another rainy day in New York. 

Maybe it was instinct that he wanted to protect this girl—or maybe it was something else. Maybe he was falling? Maybe he was actually falling for this mysterious girl. Timothée sighed, before opening the tenth letter, dated July 31st.

Dear Timothée, 

It's raining.

It's the kind of rain that makes you think of flash floods and Noah's ark. The kind that makes you want to wear your fluffiest sweater and socks and crawl into bed under the sheets where it's warm and safe. It calms me, it makes me feel safe and sound. The way the lighting comes after the booming thunder, little kids would get scared—fearing that they'd get struck by lightning—but for me, it's relaxing. 

What about you? Are you scared of thunder?

Timothée chuckled. What are the odds of reading the letter in the same weather? The probability of it was impossible, but here he was, reading the letter while the rain poured outside. 

The chances of getting struck by lightning are one to a million. That's the sort of thing that you'd hear on the news and you'd thank God that it wasn't you, but at the same time you'd feel bad.

Kind of like depression, really. You'd never expect it to be you. No one does. But the ugly truth is, a lot of people suffer from it and the majority of us are blissfully ignorant about it. When a person says they're depressed, they'd tell that person to suck it up and just move on—that there are people suffering worse than you. Invalidating their feelings, they bottle it up. Until one day, they explode. And at the end, when all is said and done, they're gonna be sorry because they didn't listen. People are treating depression like some sort of joke. Even when there's the Mental Health awareness, people look at depressed people like clowns. 

It's a chain reaction, really. Sharp words like knives cutting a person down, not thinking if that person is hurting, and all ending with a heart full of hatred against the world. And then what? That person feels unworthy—a waste of space, which ends up in doing things one shouldn't. 

“It's not your fault, none of it is.” 

But why does it feel like it is? Like I'm the catalyst for all the bullshit. The weight of it all is crushing me.

I'm haunted by the past, present, and future. I want to tell you, but I'm afraid someone else could read it. If you could just look into my mind, Timothée. 

You would see how the world treated me like shit. You would see every fucking thing that made me like this. 

Every night, I'd write a letter to you. Wondering if you'd ever get any of my letters. If you're listening, if you understand me. You said in an interview, “Love yourself for who you are and whoever you are, I'm gonna love you too. And when you suffer in life, suffer appropriately. And if you feel bad, that's fine! Just don't beat yourself up for feeling bad.” 

Am I delusional for thinking you'll love me? Based on what you said? Who am I kidding? I don't love myself. 

You're not going to love me. 

I've been suffering for too long and I've been feeling bad for half my life—beating myself up for it. 

If by some miracle, the pain goes away…..

Joke's on me. 

It's supposed to be fun, turning twenty one. 

All my love,

Y/N. 

Timothée felt an unsettling pit in his stomach. He prayed that Y/N was okay, and whatever she planned—he wished she didn't do. 

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was the private investigator he hired. Timothée sighed, hoping for good news. “Yes?” 

“I have a lead on the girl you're looking for, Mr. Chalamet. An address.”

The young actor nearly jumped on his bed in excitement. Timothée finally had an address. He could finally look for Y/N. Timothée quickly scrambled around his room, packing clothes and basic necessities—money, cards, and his passport—along with Y/N's letters. 

All eighteen letters. Ten opened, eight still sealed.  

Timothée stared at the photo in his wallet—the beautiful girl who he wanted so much to find. 

“I'm on my way, Y/N. Hold on, I'm coming.” 

@lovemelikecrazyiloveyoucrazy @helens3amstuff @gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl

[mothfables]

Snail Ch. 3: Doctors Knew Before I Did

The Chain has their first monster battle with little Legend. Also, Wind joins Sky in Legend’s list of trusted people.

Wind is staring.

He knows it’s rude, but he can’t help it! Seeing the Veteran, usually so confident and self-assured, now so quiet, frightened even, is strange.

...Though, he supposes he’d be scared too if he was suddenly small and surrounded by strangers.

But they’re not strangers to him, not really! Which is good, because he’s not sure what they’d do if little Legend didn’t remember them at all. Try really really hard to prove they’re not going to hurt him, probably, going off of his reaction when he first saw them.

—————————

Wind hadn’t known what to think when it happened — only that one moment their Veteran was there and the next he wasn’t. Seeing him so small had set off his protective instincts something fierce, though, and he’d torn into the monsters going after his suddenly-defenseless brother. He wasn’t alone in that, either; Twilight, Wars, and even Hyrule were especially vicious in their efforts to reach him.

And then the monsters were gone and they’d barely gotten a glimpse of him before he disappeared into the trees faster than Wind could blink.

When Sky brings him back Wind finds himself shocked. Legend is tiny and timid and shy, clinging to the older hero in a way older Legend wouldn’t be caught dead doing. He’s even smaller than Four, somehow.

At least he seems to trust Sky. The Chosen is hard not to, honestly, with his kind face and soft demeanor. If it were to be anyone out of their group to gain little Legend’s trust, it would be him.

They all introduce themselves at Sky’s prompting and Wind watches his newly-little brother closely. He’s worried about what’s going through that ever-busy mind, violet eyes flicking between them with a wariness he’s only ever seen when facing dangerous enemies. The boy spooks badly when Warriors and Time speak up, little ears pressing flat against his head and eyes going wide-wide-wide. When it’s his turn, Wind makes sure to keep his body language loose and unthreatening, despite how much he feels like vibrating out of his own skin; it seems to help because Legend untenses just the slightest bit. Wind takes it as a victory.

And then: “‘m Legend. I know you.”

Things get very loud very fast. Wind doesn’t look away from Legend and so he sees the way he cowers into Sky, little shoulders hiking up to his ears and hands clenching the older hero’s pants in tiny fists as he trembles and hides his face. Wind is struck by how much he looks like Aryll when she’s scared or overwhelmed, clinging to Granny or himself for comfort.

He watches as Sky murmurs to Legend, trying to figure out what’s wrong. He’s about to step forward and see if he can help when Sky straightens, snapping his fingers to gain everyone’s attention before signing ‘QUIET!!!’

Amazingly, it works. They all promptly shut up and turn to the Chosen Hero and the child plastered to his side. Sky is glaring fiercely, one hand petting soft pink hair and the other resting protectively against a small back.

Time steps forward, kneeling so as to be closer to Legend’s current eye level. The boy peeks out at him for a moment before hiding his face again. Wind catches a glimpse of teary eyes and pale cheeks and feels that surge of protectiveness again. Legend shouldn’t ever have to look like that; he’ll do whatever it takes to keep that look away from his brother’s face in the future.

Time asks Legend about what he remembers and- oh, yeah, that’s probably a good thing to know. His stuttered answer has more than one of them wincing. Wind sneaks a glance around and sees Four muttering ‘...jumbly?’ with a confused expression. Wild looks especially distressed and Wind recalls suddenly the Champion’s own memory issues.

Right.

This would be uncomfortably familiar to Wild, wouldn’t it. Wind makes a note to check on him later, or at least point Twilight in his direction if he can’t do it himself.

And then Sky is kneeling down and drawing Legend into a hug. He leans into it without complaint, still obviously overwhelmed and confused and upset. Sky rocks side to side, and to Wind’s amazement Legend calms almost instantly, tucking his face into Sky’s neck with a sigh.

Sky remains there for a few more moments, humming softly and petting his hair. Then he stands and hoists Legend onto her hip with a grunt. Legend doesn’t react beyond a small sound and nestling closer.

“Oof, he’s- really light, actually.” Sky blinks in surprise.

Twilight chuckles, though it sounds a little strained. “Kids’re either lighter or heavier than ya expect. Don’t worry too much ‘bout it.”

“If you say so.” Sky looks doubtful but doesn’t argue. She glances at Time where he still kneels on the ground. “We should probably get moving. I don’t want anything else coming along and taking us by surprise.”

Their leader nods and pushes himself to his feet, groaning. Wind has to bite his lip to muffle a snicker. Old Man indeed.

“Let’s find a place off the road to settle down for the night. We can figure what out to do from there. Does everyone have everything?” There’s a chorus of assent.

“Wait!” Sky gasps. “Does anyone have Legend’s things? I don’t remember seeing them when he ran off.”

There’s a moment where they all scramble to look around for them before Wild speaks up. “I grabbed them after you went after him. His weapons and jewelry and everything are all in the Slate.”

Sky sighs in relief.

“Alright, that’s good to hear. Thank you for doing that, Wild.” With a nod, Time sets off down the road in the direction they were going before everything went to shit and the rest of them follow after. Sky stays in the middle of the group, Legend secure in his arms. Everyone else sticks close, keeping an eye out for more danger.

Wind walks next to Sky, sneaking glances every so often, so he’s able to see how Legend clings tight to the older hero, how he keeps his face hidden. Over time he relaxes and seems to fall into a doze, only to startle awake when someone starts to speak. His ears - which are so small! but still very long, which is something Wind’s noticed to be unique to him - flicker uneasily, listening intently to everything around him. Nothing happens for a few minutes and he relaxes again. Then someone else opens their mouth and the cycle repeats.

Eventually they find a place to stop for the night. Camp is set and dinner is eaten without much conversation. Legend doesn’t once let go of Sky.

It’s only once the boy has fallen into an uneasy sleep that someone speaks up.

“...So, what do we do about this?” Four is the one to break the silence. “Do we let it run it’s course? Or do we try to break or reverse it somehow?”

“Do we even have anything that could undo something like this?” Warriors asks.

“Well, I have my moon pearl, but it’s meant to protect you while in the Dark World or from dark magic. Like Twilight’s shadow chrystal,” they explain at Wars’ questioning look. “I know for a fact Legend always keeps his on him, so it should have protected him if it was that sort of magic.”

Twilight’s guilty wince goes unnoticed by all except Sky and Wind. He watches as she narrows her eyes, glancing between the Rancher and the child in her lap before they go wide in realization. Wind frowns; there’s definitely a story there.

Meanwhile, Hyrule is looking closely at Legend from their place beside Sky, brows furrowed. Their head tilts as they mutter under their breath. Wind, sitting on their other side, can barely make out the words spell, curse, natural magic, and twist, maybe? When they pause to take a breath Wind nudges them with his shoulder.

“Got anythin’ ya want ta share, Traveler?”

Hyrule startles before stammering, “O-oh! Uh, I was just- trying to figure out what exactly, um- caused this?” His voice rises in uncertainty.

“That would be good to know,” Wars says, nodding. “What have you got so far?”

Hyrule hums. “It’s- Well, I think it was originally supposed to be a dark spell? Or some sort of curse, maybe.”

Four narrows his eyes at the phrasing. “‘Supposed to be’? So you’re saying it... changed somehow? How would that happen?”

“I’m not sure, but...” Hyrule bites his lip. “His natural magic might have- I dunno, caught it and... twisted it, is the closest thing I can think of. Or maybe some of his items; they’re filled with enough magic to cause a pretty significant rebound.”

“Perhaps it was a mix of both,” Time muses. “The Veteran does carry a large array of powerful items. It’s possible that something in his inventory had some sort of reaction to whatever it was that was intended to hit him.”

It’s quiet for a moment as everyone takes that in. Then Legend snuffles against Sky’s shoulder and Wind has to bite back a coo.

“You must admit, he’s pretty cute like this,” Wars mutters, like he doesn’t intend for anyone to hear. Wind can hear him just fine, and makes it clear by agreeing loudly enough that Wars gives him the stink-eye from across the fire.

“Yeah, he is, isn’t he? Reminds me o’ Aryll when she was little.”

Wars coughs. “So... Do we have anything that could reverse this?”

Twilight hums for a moment before snapping his fingers. “When I got changed t’ the wolf fer the first time, I had ta use the Master Sword ta reverse it. Think tha’ would work here, Sky?”

Sky chews her lip, absentmindedly running a hand through Legend’s hair as she stares at the fire. “It... might,” she says finally, though it sounds unsure. “If- Fi is made to dispel dark... If what Hyrule said is true and Legend’s magic changed it... It might do nothing. Or it might make it worse.” Time flinches imperceptibly. “Since his memory was so affected by the initial change, I’m worried what trying to undo it might do.”

It’s silent for a while after that. Everyone wants Legend to be okay, of course, but if it’s at the cost of his memories...

“I think...” Hyrule starts quietly, like they’re thinking through the words as he says them, “it might be best if we let this run its course. Or at least wait and see how things go before trying to change him back.”

“I agree. Memories are- delicate.” Wild speaks up. “If we can keep him from losing any or messing them up any more than they are, we should do our best to do that.”

No one objects. After a moment Time clears his throat.

“I suppose we are all in agreement, then? We’ll see how things go and use the Master Sword only if necessary?” There’s various sounds of agreement around the fire. Time lets out a breath before slapping his knees and pushing to his feet.

“I suggest we all get some rest, then. Today was... eventful, to say the least. There’s no telling what tomorrow will bring, and we would do well to be prepared. Captain, would you mind taking first watch?”

With that, they all set about their normal nightly routine. Well... almost normal. It’s oddly quiet without Legend’s standard sarcastic quips and snark, even if he doesn’t always say anything. Just his presence is enough to fill the space.

Now that space is occupied by a tiny, shy shadow of the Veteran’s usual self.

—————————

The night passes without any more incidents. Wind wakes the next morning having almost forgotten the events of yesterday, and thus does a double take at the sight of Sky curled around a tiny body, the only part visible a tuft of soft pink hair.

Everyone else is in various stages of awake and gathered around the fire pit. They’re doing a good job of more-or-less minding their own business, though every so often someone will glance over at the lump of blankets containing the Chosen Hero and his charge.

Wild finishes breakfast and is in the process of handing it out when there’s a quiet snuffling sound from the direction of the bedrolls. Everyone looks over in time to witness little Legend sneeze himself awake. It’s nothing like the Vet’s usual muffled sneezes- these are tiny and squeaky and altogether the cutest sound Wind has ever heard.

(Can a sound be cute? ...Y’know what, who cares? This one definitely is.)

The sudden sneezing fit has the bonus effect of waking Sky, who bolts upright with a snort, freeing Legend from the cuddly trap of his arms. The boy tumbles out of the blankets, blinks, and sneezes again.

“Bless you,” Time says mildly.

Wind can’t help himself and coos. “Is it weird ta say that that’s my new favourite sound in any world ever?”

“I wuz gunna say yeah but tha’ is pretty cute,” Twilight agrees.

Sky stumbles to his feet with a yawn. Wild waves at her and she makes her way over to join the rest of them around the fire. Legend quickly follows, latching on to her shirt with little hands. She pauses for a moment at the action, blinking down at him in surprise before shaking it off.

She plops down between Wind and Twilight, giving them a sleepy nod in greeting that they return. Legend hesitates to follow; when she tries to encourage him to sit he takes one look at the Rancher and shies away.

Twilight immediately looks as if his heart has been torn out of his chest and stomped on in front of him. He watches forlornly as Legend inches around behind Sky to her other side.

“Here, I got you.” As if it’s second nature, Sky reaches over and lifts the boy up to set him in her lap. Legend squeaks and goes still, eyes wide with surprise.

It takes a moment for the realization of what she just did to set in, and then Sky is stammering apologies. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable-!”

His frantic rambling is brought to a halt as Legend curls up against him with a little hum. His hands hover uncertainly before he lets out a breath and wraps them around the small body in his lap. Legend nestles closer with a content sound.

Quiet footsteps have the older hero glancing up to see Wild coming over, a bowl in each hand. He holds them out with a small smile. “I made oatmeal. I didn’t know if you or Legend wanted anything in yours, so I left it plain. There’s stuff to add to it if you want.”

Sky takes them with a quiet ‘thank you’. He nudges Legend until he looks up and hands him a bowl. “Wild wants to know if you want anything in yours,” he tells him.

Legend stares down at his bowl for a few moments, biting his lip, before he looks up with a shy expression. “Um, I like- I like apples. With cinnamon,” he says quietly.

Wild smiles. “I can do that.”

It’s short work for the Champion to produce and slice an apple from his slate and sprinkle it with cinnamon. He arranges the slices on a small plate and hands it to Legend with another smile.

It’s received with an answering smile and a brightening of violet eyes at the first bite. Legend gives a happy little hum, swaying side to side as he eats. Within minutes both the plate and bowl are picked clean.

The rest of them finish their own breakfast soon after and move to get ready for the day ahead. Legend does his best to help; it’s clear he’s having trouble adjusting to being small again while his brain tells him he should be bigger. Still, he’s stubborn.

Eventually camp is packed up and the Chain sets out. Legend clings to Sky’s hand, trotting alongside him as they walk.

Wind stays close like he did yesterday, chattering up a storm. Legend doesn’t respond much, but that’s okay. He just wants to keep his brother from getting lost in his own head. It seems to work as the boy perks up and doesn’t stick quite so close to Sky.

By the time lunchtime nears, however, Legend is flagging. He refuses all offers to carry him, though, no matter who asks. Over time, he drifts to the back of the group, stumbling tiredly but still stubbornly staying on his own two feet. His hand is still tight in Sky’s.

He stumbles again and Sky makes a worried noise. “Are you sure you don’t want a break? No one would mind-”

“I can do it on my own,” Legend growls. Or, well, Wind is pretty sure that’s what he’s aiming for but it comes out as a tired, mumbled whine. “I managed fine on all my other adventures.” He pulls his hand out of Sky��s.

The older hero looks saddened by the action and Wind feels the same. Legend is so little, like this, and he’s claiming he doesn’t need any help, even though he’s so clearly exhausted. Still, if he doesn’t want help they can’t force it on him. They know from experience it would only end badly.

Up ahead, Twilight pauses, ears flicking as he glances around. “Ah’m hearin’ monsters in th’ woods,” he warns. “Dunno where ‘xactly, but we best be careful.”

“You heard the man, keeps your eyes out for anything that could signal an attack,” Wars calls back to the rest of them.

A few minutes pass and the road stays quiet. Legend falls further and further behind. Wind hears him stumble again and exchanges a worried glance with Sky.

“If he falls I don’t care if he doesn’t want to be carried. I’m picking him up.”

“I’ll help,” Wind offers.

Another stumble and a gasp sound from behind them.

“Okay, that’s it.” Sky turns around. “Lege, I know you don’t want-” He cuts off with a horrified sound.

“Legend!”

Wind whips around to see Legend high off the ground in the grip of a huge moblin. The boy kicks and struggles but he may as well be fighting a rock for all the good it does; the monster, completely unfazed, gives him a hearty shake. Legend yelps as his head snaps back at the force of it and Wind feels his heart stop.

Suddenly an arrow whizzes overhead to embed itself in the monster’s eye. It howls with pain and drops Legend who falls to the ground with a sharp crack!

Sky is there in the next moment, scooping Legend off the ground and slicing the moblin in half in a single movement. He bolts back to the safety of the group with Legend clutched tightly to his chest.

The boy is clutching his left wrist in a vice grip, face pale.

Monsters pour from the trees on either side of the path, blades and teeth glinting and sharp. Wind notes moblins and bokoblins mostly, with a few lizalfos for good measure. They don’t even have the good grace to be from the same era.

Fun.

There’s too many to fight as a group so they split, Warriors barking orders and the rest of them hurrying to follow. Wind blinks and finds himself backed against the treeline with little Legend trembling next to him. Biting his lip, Wind glances around.

The monsters are all in front of him. Now that they’ve launched their attack they don’t seem to care about using the trees to their advantage anymore.

He can work with that.

“Lege, can you climb?” A shaky nod. “Okay, climb one o’ the trees behind us an’ stay there til the fight’s over, ‘kay?”

Legend looks like he wants to protest but a sudden snarl sends him scurrying for the closest trunk. Wind ducks a blow and watches him clamber up surprisingly quickly to crouch on a large branch with his uninjured hand over his mouth and the other tucked to his chest.

The sailor takes that as his cue to start slashing at the monsters surrounding him. He dodges one and stabs another before rolling to avoid a spear jabbing into the ground where his leg was a moment before.

He jumps and slashes, stabs and rolls, all the while doing his best to keep the monsters away from the tree where his little brother is hiding.

A lizalfos keeps him busy for a few minutes before he manages to cut its tail off, making it shriek and flail. Wind finishes it off with a stab through the chest.

Then it’s just a few more bokoblins, thankfully none of which are black-blooded. He manages to take them down relatively quickly while avoiding serious injury himself before turning to check on the rest of his brothers and catch his breath.

Time is engaged with a moblin from Wild’s time on the other side of the path. He seems to be doing fine- with a swing of his sword he lops off one of its arms then bisects it as it howls.

Twilight and Warriors are tag-teaming a pack of bokoblins. One darts in to distract while the other strikes from the side or behind. Together they make quick work of the monsters before turning to find more opponents.

Similarly, Four and Wild are wreaking havoc nearby - Wind winces as he hears the by-now-familiar sound of a sword shattering and Four yelling.

He can’t find Hyrule but he does see Sky, slicing through monster after monster with deadly efficiency.

Soon all the monsters are nothing but dust and the heroes move to regather in the center of the path. Injuries are made note of to take care of once they make camp unless they’re urgent; Wind himself only has a few minor scrapes and bruises, thanks to that darn lizalfos.

He turns back to the tree where Legend is still hiding, holding out his arms with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “All th’ monsters are gone. D’ya want help gettin’ down?”

A nod. Legend shuffles to the edge of the branch and lets his legs dangle over the side, looking apprehensively between the ground and where Wind stands waiting, biting his lip. The sailor is patient and waits for him to make up his mind, knowing the other boy never does well when pushed. After a minute Legend shoves himself off the branch, making Wind yelp and nearly dive to catch him before he hits the ground. He holds his little brother close to his chest as he tries to catch his breath, feeling him cling back just as tightly.

“Let’s um- l-let’s not do tha’ again... yeah?”

Wind feels him nod shakily, pressing closer and gripping at his shirt as he trembles.

Wars calls over from where he’s doing after-battle checks. “Wind, you okay over there?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, all good!” He hefts the small body in his arms only to freeze at a sudden pained yelp. “Woah woah, what’s wrong?!”

Legend whimpers and tries to push away, forcing Wind to hold him tighter so he doesn’t drop him. He lets out another pained noise and Wind suddenly remembers the sound he made when the moblin dropped him. He curses and hurries back to where their brothers wait, looking worried.

“Wars, can ya take a look at ‘is arm? He hurt it real bad when th’ moblin dropped ‘im.”

The Captain is already hurrying over, medical bag in hand.

“Set him down, let me see,” he demands as he gets closer. Wind goes to obey but Legend won’t let go. Instead, he presses closer despite his earlier attempts to get down. The nearer Wars draws the more Legend tries his best to meld into Wind’s torso.

The sailor eventually elects to just sit down and hold him in his lap. He wraps his arms around the smaller boy, tight enough to keep him from wriggling away but loose enough he’s not squishing him.

Legend quiets but continues to watch Warriors warily. As the older hero kneels down before them Wind feels him press back against his chest as though trying to hide.

Wars moves slowly and gently, obviously trying not to upset him any further. He doesn’t touch Legend; instead he says softly, “Hey there, bud. Wind told me you hurt your arm when you fell. Is it alright if I take a look at it?”

Legend takes a shaky breath and hesitantly nods. He doesn’t move, though. Wars stays where he is, waiting for him to decide what he wants to do.

It takes another minute before Legend slowly, slowly extends his left arm towards Warriors. The captain gently takes his wrist to inspect it, politely ignoring the flinch it causes. He pushes Legend’s sleeve back and moves his wrist back and forth a few times, pressing lightly to test the bones. Wind can see it beginning to swell already and suppresses a wince.

“It’s broken, alright,” is the diagnosis.

Wars reaches into his bag and pulls out a roll of bandages to wrap Legend’s wrist with, telling him what he’s doing the whole time in a soft voice. He pauses to grab a sturdy stick, breaks it in half, and uses that to hold the limb in place. Then he finishes wrapping it, taking care to keep his movements slow.

For his part, Wind does his best to keep his little brother calm - keeping his arms around him in a hug, rubbing his uninjured arm, even pressing a kiss to his hair when he lets out a muffled whimper at the pain. He thinks it helps.

When he finishes wrapping Legend’s wrist Wars pulls out a red potion and instructs him to sip it slowly. When it’s about halfway empty he takes it back and hands it to Wind, who downs it without complaint. “We’ll leave your wrist wrapped for now, let the potion do it’s job. I’ll check on it again tomorrow, okay?”

He waits for Legend to nod before standing and making his way back to the others. Sky immediately takes his place, looking over first Legend and then Wind worriedly. She doesn’t crowd, though, well aware of Legend’s dislike of it.

“We’re alright, Sky,” Wind reassures. “Wars took care of it.”

“I know,” she sighs, moving to sit next to them. “I’m just worried. That was scary.”

Wind nods. It was really scary; seeing Legend in the hands of that moblin, watching him fall, the crack! as his wrist broke... the fact he’d hardly made a noise the entire time...

It’s a relief when the call to get moving comes. Wind stumbles to his feet and moves to hand Legend over to Sky only for the boy to cling to his shirt with a whine. Exchanging a glance with Sky, he tries again but Legend only clings tighter, burying his head against his collarbone.

“Come on, let’s go!” Twilight calls. “We’re gunna try ta get as far as we can afore it gets dark!”

With Legend clinging to Wind like a limpet he shares one last look with Sky before following after the rest of their brothers.

Thankfully it seems the fight will be the only excitement for the day. The rest of the walk is quiet- well, as quiet as it gets with a group like theirs, anyway.

More than once Wind is asked, mostly jokingly, if he’d rather let someone else carry Legend. He just huffs and continues walking.

“I do have a little sister, y’know,” he reminds them. “I can carry a kid for a while.” Besides, Legend chose him, he’s his responsibility!

He catches Twilight pouting at that but gracefully decides not to mention it. The Rancher will get his turn when he gets his turn, no need to whine about it.

Everyone is still a little wound up from the fight, so instead of stopping for lunch like they’d planned Wild hands out skewers to eat as they walk. Wind eats his fish skewer in record time so he can hold the fruit skewer Wild pulled out for Legend.

It’s eaten slowly, interrupted by the occasional sniffle. Wind doesn’t judge him for it; a broken wrist is nothing to laugh at, especially at his age.

—————————

By the time they call it a day Wind’s arms and shoulders are sore. Carrying a kid for so long is no easy feat, but he’d refused to give in and hand Legend over to someone else, only shifting him to his other hip to give his arm a break. The kid in question had fallen asleep sometime after lunch, resting his head on Wind’s shoulder and his hair tickling his cheek.

Camp is made in a clearing a little ways off the path. Wind drops down on a log with a sigh, ready to rest after such a long day. Sky joins him with a yawn and Wind muffles a laugh.

“How is he?” the older hero asks quietly, glancing at Legend where he’s curled into the sailor’s shoulder.

“I think th’ fight an’ everythin’ wore ‘im out,” he murmurs back. “Breakin’ his wrist didn’t help either.” A though occurs to him then and he straightens to look at his brother.

“Sky, earlier when Wars came over an’ set his wrist...” he begins slowly. “Lege got all scared. I-I know he doesn’t like knights- um, big Lege that is. Do you... d’you think it’s somethin’ he remembers from when he was bigger, or-?”

He doesn’t want to finish, doesn’t want to consider what the alternative might mean.

Sky pales as the implication of Wind’s words hit him. “I- I don’t know-”

He’s interrupted by the subject of their conversation stirring awake, blinking open bleary violet eyes. There’s a moment before those eyes settle on Sky. Legend stares for a heartbeat before lifting his hand and giving a small wave.

Sky returns it then clears his throat. “Hey, chick, can I... can I ask you something?”

Legend blinks but nods. Sky gives a wan smile.

“Alright. This... this is a hard question, so don’t force yourself to answer it, okay?” Another nod, this one less sure. “Okay. Wind told me you got scared when Warriors fixed up your wrist earlier. Can you- could you tell me why?”

Legend takes a sharp intake of breath, opening and closing his mouth a few times before biting his lip and shoving his face against Wind’s chest.

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to answer that if it’s too hard. It’s okay-”

“I don’t like knights,” comes the answer, quiet but capturing everyone’s attention nonetheless. “They chase me. They’re bad.” A sniffle. “They used t’ be good but then A-Agahnim cast a spell that made them think I ki-kidnapped th’ pr’ncess even though I didn’t. Th-they didn’t listen when I told them I didn’t do it. Zelda an’ me fixed it after I beat Ganon bu’ then Yuga came an’ made ‘em bad again.”

Wind feels like he’s going to be sick. He knew his brother held a strong distaste for knights, but to know this was why... He swallows and looks away only to see his own horror reflected back at him on his brothers’ faces.

Warriors especially looks stricken.

“This... Agahnim... is he still-? What happened to him?” Time asks. His face has that pinched look it gets when he’s trying not to let his anger get the better of him.

Legend’s voice is numbed and dull when he replies. “He’s dead. I killed him.”

There’s a choking sound. “I- I’m sorry, you what? How old were you?!” Wars sounds almost desperate, like he’s begging the answer won’t be what he thinks it is.

Any hope he has is dashed to pieces when Legend answers, face unnervingly empty.

“Nine.”

[mac-and-thefox]

SWISS ANGST SWISS ANGST SWISS ANGST

This is heavy shit that comes from a very real, personal place. Reader discretion advised.

And please know that if this is a familiar situation for you and you need to vent I am absolutely happy to talk through things.

Mostly hurt, some comfort and some Rulti sweetness at the end. I'm sorry.

Tw: TBI, chronic pain, cognitive impairment and flare-ups, Swiss realizes he can't deal with things alone and Rain is his salvation

It was completely an accident. The kind of freak incident that would be hard pressed to be avoided.

Swiss had been walking down the Abbey hallway on his way to the practice room when he had stopped to help some siblings doing routine maintenance on one of the Abbey's many wrought iron chandeliers.

Everything in the Abbey was, while ornate and very beautiful, a bit antiquated. Since Terzo's time as Papa, the Ministry had slowly been bringing the Abbey up to date with more modernized wiring and plumbing, among other things.

The ornate, but heavy, chandelier had been brought down to the ground via a chain and pulley system mounted into the stone wall and vaulted ceiling to have the electrical brought up to code. Swiss, being the helpful ghoul that he is, offered to help hoist the chandelier off the floor and back to its rightful place.

It happened too fast for anyone to react. Just one slightly weaker link, fatigued by the strain of the fixture that hadn't been lowered since it was originally wired during Primo's papal reign. Thank Lucifer it was only 5 or 6 feet from the ground when the link gave out and the chain broke.

The chandelier came crashing to the ground. Swiss reacted quickly, knocking one of the siblings out of the way to avoid being crushed by the elaborate mass of iron and steel. In his attempt to shield the brother from danger, Swiss missed avoiding the chain whipping out from the wall, smashing him in the face and throwing him violently into the ground. Swiss hit the ground with a dull thud, his head cracking sickeningly off the stone floor and bouncing before coming to rest limply on the floor.

**

For all that is unholy, Swiss thanked his stars now that it had been him that the chain had struck and not the brother of sin he had been trying to protect when the chandelier fell. His ghoulish strength and sturdiness had saved his life, and he shuddered to think of what would have happened if the chain had collided with the sibling's face instead of his own. Death for sure, decapitation extremely likely.

After the incident, Swiss only spent the minimum amount of time necessary in the infirmary. Despite his bout of unconsciousness, his ghoulish nature allowed him to outwardly recover remarkably quickly. He was out of his infirmary bed and back in the ghouls' den as soon as Aether and Omega would allow. He had things to do, band practices to attend. Swiss was convinced that he felt fine and wasn't going to let a headache stop him from continuing to be useful to his pack and to his Papa.

Swiss went about his normal business, performing his band duties, being cheeky and charming to the siblings of sin, and a lovable menace to his pack and his mate. Outwardly, things were fine. Swiss was fine.

Until he wasn't.

He tried. He tried so hard to be okay, to push through the growing discomfort and shove down that uneasy feeling that comes when you sense something is missing but you can't figure out what's gone. How was Swiss supposed to explain to his beloved Rainy that somewhere in his head there was a growing...hole? An emptiness that he was consciously aware of, but no matter how hard he tried, couldn't pinpoint the location of? He was so afraid that Rain wouldn't understand. How does one communicate the sense that someone or something had reached into his brain, his psyche, ripped something out without care or compassion, but didn't tell him what or where it was?

Then came the facial pain. The chronic ache and burn in his jaw and behind his eye where the chain had crashed into his jaw, damaging soft tissue and nerves that flared angry and inflamed when the temperature dropped or the humidity fluctuated.

Loud noises became torturous. High frequency sounds feeling like someone had thrust an ice pick into his ear, making him see momentary white and shorting out his brain. Swiss began realizing that he could no longer filter out conversations from peripheral background noise, making crowded rooms unbearable to be in.

Still, he persevered, not wanting his pack to know that he felt pain, that he felt weakness.

That particularlly chilly morning that Dew had offhandedly pointed out the discolored patch of skin left behind from destroyed facial nerves had sent Swiss into a panic, anxiety hitting the roof and sweeping rancid distress through the room at the fact that his body had betrayed him....again...

He ran from the den straight to his room where he collapsed sobbing and heaving, curled up in a tight ball on the floor, his tail wound so tightly around his forearm his hand had gone numb. He laid there, trapped at the bottom of the dark, dank well of his mind, wishing the darkness, that hole hiding in the back of his mind gaping open and jagged, would just swallow him at last because he was Just. So. Tired.

Rain had found him there, finally broken-heartedly accepting and mourning the fact that he felt different, was different. Rain just sat quietly with him, a ray of light and healing and salvation to Swiss' heartbreak and grief, his empathic water ghoul nature sharing the burden of Swiss' pain and fear towards the possibility that he may never truly feel like himself again.

Swiss's sobs subsided after awhile, turning to whimpers and quiet whines as Rain drew Swiss into his chest and ran his claws through Swiss' curls. Rain brought his hand up to Swiss' cheek and softly held it there, rubbing his thumb over the discolored skin and soothing the hurt that had been sitting there for so long.

Once Swiss had calmed down enough to think and form words, they stayed on the ground, Swiss finally allowing himself to take comfort from his mate's gentle presence. They spoke softly, Rain admitting that for some time now he had noticed that, despite Swiss' best efforts to produce an air of okayness and normalcy, Swiss had become more withdrawn, more prone to changes in mood, that when he was particularly fatigued Rain noticed his tendency to jumble his words or lose them entirely.

Swiss in turn admitted to the feelings and sensations he had been hiding for.....Satanas, he didn't even know how long. The tears returned as he released all of the pain and grieving in his chest that he had been so afraid to show to his mate and his pack. The vulnerability that came with knowing that something was wrong but not knowing what it was or how to fix it. Rain tightened his arms around his mate, murmuring loving words and pressing soft kisses to Swiss' horns the entire time, projecting his unending, unconditional love for his mate into the space between them.

He urged Swiss to go see Omega, to seek out help for something that, while understandably awful and traumatic, was impacting his ability to live his life in peace. Swiss listened, tears quietly streaming from his face and soaking into Rain's chest, but feeling comforted in the realization that maybe he didn't have to carry this burden alone, that Rain was going to be with him every step of the way even if the angels and God himself tried to stop him.

Maybe he was going to be okay.

[the-lonelybarricade]

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: If you've missed Rhys being dumb and horny, then @separatist-apologist and I have a treat for you!

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Masterlist

Chapter 6/10: Hurricane Heat In My Head

The chains returned to Rhysand in his sleep.

He knew, even as he thrashed against them, that they were not real. Suspended in darkness with no beginning and no end, there was only Rhysand and the icy slither of those chains, constricting around him like serpents of black, heavy stone.

They bit into his skin, drawing lacerations across his biceps, his thighs, his chest, and as he screamed into the oblivion that held him, there was no response. Not even the echo of his own pain.

Blood welled and dripped from his wounds. It was the only color he could see—a dark, foreboding red. The same that rippled in wine and glinted jewels. The color of sharp nails and long, draping hair. Where had he seen something like that before? He swore he could hear sinister laughter on the cusp of his memory, a phantom of a woman with a cruel smile.

She was not real. This place, these chains. None of it was real.

Except for the fear. He could feel it pulsing through him—a second, rampant heartbeat, as if he’d swallowed a war drum that rallied every dormant instinct inside him. Their singular cry pumped through his blood until it leaked out through his wounds, whimpering: Run. Run.

RUN.

Rhysand sat up in bed, gasping. Red light leaked over the horizon, spilling onto the sky and snow in both directions, warmer and altogether gentler than the scarlet that invaded his dreams, but… He placed a hand on his thundering chest, calling for it to still the way he might soothe a spooked stallion.

He was reminded of the stories he’d heard in childhood of men who wandered into Prythian only to be driven to madness. Was this how the minds of those men began to deteriorate? It was dreadful to think that a sunset could unnerve his unconscious mind so greatly. But he couldn’t deny he was apprehensive. A new court awaited him, and he could only assume its dangers were more perilous than the last.

This could be my last sunrise, he thought. He rubbed at his naked chest, absently tracing the whorls of ink and the dread he felt roiling beneath them. He wished, not for the first time, that Feyre hadn’t slept in a different room.

At least then, Rhys could have faced death knowing he’d had the chance to wake up beside her without the fear that one of them was dying. He resolved he would survive this next Court just to have that pleasure. He wouldn’t die without kissing her.

If nothing else, the Mother owed him that much.

He bathed and dressed, rueful that Feyre wasn’t there to taunt him all the while. Privacy was all he’d craved at the start of their journey—was one night apart really all it took? It was absurd and yet he was so agitated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Where she was, how she slept, if she was awake… if she had company.

The thought struck him violently, causing Rhys to shut his door with too much force as he slipped out of his room. A servant at the end of the hall gasped and dropped their tray of neatly folded bedding.

“Shit, I’m s—“

Their snow-white hair disappeared around the corner, fleeing the hall before he could finish his apology. That was another strange thing. Faeries wary of a human. Rhys supposed he had killed two of their High Lords, the most powerful fae in their lands. He had the marks to prove it, though they were hidden beneath his layers of fur-trimmed clothing.

He was reminded of his sister’s shrill cry whenever a spider had the misfortune of crossing her path.

Rhys! Kill it! Kill it!

They were such small, feeble creatures compared to the size and might of a human. He used to tease her for it.

What are you afraid it’s going to do? Eat you?

But he would always kill them anyway. Because she was scared, and he loved her, and he knew no matter how meager the threat, he’d quell it to soothe her fear.

Tarquin, Kallias, even Eris. They seemed to love their people.

He might survive Dawn, Day, and Night. He might very well liberate all seven Courts. But he knew, as he kicked the servant’s fallen silver tray aside and watched light streak off its surface, that he would not be returning to the mortal lands. Either a monster would kill him, or…

Feyre. He needed to see Feyre and talk to her about all of this. The need gripped him like a fist around his chest. He couldn’t breathe as it pulled him, some vestige of that infernal chain, begging him to find her, to see her, to ensure she was safe.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d felt an inexplicable urge to protect her. But it was worse now, after almost losing her. He knew the glaze of her eyes slipping from the world, and he would do anything to never witness that horror again. He also knew that if he revealed any of this to her, she’d gut him for assuming she needed anyone’s protection.

Rhys stopped outside the front hall, taking a moment to compose himself. The corridor was empty, and apart from the faint torrent of wind clawing at the palace’s bastioned exterior, his beating heart was the only sound.

Then, voices. Distant at first. But in the great, open hall, they carried to him easily.

“I just think we should give him more time before the Solar Courts.”

His heart rate quickened. That was Feyre’s voice, tense and limned in such rare candor that he couldn’t resist ducking through one of the many doors lining the hallway.

A deep, rumbling voice drifted through the thin gap Rhys left in the door. “More time for what, exactly?”

Cassian.

“To rest. We almost died in Winter—I almost died. He’s… we’ve both been through a lot. He needs time to restore his strength.”

Cassian’s voice was gentle if a little prying. “Or maybe you need time. What’s troubling you, Fey?”

“Nothing.”

Liar. Rhys could perfectly imagine the stubborn set to her jaw, the way she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in defiance. But there was no hiding the strain in her voice.

“He’s gotten this far,” Cassian reasoned. “I talked to him last night, and I swore I could feel the spirit of Enalius standing over his shoulder. He’s going to make it through all seven Courts. I can feel it.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Unless…” The word rumbled through the corridor. “That’s exactly what you’re afraid of.”

Feyre’s voice was hoarse. “Cass—“

“We need him, Feyre. He’s our only shot at freeing Nes—“Cassian’s voice cracked. He took a moment to clear his throat. “He’s the only one who can free them, Feyre.”

“I know.” She sounded miserable. “And that’s why I just think we should just give him time—“

“I don’t need time.”

They both turned as Rhys pushed through the door. Cassian raised a brow towards the study Rhys departed, looking uncertain whether to be angry or amused that he’d been eavesdropping.

Feyre was staring at him, looking exactly as stubborn and defiant as he’d imagined. He thought the thing lashing in his chest would settle at the sight of her, but it only pulled harder, twining so tightly that he thought he couldn’t breathe as those starry eyes dressed him down and narrowed to crescents. Her pretty, bow-shaped lips were pursed just enough that he thought he could kiss her scowl away if she let him close enough to try.

He mirrored her crossed arms in an attempt to reign himself in, and said with a cocky grin, “That was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. I’m ready to take on anything those High Lord bastards throw at us.”

It’s okay, he wanted to tell her. I already know they won’t let me live by the end of this. At least let me save your sisters.

Feyre pressed her lips flat together. Sadness flickered in her eyes, so brief he would have thought he imagined it had his heart not plummeted in tandem. He knew that grief. He still choked on it whenever he passed the ribbons shop in the village, confronted with the unbidden memory of crouching on a lowered stool, braiding satin through his sister’s hair until his back was stiff. The years could muddy the details—the colors of the ribbons and the words they exchanged in those long hours—but never the pain.

Rhysand dropped his arms, intending to comfort her, but whatever sadness had been in her eyes vanished. Only cold, glittering calm remained.

“If you’re ready, then there’s no sense wasting time.”

In reality, he would have very much liked that time with Feyre. Even just a day to know her without the threat of dying. But he would not be the one responsible for losing her sisters. He would do anything in his power if she could escape that grief.

“Let’s go,” he agreed.

Cassian punched a hand into his palm. “I hope it’s another beast,” he said, with an excitement neither of the humans in his company shared. “I’ve been itching to get back in action.”

-

They stayed long enough to have breakfast, a bountiful spread of hot and cold dishes presented to them in the High Lord’s personal dining room. Cassian helped himself to a sizable portion of each dish: smoked fish, pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and a collection of cheeses, each more potent than the last.

Rhysand ate a bit of the fish and bread in the interest of keeping up his strength, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. The gods knew what horrors he would face in Dawn and whether he’d even be able to hang on to his breakfast by the end of it. Feyre seemed in an equally sullen mood, pushing her food around her plate without saying much of anything to anyone.

Kallias seemed relieved to see them go and consequently was more than happy to winnow them to the door to Winter. The blizzarding snow had carried away any evidence of the creature they’d disemboweled. But Rhys could still hear Feyre’s scream against the wind, and he remembered the way her body crumpled against the pine tree, how the beast’s blood warmed his clothes.

She was fine now, squinting against the winter onslaught, her cheeks a bright, healthy color thanks to the benefit of warm clothes and fae healers. Even so, Rhys prompted her to enter the tunnel first, prepared to withstand the blow of any winter beast that wandered by.

There was only Kallias, his fair skin and lighter hair nearly blending into the Winter landscape at his back.

“Thank you for helping my Court,” he said, fisting a hand over his heart. He bowed low enough to make Rhys feel unsettled.

“Thanks for hosting us.”

It didn’t feel like an equivalent debt, but Rhys was unsure what else to say.

Kallias raised to his full height. “Good luck in the Solar Courts.”

You will need it was an unspoken addition, though expressed nonetheless in his grim smile. He nodded farewell to each of them, then vanished in a flurry of ice crystals.

“Shut the door,” Cassian complained. “It’s fucking freezing.”

Rhysand didn’t need to be told twice. He was happy to say goodbye to this Hell-sent Court and never look back.

“What were you doing in Winter, anyway?” He asked with a grunt as he hauled the stone door shut.

The howling wind immediately seized. Rhys blinked against the sudden darkness, taking in the vague, hulking shape of Cassian and Feyre’s much slighter shadow just a step away. It was a ridiculous impulse, but he found himself reaching out to press his palm to the small of her back. He considered it a victory that she didn’t immediately flinch away.

It was cold enough that Cassian’s sigh expelled a cloud of air in front of him. “Azriel and I were on reconnaissance, searching for… a cure. We got trapped in Winter when the borders closed.”

Rhysand frowned. “A cure for what?”

Against his palm, he could feel Feyre tense.

Cassian stared hard down the tunnel. At his side, his hands turned into fists so tight that the brown skin over his knuckles turned pale. “These seals you’re destroying, it’s true that their magic impacts the wellbeing of each of the Courts, but their true purpose was precautionary; to prevent us from lifting the curse placed on the Night Court.”

“And the curse—”

“Enough.” Feyre’s voice sliced through the tunnel. Cold and authoritarian in a way that sent a perverse thrill down Rhysand’s spine.

He didn’t have time to linger in the fantasy of how Feyre might use that voice in the bedroom before she was striding down the hall, each step reverberating against the stone walls.

Cassian winced before pitching his voice in a whisper, “Tread carefully bringing the curse up around her. Tamlin’s the bastard who betrayed all of us, but Feyre… She feels responsible for what happened to the Night Court. To her sisters.”

“I wish she told me,” Rhys said, watching her retreating figure with open dismay. Cassian offered a wry smile, clapping a sympathetic hand on Rhysand’s shoulder before he turned to catch up with Feyre.

Every time Rhys was starting to feel like he knew her, he uncovered a new layer of secrecy. He felt as if he were perpetually wiping the fog away from a mirror and it was beginning to feel doubtful that he would ever see a clear image of who Feyre Archeron was.

He only gave himself a moment to dwell on it. Then he was jogging to catch up with Feyre and Cassian, determined to be the first to step through the Cauldron-damned door this time.

In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, he asked, “No Eris to wave us off before the next Court?”

Cassian snickered. “I doubt Eris will be leaving his quarters for at least a week.”

“A week?” Feyre snorted. “If Az has any say, it will be months before we see Eris again.”

“Doesn’t he have a court to run?”

Cassian and Feyre shared a look. It was the sort of mutual understanding that could only be found through years of knowing another person. Rhys resisted the urge to ask, but the question burned his tongue. How long has Feyre’s life been intertwined with Prythian?

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Cassian said, finally. A shadow passed over his features. “To be separated from your mate for that long… it’s enough to drive even someone like Eris Vanserra to extremes.”

“Mate?”

Rhysand could guess what that meant. The way that animals found mates. But there was a reverence to the way Cassian said the word that gave him pause.

“A mating bond is the deepest connection you can have with another living soul. They’re your perfect match, your equal in every way. A bond more significant than any vow, even marriage.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “You think you understand it, but…” He shook his head, a far-off look in his eyes. “It’s not until you feel it snap. Until one look at them brings you to your knees. Your entire world, reoriented to their gravity.”

Rhysand was putting everything together too slowly. “Nesta’s your mate.”

There was a strange mixture of grief and pride on his face as Cassian nodded. Rhysand didn’t have the courage to ask if that meant Feyre had a mate, too. Had it been Tamlin? He knew his glance towards her was anything but subtle.

Feyre was glaring ahead, the door to the Dawn Court now in view. It was carved from bright red stone, light spilling from its gaps as though it were single-handedly holding back the might of the sun.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked, to no one in particular.

Rhys stepped forward, placing his palms against the smooth stone. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. He heaved the stone forward, exposing the tunnel to the torrent of red light waiting impatiently on the other side.

Squinting against the brightness, Rhysand’s hand fell to his sword, readying for another beast. There weren’t any tell-tale signs. No distant roaring or eerie quiet. He expected they would find themselves in another isolated area separate from the rest of the Court. But in fact, as Rhysand’s eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at the deck of a lowered drawbridge. Two guards stood on either side of the gatehouse, wearing royal red and gold livery.

The doors were open on the other side of the iron gate, revealing the fae milling about their day through the gaps in the latticework. The first thing he noticed was the flood of warm, humid air. Not quite as smothering as it had been in the Summer Court, but oppressive enough that he was already sweating in his fur-lined clothes.

After enduring the extreme weather in each of the seasonal courts, Rhysand had nearly forgotten that the Mortal Lands were in the peak of summer when he and Feyre left. Was Dawn also in summer eternal, or was it aligned with the changing seasons of the human realm?

Rhys angled his head toward the sky, marveling at the scarlet clouds that domed over the land in every direction, betraying not a single sliver of blue. Rhys was certain it had been midday when they left Winter, but he couldn’t discern if the sun was somewhere behind the glowing red haze or if it was still nestled beyond the horizon. He supposed that if seasons were eternal in the previous courts, then in the Dawn Court, it must always be sunrise.

Feyre was frowning at the sky, too. He might have studied the oddity longer had his interest not fixed on the way the red light painted her skin the most alluring shade of pink. Like him, she must have been overheating in the Winter clothes. He could see sweat shining at her temple, giving the impression she was glowing. And with her neck arched upwards, practically in invitation, he thought it would be all too easy to lean forward and trace the column of her throat with his tongue.

The only thing stopping him was the pair of guards quickly moving towards them. The blade strapped to her hip might have also been a deterrent, but he found he minded the idea of Feyre pulling a knife on him less and less.

She cast him a quick glance as the guards approached, one that read, Step away and keep your mouth shut.

As the guards stumbled to a halt midway across the bridge, Rhysand noticed they seemed a bit… frazzled. With the borders newly opened, he imagined they were among the first visitors that Dawn had received in years. Humans, no less.

“Feyre Archeron,” one of them said, with what Rhys thought might have been awe.

They ought to be awed at the sight of her. A firestorm of a human woman swallowed in white furs and staring down two armed faeries as though she had nothing to fear.

She tipped her chin. “Tell Thesan that the Cursebreaker is here.”

“The High Lord is expecting you already,” the guard answered. He shouted over his shoulder at the guards in the gatehouse.

A small commotion flitted through the slit windows of the barbican above the gateway, followed by the clink and drag of chains. The metal grating lurched, and Rhysand flinched at the screeching sound of stone scraping together as the golden gate ascended into the tower above. How the guardsmen could stand the noise with their fae hearing was a mystery.

The guard gestured them forward with a jerk of his chin. “The captain will escort you to the palace.”

Great, Rhysand thought upon seeing the male in golden armor, already waiting for them on the other side of the gatehouse. Another handsome faerie staring at Feyre like she was his next meal. Rhys found himself drifting closer to her as they walked through the gates, prepared to draw his sword if the faerie’s smile proved deceitful. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cassian hide a smirk.

“Oryn,” Feyre said with a smile that erred closer to politeness than familiarity. This wasn’t someone she knew well, at least. “Thank you for coming to meet us.”

The male’s wings shifted, tucking closer to his body. Unlike the wings Cassian and Azriel bore, Oryn’s were more avian in nature, feathered and shaped like a white dove’s. “I wish we were meeting under better terms, Cursebreaker.”

Feyre’s eyes drifted back toward the red clouds above. “The sky—”

“We’ll discuss it once we’re in the palace.”

Rhysand wanted to snap at the male for interrupting her, but Feyre chose to simply nod her head and press her lips together. She kept her eyes on the red mist above, cautious. As if she suspected a rift would open at any moment and present some horrible creature for them to slay. Rhys flexed his fingers above his sword. He trusted Feyre’s instincts. If she sensed something was wrong, he knew better than to question it.

The captain led them through a series of narrow pink-stoned streets. They were built on a steep incline and boarded on either side by red-roofed buildings. Some billowed smoke into the sky from their chimneys, and Rhys watched as the white clouds rose into the sky above, only to turn a foreboding scarlet color the moment it breached the layer of mist.

He stepped closer to Feyre and murmured to her, “I take it the sky isn’t usually red.”

“The Solar Courts adhere to the laws of nature,” Feyre said back, a certain tightness to her voice that sent warning bells blaring in his head. “The High Lords can’t control the sun’s path or strength. The Courts observe day and night the same as the human realm.”

Rhys exhaled a deep breath. “Please don’t tell me we have to fight something in the sky.”

Cassian, who had clearly been listening in, cut them a wolfish grin and flexed the batlike wings towering over his shoulder. “It’s a good thing you brought me along. Illyrians specialize in aerial combat.”

It was difficult to feel soothed by that fact when all Rhys could picture was needing to be cradled by one of the winged fae while he battled some beast on wings. Hardly the dashing heroics he’d want to recount to an audience once this was all over.

Feyre pursed her lips. She was scanning the city as they passed, tracking each of the fae that quickly moved aside, giving their retinue a wide berth. He noticed some High Fae, like Eris and Tarquin, but the far majority of them were lesser fae, sporting the same feathered wings as Oryn. Feyre didn’t say anything, but he practically heard the observation she was making—for a city filled with winged people, it was strange that there was not a single person in the sky.

Especially when the route to the palace proved to be rather… intensive.

“You’re kidding me.”

They stopped at the entryway to the palace: a double set of doors with stairs that spiraled up, up, up into the towering mountainside. Rhys craned his head to trace the towers and spires that rose high into the mountain, so tall that their peaks disappeared into the red mist.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “And I thought the steps to the House of Wind were brutal.”

“The great Illyrian warrior, felled by a few thousand stairs?” Feyre teased.

A few thousand was putting it lightly. Suddenly, Rhys missed Eris’s abrasive winnowing tactics.

Oryn grimaced. “We are a flying people, and as such, we have built a great deal of architecture above the clouds.”

Cassian eyed the captain’s wings, “And we can’t fly them up because…?”

The captain made no effort to hide his grief as he answered, “Because flying is forbidden.”

The red stones on Cassian’s gloves sparked and flickered, a mirror to the outrage blazing in his eyes. His chest puffed, and he took a deep breath as though he were about to demand an explanation when Feyre pressed a palm to his shoulder. It was remarkable to watch—how that small, simple touch from a human girl somehow managed to reign in the fury of an ancient fae warrior. Again, Cassian looked at her, a million things exchanged between them in that short glance.

He huffed, tucking in his wings as he strode towards the staircase. “Good thing I had a big breakfast.”

Rhysand supposed now was as good a time as any to begin disrobing. Perhaps it made him incivil as a visitor to this court, but if he was going to climb up an entire damned mountain, there was no way he was doing it covered in heavy fur. He was coated in sweat from just the walk.

“Really?” Feyre placed her hands on her hips as he pulled the parka over his head and discarded it on the ground. “You’re doing that here?”

“Were you hoping I would wait until I was in your bedroom?”

Over her shoulder, Cassian placed a hand over his mouth from where he’d turned to wait for them.

The blue in Feyre’s eyes was muted under the red light, turning them more gray than usual, but just as piercing. Rhysand held his breath as her gaze raked over his exposed skin, from the planes of his muscular chest, down his corded abdomen, to the slant of his hips, where he noticed her eyes track the path of hair that disappeared under his waistband. And lingered.

Rhys wanted to make a joke, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was still overwarm from the Winter clothes, and it wasn’t helping that Feyre was staring at him that way—as if she were debating dragging him into the nearest dark alcove to put her lips where her eyes were. It wasn’t a bad idea. He wouldn’t mind pushing Feyre against the stone wall and tangling her hair around his fist. Heat itched up his skin at the fantasy. It felt keenly as though he were back in the Autumn Court, confronting the firebreath of a dragon. Except then, his trousers hadn’t been so tight.

Finally, Feyre composed herself enough to twist her face into a scowl. He knew it was all for show. Her irritation didn’t pass any deeper than the surface of her features, and beneath it… beneath it, he thought she might have felt a kernel of the desperate, burning wanting that was flooding through him.

She said cooly, “I think I’ll save my bedroom invitations for men who know how to conduct themselves appropriately.”

“And you’re determined to climb all those stairs dressed like that?”

He eyed the fur trim of her parka, the excessive padding insulating her thighs and hips. It was impossible. She would overheat and leave one of them dragging her the rest of the way. Feyre crossed her arms, determined to make this as difficult as possible.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood to spend another day hauling you over my shoulder.”

“And here I thought you came to my gallant rescue,” she mocked. “No wonder you’re chasing after a bedroom invitation. It seems you can only undress women when clothing is an obstacle to survival.”

Rhysand cocked his head. “Do you want to wager on that, Feyre?”

He would bet there were a decent number of women in this Court who would be interested in the novelty of bedding a human male. And if catching their attention could make Feyre jealous, even better.

“Are you two done bickering?” Cassian was leaning against the archway to the great stairwell, a slit brow raised. “Or should I do this savior of Prythian thing on my own?”

A few steps away, Oryn muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, my thoughts exactly.

With a glare in Rhsand’s direction, Feyre stripped to her underlayers. He was used to the chemises and stays of the mortal realm—tight, restrictive underclothing that anticipated women wouldn’t be completing feats much more exciting than having children and keeping a nice household. Clearly, things were different in Prythian. Feyre wore a panel of fabric that wound around her chest, encapsulating and binding her breasts. The fabric knotted at the back of her neck, tight enough to keep her breasts slightly suspended. It was an effort not to stare, particularly as he noticed the sweat gleaming on her collarbone.

“Satisfied?” She demanded.

Not nearly. Not until he had the chance to run his mouth over every inch of her bare skin.

The hunger must have been plain on Rhysand’s face because Cassian warned him, “I wouldn’t answer that truthfully.”

Feyre only scowled and brushed past both of them, the first to take the stairs behind Oryn. Rhysand’s intention for darting in front of Cassian was hardly subtle; he wanted to be the one directly behind Feyre. Partly in case something happened and she truly did need his help, but also because it meant her ass was directly in his field of vision and he had a penchant for torturing himself.

The novelty only lasted until his muscles started groaning. Up and up, around and around. The stairway spiraled on and on, its monotony broken only by the colorful medley of arched windows through which he could see the city they’d emerged from, growing smaller and smaller as they ascended. The constant circles were beginning to make his head spin. Never mind the sweat he could feel collecting in every crevice of his body.

Through it all, Feyre carried herself as composed and seemingly unbothered as ever. Except Rhys could see the way her braid clung to her neck, and if he held his panting back long enough, he could hear her sharp little breaths that said she was winded, too. He was fascinated, and he passed the time thinking how much he would enjoy the sound of that breathing while she lay under him. What other sounds could he draw out of her?

They climbed on like that, no one wasting breath on talking, for what felt like hours. The scarlet mist obscured the sun and any chance of telling the time, but soon, the sounds and sights of the city disappeared entirely. They were high enough, now, that Rhys could see the adjacent wilted countryside and the long, winding river coaxing through it. Should one of them grow clumsy and tumble out one of the rose-tinted windows, at least they’d have quite the sight to behold while they fell to their death.

Above them, the dark red sky drew larger and nearer.

Finally, they reached an open-air chamber full of fat, silk pillows and plush carpets. A large fountain gurgled at its center, pushing out clear water that arched and fell into the pool below, sending ripples across the red sky reflected on its surface. At that moment, all Rhys wanted was to cup the precious liquid into his hands and douse it over his head.

A High Fae male stepped through the large door on the other side of the chamber. The wisteria draping the doorway swayed as the male glided past on soft embroidered shoes. His tunic was tight-fitting around his slender chest, but his pants were loose and flowing. He bore a smile that crinkled the brown skin around his upswept eyes.

Warm, Rhys thought as he looked at the male. He had the warmest eyes he thought he’d ever seen, the kind that begged him to trust the stranger, though he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice as rich and deep as his brown eyes. “I am Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court. Though most of you are already familiar.”

Oryn immediately detached from their group to join Thesan at his side. If the male was winded from their ascent, he hardly showed it. Thesan’s gaze slanted towards the captain for only a moment, but Rhys caught the open affection in the High Lord’s eyes. Thesan reached out his hand, the tension in his body loosening the slightest bit when Oryn threaded their fingers together.

Not just the captain of the guard, then, but also the High Lord’s consort. Mate, perhaps, though Rhys wasn’t certain how to identify such things.

“Thank you for receiving us,” Feyre said. Behind them, Cassian bowed his head respectfully at the High Lord, though Rhys noted that Feyre did not. So in turn, neither did he.

Thesan raised his brows at the impertinence. Rhysand saw no reason why he and Feyre should bow and scrape to adhere to their customs. If they were going to be made to climb up a whole damn mountain to free Thesan’s Court, they at least deserved equal respect. Equal footing.

Even if their current state of dress was admittedly pitiful.

“Thanks,” Rhysand echoed. His breath was still ragged from the climb, and he resisted the urge to wipe away a bead of sweat as he felt it trail down his chest. “Your home is lovely. It’s a shame so few can behold its grandeur, what with the deterrent of those stairs. Or is their ascent a pleasure you save uniquely for your most favored guests?”

He expected Feyre might have thrown an elbow in his side for being uncouth, but she merely turned her head to look at him, something unreadable in her eyes. Her braid was damp from sweat, and the short cropping of hair she wore across her forehead was mussed, the pieces clumped and sticking in places that he knew must be driving her mad, though he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. The observation struck him so acutely that he quickly glanced away, before he was tempted to do something foolish.

Thesan, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused. “This is my private residence,” he said, his voice betraying none of the usual guardedness of the fae. He seemed earnest, this High Lord. A bit like Tarquin but… wiser, Rhys sensed. Someone who had walked on this earth far, far longer than Rhysand’s twenty-odd years and saw no reason to rise to a human’s barbed words. “The deterrent of those stairs is intentional, as it were. I find it limits the risk of surprise visitors.”

There was a story behind that knowing smile, of the times when surprise visitors might have attempted to enter the palace without explicit invitation. Maybe there were a thousand stories, some humorous and some grim. The High Lord of Dawn looked as though he were reflecting on them all as he turned his brown eyes towards the sight of the sprawling Court below, peaking between the marble arches of the open chamber.

And above it all, the red sky loomed like the most peculiar storm cloud. Thesan assessed that, too, and then released an aggrieved sigh. “I do apologize for the exertion. My invited guests do not usually need to climb so many stairs—most can winnow or fly, and my palace boasts the most remarkable moving platform for those who can do neither. However, it’s operated in one of my highest towers, which has become… inaccessible, of late.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“I’m certain the red sky hasn’t escaped your notice,” Thesan said with a frown. “It originates from this palace. From an enchanted lotus, gifted to me by a friend. Or who I once regarded as one. It sits in our highest tower and is responsible for this fog that has plagued our sky.”

“And this… fog,” Feyre ventured. Rhys was trying very hard not to look at her. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” Oryn answered. He was standing at Thesan’s shoulder, still holding his lover’s hand. His expression darkened with a grief that Rhys felt he had no right to be witnessing. “Peregryns have been dropping from the sky since the day it arrived.” He tucked his wings in tighter. “Skilled flyers, suddenly plummeting to their deaths. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is it poison?” Cassian asked. “If they were incapacitated—”

Oryn shook his head. “We have not ruled out poison. But we know they were conscious as they fell. We could hear them—” his throat bobbed.” We could hear them screaming.”

“There were some we were able to save,” Thesan said. “Our best healers could find no damage to their wings, nor any trace of known poisons. It was their minds that seemed altered—agitated by sights and sounds that no one else could witness. We’ve yet to find a cure.”

Not many people in the mortal realm lived to old age, but some did. Some, like Rhysand’s grandfather, who had reached such a state of mental frailty that he could be in the same room and occupy a completely different reality. Often, it was one of a past life, from a time before the plague had taken Rhysand’s mother and sister. His grandfather would relive the grief of that discovery almost every day, before Rhysand and his father decided it was better to play along, to claim that his mother and sister were simply out in the village and would be returning soon.

Rhysand had long thought he’d prefer to die young on one of his beast-slaying adventures than to live to an age when his mind deteriorated so much that he could no longer remember the people he loved.

He was thinking of his grandfather and the ever-distant glaze in his eyes, as he asked, “It turns you mad?”

Thesan nodded, expression grim. “We believe it’s inhalation that causes the illness. Contact of the skin does not appear to trigger the same symptoms, or at least not immediately.”

And there was no cure.

Rhysand’s head spun, trying to think of a way to reach the seal without compromising his mind to do it.

It was Feyre who cut in, voice surprisingly rigid, “Thesan, I would appreciate if you allowed us some rest before we ponder this subject any further. Rhysand and I could do with a bath and a change of clothes.”

It was as though Thesan had only just noticed that they were both half-naked and coated in sweat. He tore his eyes away from the skyline and blinked, before scraping them over Feyre from head to toe. Rhysand tried not to twitch at the scrutiny.

“Of course,” Thesan said. He lifted a hand in the air and a small bell appeared, pinched between his fingers. He needed to only flick his wrist and ring it twice before a flock of attendants flooded in, each dressed in similar loose clothing of blushing pink and orange and gold. “Please show our guests to their rooms.”

Even Cassian breathed out a sigh of relief at the promise of a bath.

They were led through the lavish, winding halls of the palace, all of it carved from golden stone and boasting open views of the valleys and villages below. It was a beautiful, well-decorated maze. Rhysand did his best to track every turn they made past urns filled with flowers, pillow-bedecked alcoves, and elevated courtyards with roaming peacocks, but he wasn’t confident he’d be able to navigate through them on his own.

Eventually they came to a suite built around a lavish sitting area and private dining room. All of it was carved from the same golden stone, identical in color to the first rays of the sun bursting across the horizon. He surveyed the jewel-toned fabrics and cushions, the thick carpets, and the golden cages filled with birds of all shapes and sizes. He was begrudged to admit that this was the nicest Court he’d seen so far.

The attendants directed each of them to their allotted rooms. When Cassian eagerly pushed through the door to his, muttering something under his breath about polishing his swords, Rhys suspected Feyre would do the same. But she stayed, hand mired to the doorknob so she might escape at any moment.

But she stayed.

He hadn’t had a moment alone with her since she’d kissed his cheek. A million things ran through his head of what he wanted to—and wished—he could say to her, starting with how badly he wanted to invite her into his room so they could bathe together. With the way she was drinking in his bare chest, her cheeks the most maddening shade of pink, he thought there was a chance she wouldn’t say no.

Rhys opened his mouth to ask, but she interrupted him.

“You don’t need to break the seal today.”

He needed more than a moment to reel in the fantasy of lathering soap over her freckled shoulders. “I… What?”

“It doesn’t need to be today, or tomorrow. You can take your time. Enjoy the luxuries of this court and your freedom before…” She swallowed, unable to finish her thought. But he knew what she was going to say.

Before you go mad.

It was the first time he thought she’d ever truly acted concerned about him. He asked gently, “What about your sisters?”

Feyre angled her head, staring hard at one of the faelights over his shoulder, blinking like she was holding back tears. “My sisters are frozen in time,” she said. “Literally frozen. They can wait. It makes no difference to them.”

Another time, when she didn’t look like she was about to cry, he’d ask her what that meant. Frozen where? How?

“But it does to you,” he said. “And to Cassian.”

She shrugged. “Cassian’s immortal. He has nothing but time.”

Rhysand strode toward her and was grateful to see her hand slip from the doorknob. She pressed it to his chest before he could get too close, keeping him at a distance, but that was perfectly fine by him.

She didn’t act the demure lady about touching his bare chest, and he wouldn’t expect her to. Though he was pleasantly surprised to see the flush climbing up her throat, and to feel the subtle flex of her fingers as though marveling at the firmness of the muscle beneath her palms. He wanted to feel those calluses scrape the entire length of his chest. Fuck. He wanted to feel them against his cock.

But now wasn’t the time. And he tried to shake those thoughts away, even as Feyre’s breath hitched and he watched her next inhale expand the swell of her breasts, that entrancing flush growing a deeper shade.

Her lips parted, their offer so tempting that he reached to grip either side of the doorframe, holding himself back just as much as she was trying to do with that maddening hand on his chest.

Maybe now was the time for honesty.

“I’m not worried about losing my mind,” he said to her, his voice rough and low like he’d never heard it before. “I’ve already been losing my mind for every damn day I’ve spent on this journey. Feyre, I am losing it rapidly by the second.”

Her next breath shuddered out of her.

“It’s happening too fast,” she whispered. “I just want—”

All of his focus, his entire being, narrowed in on those perfect lips and the words she held back.

“You just want what?” He was practically begging now. “What is it that you want, Feyre?”

He knew what he wanted. He wanted it so badly he would give up his mind for it.

Feyre stayed silent. What he would give to be able to see into her mind, to just know one thing that she truly thought about him.

“How about a thought for a thought?” He tried. “You tell me one thing on your mind, and in exchange I’ll tell you something on mine.”

She considered this for a moment before nodding. “You go first.”

A chuckle rasped out of him. How predictable. “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning in as much as her Cauldron-damned hand would allow. For once he had her full attention, and he wondered how any man was meant to endure the force of her gaze without wanting to fall to his knees. “That I have endured utter Hell since the moment I met you. And all of the beasts and riddles and even the fucking stairs weren’t nearly as agonizing as how I feel right now, trying not to kiss you.”

Her eyes fell on his mouth. Rhysand could feel his heart hammering against her fingertips.

Feyre flicked her tongue across her lower lip and he thought that might die right there.

Then she said, “I’m thinking we could both use a bath.”

He practically purred, “Is that an invitation?”

“No.”

It was like slamming face-first into a stone wall. Feyre dropped her hand like he’d scalded her, and before he could scramble for something to say, she yanked on her doorknob and shut the door in his face.

Rhysand blinked, still gripping the doorframe as he reeled from the rejection. Cassian’s door was still shut, but he swore he could hear cackling laughter behind it.

-

Thesan summoned them all to breakfast the next morning.

With the mist blocking any and all sunlight, it was impossible to tell if it was early or late in the morning, but by Rhysand’s account, it was much too soon. He’d stayed up late pacing his lavish bedroom, debating whether to knock on Feyre’s door to apologize for his brazenness or demand that she apologize for being so Gods-damned guarded. Was it really so hard to tell him one thing—just one—about how she truly felt?

Evidently so, if the way she was spearing fruit onto her fork was any indication of her mood. She’d taken supper in her room last night, leaving Cassian and Rhys to eat together in their private dining room. It was another night bonding over their shared exasperation of the stubborn, elusive Archeron women.

It hadn’t made him feel any better, though. Sitting across from Feyre, watching her javelin her fork at a piece of sliced melon, he still felt as though she’d slammed the door in his face moments ago. A night wouldn’t be sufficient time to get over Feyre Archeron. Nor would a year and, he suspected, even a lifetime.

The prospect of losing his mind to the red mist was sounding more and more appealing by the second.

“If the affliction is only caused by inhaling,” Cassian said. “Does that mean Rhys could just hold his breath long enough to destroy it?”

“Theoretically,” Thesan agreed. “Though it’s possible that a human would be more susceptible to contact.”

Feyre dropped her fork. “And there’s no cure?” When Thesan shook his head, her voice raised an octave. “The Dawn Court is best known for its healing abilities, and you haven’t been able to develop any sort of antidote?”

“My magic has not been able to remedy the afflicted. It’s possible that once the seal is destroyed, their condition will stabilize.”

“So,” Rhys said slowly, “I just need to keep a grip on my sanity long enough to destroy a flower?”

Thesan frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”

His voice implied it wouldn’t be so simple. Rhysand wasn’t fool enough to think it would be. None of the trials had been easy thus far, and he knew the lotus flower would be no exception.

Still, he rolled his shoulder and said, “I’ll take a flower over a dragon any day.”

“The lotus sits in the reflection pool at the center of the room,” Thesan said. “It should be easy to locate, provided your mind doesn’t lead you astray.”

Rhysand’s gaze nearly trailed over to Feyre as he mused, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” The pause in the aftermath was uncomfortably heavy. Enough for Rhysand to push his chair away and announce, “Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Show me where to get to this tower.”

Cassian nearly choked around his next mouthful of food. “Now?” He gestured with his fork towards Rhysand’s empty plate. “You’re not even going to eat breakfast first?”

It was easy to summon the boastful, unearned confidence to say, “You can all carry on without me. I should be back before the food so much as cools.”

The mask of arrogance was familiar to default back to, though it didn’t fit as comfortably as it once did. The lordling he’d been when he’d entered Prythian believed he had the tenacity to vanquish the fae and reclaim these lands for humankind. And yet with two High Lords slain, he couldn’t summon pride for his triumphs. Not while knowing that Feyre still mourned for one or both of those High Lords—that she might have withdrawn from him last night for that very reason.

Feyre stood from her chair, sending the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why risk the both of you?” Thesan asked, his brows pressed together.

For once, Rhysand didn’t mind the implication that he was the more expendable of the two of them. He agreed. If he failed, there was no point in them both losing their sanity.

Her expression hardened into uncompromising will. “Because,” she said, meeting Rhysand’s eyes. They were the same blue as a churning storm-swept sea. “We can look out for each other.”

“Okay.” Rhys held out his hand. “We’ll go together.”

She wrapped her hand around his, so much softer and smaller than his own. Holding it felt right in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And she didn’t drop it, not once, as Thesan led them up the winding spiral staircase on the other end of the palace, where they climbed up the bare face of a tower. Every step had Rhys bracing himself, but Feyre’s grip on his fingers remained unwavering. She did not falter one single step.

The scarlet mist became a deeper, more saturated color the higher they climbed, until they came to the final flight, where Thesan stopped.

“This is where I’ll leave you. The lotus is just through that doorway,” he said, nodding up to the large open doorway at the top of the stairs, where red mist poured out and plateaued in line with the highest step. He assessed them both, lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you trust each other?”

Rhysand didn’t need to look at Feyre to answer. “Yes.”

She squeezed his hand in what he interpreted as agreement.

“Don’t.” Thesan’s expression darkened. “Don’t trust anything while you’re in there, not even yourselves. The seal will try to protect itself, and it will use every trick in its arsenal to do so.”

With that inspiring speech, the High Lord nodded his farewell and turned to begin his descent back down the tower. Leaving Feyre and Rhys before the final steps to the open doorway.

“Feyre,” he started. “Just in case I don’t get another chance to say it—”

“Don’t.”

“Feyre—”

“No goodbyes.” She turned those stormy eyes on him, and all at once he was nothing but a helpless sailor succumbing to their pull. “Whatever you want to say to me can wait until after we destroy the seal.”

He didn’t know for certain he’d still remember. But he nodded.

“Don’t let go of my hand. No matter what.”

She raised her chin, staring down the immortal gloom like she might part the mist through sheer force of will. “Take a deep breath,” she said.

It wouldn’t be his last. Rhys knew that with confidence. Even if the fog carried away his conscious mind, his lungs would carry on breathing and his heart would continue pumping. So it wasn’t the gulp of precious air that he savored in that final moment. It was the smattering of freckles across Feyre’s cheekbones. She had more than he could count, but some stood out more than others—the one by the corner of her left eye, sitting in the crease of those rare moments she smiled, was slightly darker and bigger than the others. So was the one on the bridge of her pert little nose. Another, following the perfect arch of her lips.

One day, if she had the patience for it, he would map out every constellation hidden on her body.

He kept hold of that thought as they summited the final steps to the open doorway and plunged into the thicket of the mist. Feyre disappeared entirely from his periphery, shrouded in fog so thick that he could hardly distinguish his own fingers when held in front of his face. The only sign that Feyre was still beside him was the steady pull of her hand, guiding him forward over a long bridge connecting to the other half of the tower, where the lotus flower waited.

They felt their way forward slowly, fingers skimming the cool railing, twined in plants long wilted from the lack of sunlight. His lungs were on fire by the time they emerged into the open chamber, marked by a curved archway—its stone smooth beneath his searching palm.

Straight ahead, he thought. Just get to the pool in the center, crush the flower, and this can all be over.

There was nothing to feel to guide their path. Only empty, open air and Feyre’s hand intertwined firmly in his. Her steps wavered. They were entrenched in a void of red, stretching in every direction. It wasn’t clear which way, exactly, was straight ahead, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time.

His lungs were already seizing, desperate for air. He couldn’t imagine that she was in any better state.

Rhysand chose a direction and strode forward, pulling her deeper into the fog. She tugged back, digging her heels in. They couldn’t speak without wasting air, but he imagined she was telling him, not that way.

He paused, waiting for her to correct his course.

One beat. Two. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

Rhysand squeezed her hand. Which way?

Another beat. And then she began pulling him sideways. He stumbled after her, his vision spotting as his lungs rioted in his chest. He needed to breathe. Needed to soothe the burning before his lungs gave out. He was going to collapse on the floor if he didn’t.

His body betrayed him. He opened his mouth, polluted air flooding in. Feyre paused at the sound of his gasp. His vision swam, whirling from the sudden intake, his head pounding—

And then he blinked. The fog cleared, revealing a pretty chamber of polished marble and golden stone. Outside the open archways, the sky had cleared as well, revealing an expanse of blue sky stretching towards the horizon.

It was like seeing the sun for the very first time. Not because of the light streaming into the chamber. But because Feyre was standing before him, hand in his. Smiling.

The breath whooshed out of him anew. “Do that again,” he whispered.

She did, smiling just for him. It was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

“We did it,” she said.

Rhysand shook his head. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Look.” She nodded towards the puffy white clouds drifting just outside the tower. “The mist is gone. It was another test.”

“We still need to destroy the seal,” he said, turning to look for the reflection pool.

Feyre stopped him with another insistent tug on his hand. He turned to face her and lost track of all thought when he saw the way she was beaming at him.

“We did,” she said, raising her freehand to his cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft, and he couldn’t resist leaning further into her touch. “You absorbed the seal when you inhaled it. That was all it needed.”

“That sounds too easy.”

Those smooth hands glided up his jaw. “The fae underestimated you. They thought a human would be too wary of the risk. Their pride is their greatest weakness.”

Her fingers were in his hair now, winding through the strands. She tugged against them, pulling him closer, and suddenly he couldn’t think straight.

“What now?”

Feyre leaned onto the tips of her toes to close the remaining distance between them. When she whispered, he could feel each syllable ghost across his lips. “What were you going to say to me outside the chamber?”

Something warm and golden unfurled in his chest as he looked at her. His arm slid under her back, holding their chests flush. “Tell me one thing, before I reveal it to you.”

Her smile was more intoxicating than his father’s finest wines. “Anything,” she promised.

“Tell me—” he pressed his forehead to hers. “Tell me, truly, if you might want this one day. Want me.”

“I do,” she said without any hesitation. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Rhysand. I want you. Desperately. I need—”

He should have let her finish speaking, especially now that she was saying everything he wanted to hear. But it was impossible. He was just a man and her lips were so close to his they were sharing breath and she finally admitted she wanted him, too.

How could he stop himself from kissing her?

The most delicate noise slipped out of her when their lips met. Like the sigh of a door being opened for the first time in years. Like relief. Finally, finally, relief. After so much pent-up longing, he was kissing her, and her hands were twisting in his hair, and his tongue was skimming her lower lip, and all he could think was:

Maybe salvation was real.

The golden warmth kindling inside him was growing stronger. He felt the first of its tug when they tore their lips apart, both of them gasping.

Feyre’s pupils were wide and wild. She was smiling again, which made it impossible not to keep kissing her. But first, he said, “I was going to tell you that I am yours, Feyre. I’m yours until my dying breath.”

A blush was rising to her cheeks, spreading beneath her freckles. He leaned to kiss her again, but she broke away with a giggle, tugging playfully at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll be yours, too,” she said, eyes shining. “But I won’t make it easy for you. You’re going to have to catch me first.”

The little vixen. She launched into a sprint, fleeing to the other side of the chamber, and he laughed as he raced after her.

“Rhysand!” She called, weaving between the wisteria-twined pillars. Sheer panels of blushing peach fabric drifted behind each of her shoulders, attached to the elegant golden pauldrons she wore on each shoulder. With the light of the skyline beyond haloing her lithe frame, he felt more as though he were chasing a celestial goddess than a human woman.

She called his name again, the second syllable tapering on the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard. He vaulted through one of the open archways, desperate to get to her, to taste that laughter beneath his tongue. He landed and slid across the smooth stone, nearly carrying him off the ledge were it not for his sharp reflexes. At the last second, he grabbed at one of the marble pillars and hauled himself back into the chamber.

The sight of the jagged cliff face and the sprawling countryside far, far below was enough to sober him.

He felt another tug. This one more insistent. As if the chain connecting him to Feyre had rematerialized. She was still dancing between the pillars, completely undaunted by the risk of falling if it meant taunting him.

But the tug didn’t pull him towards her.

Rhysand!

And that voice… it was hers, but it sounded so far away.

Another tug. Another Feyre calling his name.

Was it a trick?

“Come here, Rhys,” Feyre purred, turning to face him. Light bounced off the glittering panels of her dress, as if Thesan had seen it right to thread her in gold.

He stepped towards her, despite the taut thread pulling him in the opposite direction. “Tell me again,” he said.

“I’m yours.” Her eyes were like stars. Ceding the game, she prowled back to him, teeth gleaming so white in the full vibrancy of the sun. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Rhysand shut his eyes. He pictured Feyre in his mind. The stormy eyes and the withering glare and her beautiful, devastating face. It was an almost identical likeness. But as Rhysand opened his eyes, he searched for that freckle beside her eye, the one which was darker and bigger than the others around it. And it wasn’t there.

He released a heavy sigh. “You’re not real.”

Her soft palm pressed into his chest, void of Feyre’s hard-earned calluses. “I could be,” she said to him. “We could stay up here forever.”

Forever wasn’t tempting to him. Not without Feyre.

The moment he decided, the Feyre in front of him vanished. The scarlet mist returned, as thick and unnavigable as before. He could hear Feyre calling his name, voice raw and panicked. Likewise he could feel a golden tug in his chest, leading him in another direction.

He didn’t know which was real. He supposed they might all be tricks.

Not for the first time, and he suspected not for the last, he thought how much he missed that Cauldron-cursed leash.

Dropping to his knees, Rhysand elected to crawl across the chamber rather than risk taking a wrong step and plummeting to the bottom of the valley. He only hoped that Feyre hadn’t made that mistake, either. Was she also trapped in some blissful vision? A pathetic part of himself hoped he was in it.

Soon, his searching hands found a tiled pool filled with tepid water. He crawled into it, not caring that it would ruin the bright, loose-fitting tunic and trousers that Thesan had lended him. The thin fabric clung to his skin as he waded through the pool and skimmed his arms over the surface in wide, sweeping gestures.

He felt something bob against his elbow and quickly seized it. His fingers met the soft suede of flower petals and a thin, bumpy stem that resisted his initial tug. He yanked until the infernal thing came away with a snap.

Then the lotus flower, as fragile as the minds it twisted, crumpled in his fist.

Rhys had never imagined what it would be like to sit at the center of a stormcloud, but he imagined the experience would not be so different from the violent release of energy that swept through the chamber with a deafening thunder clap, Rhys at its epicenter. The water rippled through the pool and spread beyond it, dissipating the fog in a great sweep of wind that he imagined would carry through the whole of Prythian.

The skin on his chest and shoulder itched terribly. If he looked down, he would likely be able to see through the translucent fabric of his tunic that the tattoo was spreading. But Rhysand didn’t care about his tattoo, nor his wet shirt, nor the entire gods-forsaken Court he’d just liberated.

He only cared about Feyre. He could see she was curled up just a small distance away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were moving, over and over, shaping words he couldn’t make out.

“Feyre?” He leapt out of the pool with an urgency that sent a wave of water spilling over the sides of the reflection pool. Water dripped from his clothes, splattering haphazardly in his wake as he slid across the stone floor to reach her.

It occurred to him, as he delicately placed his hands on her shoulders, that this could be another mind trick. He had no way of knowing that he’d truly destroyed the fifth seal or that this was truly his Feyre in front of him, besides the inclination in his gut and the warm, inexplicable pull he felt to her.

Her entire body was trembling.

“Feyre?” He said again, softer.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “No, no, no, no. Not again. Not again, please.”

Her voice was scraped raw, as if she’d been screaming. This was the same woman he’d witnessed slay beasts and stare down High Lords twice her size. For whatever she’s seen to have terrified so greatly…

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re safe now, Feyre. It’s over.”

Those blue eyes focused just enough to register that he was crouched before her. And then her lower lip started trembling, and she shook her head violently, scrambling back as she whimpered, “No, Rhys. Not again. Please.”

He floundered at the fear in her eyes. Whatever she’d been shown in the lotus mist, clearly, he had been part of the vision. And his heart shattered to think he’d been the one hurting her.

“It’s just me, Feyre.” He held up his open palms. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I destroyed the lotus. It’s done.”

Her gaze drifted from his open palms to the markings visible through his translucent tunic. A sob hitched her throat. “It’s over?”

Rhys nodded, extending his hand so that he might help her up. She stared at it a moment, perhaps sharing his earlier doubt that this was another trick. Then she looked at him, studying his dripping clothes and wet hair and what he hoped to be an earnest expression.

Then she launched herself at him.

The momentum barrelled into him was such force that he was sent sprawling onto his back, a surprise grunt pushing out his chest. He didn’t have time to reorient himself, or make sense of what was happening, before Feyre gripped his face between both of her callused hands and kissed him so hard he forgot there was a reason why people needed important things like breath.

He could taste the salt of her tears and the melon juice that was still on her lips from breakfast. Every ounce of rationality dissipated at that revelation, and all he could think was that he’d never had a favorite fruit until that moment.

With a groan, Rhys slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head while also angling her closer, so he could lick into her mouth and commit the taste to memory. He no longer cared if it was real or only a vision. He would gladly surrender to the madness if this was his eternity.

He might very well have flipped her over and made love to her right there. She would have looked beautiful flushed in the low light of the morning as dawn finally greeted its namesake. But towards the far entrance, someone cleared their throat.

That was how Rhysand knew this was real. If this had been a vision from the lotus, he would have continued kissing Feyre for eternity, and they certainly wouldn’t have been interrupted by Thesan standing beside an apprehensive-looking Oryn. Over their shoulders, Cassian was grinning like a fiend.

“Celebrating your victory?” He said with a suggestive quirk of his brows.

Rhysand never hated the fae as much as he did in that moment, when Feyre hastily scrambled to her feet. He already missed the weight of her body and her sweet lilac and pear scent. He took his time rising to his feet, and when he reached his full height, he offered her a heated look that said, This isn’t over.

She looked away, heat blooming on her cheeks.

That made it the first trial that actually did feel like a victory. He couldn’t help the pride swelling in his chest, and no amount of his cocky grin was forced as he looked to Thesan and asked, “Is breakfast still warm?”

[tatsumessy]

I missed you - {Roronoa Zoro}

Leaving him on Dressrosa was probably the worst plan anyone every had. They weren’t just going up against some regular pirate who aspires to be king of the pirates knowing damn well that dream will never happen. It was Doflamingo, he was dangerous and killed for fun.

Zoro was obviously strong and you didn’t have the right to worry about him but you couldn’t stop. Especially when the fight at Sabaody happened and he disappeared without a trance injured at that. It’s not like you were his girlfriend or anything, hell the two of you rarely talked to each when you were on the ship together.

But this is the first time you’ve been separated ever since that happened and your nerves were getting the best of you. “Hey Y/n, are you okay?” Nami asked taking a seat right next to you on the grass, “oh…yeah I’m fine. Just nervous.” She looked over at you with a worried expression then turned her attention back to the helm making sure that Brook was steering the ship in the right direction.

Arriving on Zou, the disaster that struck this island forced all of you to help the Minx into rehabilitation. This allowed for you all to quickly gain their trust and love, “Excuse me.” A bunny Minx spoke from behind you. “Yes?” “It’s a custom for us Minx that if someone saves us and we admire them that we switch clothes with them. Here I have this for you.” She stretches her arms out handing you a lace dress with a head piece attached to it.

“Oh, thank you.” She helped you get undressed then took your clothes away for her to change into while you wore the outfit she gave you. When you walked out the room to go and find your crew the first person to see you was Sanji. “OH WOW!!! YOU LOOK GORGEOUS Y/N MY DEAREST.” You blushed as he ran up the stairs and grabbed your hand to kiss the back of it.

When Nami walked out in her blue dress Sanji actually passed out with blood spewing from his nose. The two of you walked down the steps joining the Minx for dinner and enjoying the time you had waiting for the rest of your crew to come. Your thoughts kept running back to Zoro and to whether or not if he was okay, your thoughts were interrupted when Pecolms asked to speak with all of you in private.

The whole situation was a mess and by the end of it you, Nami, Chopper and Brook were tied up in chains and Sanji was gone. Off to get married or something, he looked so uneasy which made everything worse. Sanji was supposed to be the one here to lead us while we waited now that he was gone it’s like the dynamic in the group changed.

“Are you sure your okay?” Brooks asked you as you laid next to Nami on the big sheep Minx who was already fast asleep. Brooks was taking a break from all the dogs chasing him wanting to eat off of his bones. “I’m fine, just exhausted is all. You’re the one who should rest for a fulfilling day tomorrow,” you giggled watching him internally freak out. You bid him goodnight and drifted off only to wake up a couple hours later.

Nami was still asleep and you really needed to clear your mind, you kept getting this feeling of craving something so badly and knowing it’s not there just physically hurts. One of the Minx warriors joined you on your walk around the forest protecting you just in case any one tries to come after you. As you admired all the beautiful trees and flowers in the gardens you started to pick some up when you heard a familiar voice.

Clenching the basket in your hand you followed it noticing Zoro standing there on a cleared path trying to figure out where to go. “Z-Zoro?” You whispered out thinking you were imagining him but the moment he turned to face you, you knew he was real. Tears fell from your eyes as you dropped the basket and ran over to him, you wrapped your arms around his neck tightly and connected both of your lips as reassurance.

The two of you landed on the ground with a loud thud, he groaned into your mouth and the two of you stayed there for a moment. When you pulled away he looked at you with confusion mixed with anger but that all washed away when he saw your face. You’re cheeks were flushed and you were bawling your eyes out as you straddled his lap wiping at your face like a child, “I missed you.” He blushed at your revelation and furrowed his eyebrows trying to mask his embarrassment. “What’re you sayin Y/n! Get off of me!” He said and you quickly got off of him making sure to fix and dust off the beautiful clothes you were gifted.

“You didn’t have to attack me like that you know.” He said covering his face with the back of his hand and looking away, “I’m sorry, I just missed you so much~” you gave him a gentle smile and grabbed his hand to lead him back to where everyone else was, you knew he was lost. Thankful for that you got to have this private moment with him.

[melonba11s]

Stolen Toy (Daddy Goffard fanfic)

Hahaha I love dilfs I know we've never seen him but I JUST KNOW HIS COCK IS FAT.

Contains: Derek, Derek's Father, Dubious Consent, Coached Dirty Talk.

You were first roused from your restless sleep by the distant sound of shouting. Derek shouting. You couldn’t hear what he was shouting about just yet. You sat up, shifting in the flimsy underwear. It was all Derek gave you to wear. You suppose you should be grateful to even have clothes. 

After a few weeks of being chained to the wall, Derek had unlocked them, allowing you to rest properly in the bed in the room. You stayed where you were, it was useless trying to hide in the bare room you were locked in. The shouting was getting closer, and now you could make out a calm, but serious voices replies.

“I DIDN’T-” 

“You don’t seem to ever learn your lesson, no matter what I do.” 

“YOU CAN’T-” You flinched at the sound of a hand meeting flesh. Someone had just smacked Derek by the sound of it. 

“Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m starting to think maybe Matt really is better suited to this role.” 

Derek was no longer yelling but was now mumbling his replies, you couldn’t make them out. You kept your attention as the door unlocked, and opened. A man, about Derek’s height, perhaps a few inches taller, entered. He had brown hair, streaked with gray, gelled back meticulously. He was wearing a very nice looking suit, and his eyes raked over you with the eye of a critic. 

“Hmmph, at least you’ve been taking care of your toys.” 

“Sir-” Derek began, only to be jabbed sharply with the older man's cane. It occurred to you that this must be Derek’s father. You slid off the bed, getting onto your knees, knowing that was what Derek liked best. He liked feeling powerful over you, in every sort of way. 

Mr. Goffard raised an eyebrow, and set his cane aside. He dug into his pocket, and you flinched as he brought out a switch knife. 

“W-Wait…” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Just last night Derek had had his usual fun with you, and your throat was still sore from screaming. Your body was definitely riddled with more bruises than you cared to look for. 

“Hush.” Mr. Goffards voice was sharp. “Back up onto the bed. I don’t need you on your knees.” You glanced at Derek, looking for permission to follow Mr. Goffards orders. 

“What he gives permission for you to do or not does not matter right now, follow my command or I shall make this more painful than it needs to be.” You hastily got to your feet and backed away, back onto the mattress. You folded your hands in your lap to stop them from fidgeting, looking up at the older man. 

His hand gripped your shoulder, and you closed your eyes, waiting for pain as the knife sliced your skin open. Instead, you just heard a ripping, and felt a tug as he began to cut your underwear away. 

“Hey! I paid a lot of money for those-” Derek began to protest as fabric fell away from your flesh.

“You mean you spent a lot of my money on it. So I’ll decide what happens to it.” It unnerved you how despite him clearly seething with anger… He was so calm. His movements weren’t sharp or uncoordinated with rage, he hadn’t even nicked you when cutting your only coverings off. 

His voice was almost monotone, as he pushed you onto your back, then rolled you onto your stomach. You were suddenly struck by his intentions, and fear coursed through you. Despite how rough Derek was with you, he was familiar, you’d grown used to him. You had no idea what to expect now and the unknown scared you. 

“D-Derek.” You lifted your head to look over at him, even though you knew he wouldn’t be able to stop his own father. A hand pushed against the back of your head, grinding your face into the mattress. 

“I said hush.” You heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled, and just closed your eyes. Taking deep breaths, trying not to whimper under Mr. Goffards grip as you felt something hot, hard and god how could it possibly be that big press against your entrance. 

Your muffled whimpers turned into a loud keen of pain as he slowly, but surely, buried himself into your hole. It burned, and you willingly pressed your own face even harder into the bed, feeling your tears wet the sheets. 

You wondered fleetingly what Derek had done, for his father to take what he considered a favorite toy, and play with it in front of him. You knew how much Derek despised sharing what he thought was his. It was hard to continue thinking though with a huge cock buried all the way inside you though. 

Your body was reacting to it despite your fear, your tongue flicking out to wet your lips as you swallowed. As Mr. Goffard pulled out, his cock rubbing against your most sensitive areas, you couldn’t help it, and let out a small moan. 

Hearing this, you gasped as fingers dug into your hair, pulling your head out of the bedding. 

“Louder.” Mr. Goffard commanded, thrusting back into you. You could only obey, letting out another sound of pleasure as you bit your lip. He was fucking you in earnest now, and you moved your hips back to meet him as best you could. 

“G-God…” You gasped, feeling him hilted completely inside you again. Your eyes widened as you heard a voice, very close to your ear. He spoke so quietly you could barely hear it. 

“Tell me how much you love my cock.” he instructed. “Beg for it. Beg to cum.” 

You strained your eyes to glance at Derek, seeing him only in your peripheral vision. The blurred glance you managed only told you that he was still there, but you could imagine his expression. Pissed, on the verge of throwing a tantrum, fists clenched so tightly he may be drawing his own blood. 

You weren’t just being used in front of him, you were an aid in punishment. 

“Y-You’re cock is so big!” you managed to  gasp out, feeling your face flush with shame. You felt like you were a desperate slut being filmed for amateur porn. 

“It’s so good! Please give me more!” You continued, trying to think of more things to say. “Please don’t stop! I’m so close!” 

You really were dangerously close to cumming. You couldn’t remember the last time you came, Derek never gave you a chance to finish. 

“SHUT UP.” Derek seemed to have lost control already. “MAKE THEM QUIET AGAIN.” his yell was now directed at his father. You weren’t given the command to stay quiet though, and you allowed more words to bubble from your throat, the most horribly slutty things you could think to say spilling forth until you hit that sweet release. 

Your toes curled as you threw your head forward again, thankfully he let go of your hair to let you, as your core spasmed and pulsed around him. As soon as you were finished, he pulled himself out. You panted for breath, listening to him buckle himself back up… Was he not going to finish? 

You winced as the back of your neck was grabbed, and you were forced to your feet. 

“I’ll be leaving now. They will be coming with me.” Mr. Goffard said, grabbing his cane back from where he had set it. 

You stumbled and quickly tried to even your pace to keep up with him, as you were led out of the room. You couldn’t be excited about leaving your prison though, and you chanced a glance up at Mr. Goffard. He wasn’t even sparing you a look though, his eyes firmly ahead. 

If you were being taken from Derek though… What did that mean for you? Were you about to die? It felt as if your heart dropped into your stomach, as you continued to march alongside him. It wasn’t even your own mistake that was going to get you killed, it was Derek’s dumb mistake. Somehow, that made it feel even worse.  

“P-Please, don’t kill me, sir.” You began to beg, knowing how useless it would be but unable to stop yourself. “I’ll be good, I’ll service you-” 

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m simply taking away my idiot son's toy until he has earned it back.” He did not spare you a glance as he spoke. In fact, his face wrinkled in disgust. 

“You may be good enough for my son, but you're nowhere near my standards.”  

Relief flooded you. You weren’t going to die. You got to live. And it seemed you’d get a break from Derek’s ministrations too. 

… Maybe he should mess up more often. 

[oblivions-dawn]

Cocky Serana Time? Cocky Serana Time

I actually debated whether or not I should participate in WIP Wednesday this week . . . but I caved. And while I do have a very nice 'heeheehoohoo' Virana scene, maybe that can be something I share here next week if I'm still picking away at my currently very hated chapter. I love the idea that Serana takes the most pride in her necromancy prowess and got the idea to showcase it here because, while she's lovingly resurrecting every two seconds in my game, she hasn't done so as much in my fanfiction. And I had to remedy that immediately, so. Hope you enjoy. ❤

The elf walked past. Serana silently stalked after him, fangs dug into her lip. She crept closer to him with every step, his words reduced to soft, careless whistles that echoed off the walls, unaware of the vampire that carefully stood up and lifted her razor—

Serana plunged the blade of her dagger deep into his back, just to the left of his spine. She twisted, then ripped it out; blood gushed from the gaping wound. He turned with a suffocating gasp as the torch clattered to the floor; his eyes lingered on her just long enough for her to witness the last whispers of life fade from his gaze.

Just before his knees buckled beneath his dead weight, Serana extended out her cold hand and cast a spell. The violet and indigo-tinged wisp spiralled from her fingertips and struck the Altmer’s body—it immediately became stiff and rigid. Shades of nightshade stained his vacant eyes, his soul tethered, chained, anchored to the once empty host against its will. She curled her fingers in as she dropped her hand; the zombie relaxed instantly, his head bowed in obedience. A smirk of pride stretched her pale lips.

“What the fuck was the point of this again?”

Serana folded her arms and turned, only to find Vigdis already beside her with a glare.

“This,” she began, “is going to make it a lot easier to sneak around. He’ll be able to tell me when there’s trouble—and his friends won’t even notice that he’s actually dead.”

With a simple wave of her hand, the corpse retrieved his torch and resumed his natural stance from before. The puppet’s invisible strings hung loosely from her fingers, his calm façade a sign that there were currently no other Thalmor agents nearby.

“This is fucking stupid,” the hunter muttered pessimistically.

“I don’t suppose you have a better idea?” Serana questioned, a fiery and challenging edge in her voice. When the redhead only narrowed her icy eyes and huffed defeatedly in response, Serana quirked her dark brow, smug. “I didn’t think so.”

“Personally I think it’s impressive,” Wynn piped up. “I’ve never seen someone perform necromancy so flawlessly before.”

The vampire grinned slightly, then shrugged. “It’s a simple trick, really. Child’s play.”

“Ooo, cocky!” The thief smirked, a flirtatious glint in her jaspilite eyes. “I like it.”

[star--joy]

Necklace

The necklace is a small thing. Thin silver and blue wires are braided together to form the chain, from which hangs a polished charm, emblazoned with the de Rolo family crest. It’s been in the de Rolo family for centuries.

Percy’s mouth goes dry when it sees it resting against Vex’s tanned skin.

Prompt: “That necklace looks so beautiful on you.”

-

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Words: 646

Originally posted: 6/24/22

Ao3 link: archiveofourown.org/works/48120247

The necklace is a small thing. Not dainty, exactly, but certainly nothing extravagant. Thin silver and blue wires are braided together to form the chain, from which hangs a polished charm, emblazoned with the de Rolo family crest. It’s been in the de Rolo family for centuries.

Percy’s mouth goes dry when it sees it resting against Vex’s tanned skin. 

It really shouldn’t be anything extraordinary. He and Vex have been married for months now, and one would think that after all that time, he would have gotten used to her being a de Rolo.

And yet, as he watches the charm catch the sunlight through the window, glittering like something ethereal, Percy’s heart swoops and soars.

Gods, how does she always knock the breath out of him?

Vex lifts her fingers to gently fiddle with the chains as she descends the staircase where he awaits to take her to the ballroom for their gala. “I got it from Cassandra. She said it was okay for me to wear it,” she says. “But if you would rather I take it off…?”

That, at least, snaps Percy out of his revere. “Don’t you dare,” he insists, coming to gently tug her hands away from the charm so he can fully admire how it stands out against her freckled skin. “Gods, Vex. That necklace looks so beautiful on you.”

And then she’s smiling, wide and relieved and Percy is once again rendered breathless, this time by her sheer beauty alone. “You think so?”

It’s such an obvious attempt to fish for compliments, and Percy doesn’t give a single shit that he’s playing right into her hands. “I have never seen an accessory more suited to your beauty,” he whispers, hands coming to rest on her hips.

Vex’s laugh is smooth and sweet, like honey in tea. “I’m glad you like it. I—” she pauses, looking down briefly before murmuring, “I’m very happy to be a de Rolo.”

Oh. Percy’s heart does that swoop-soar thing again at the confession, and he just barely resists falling to his knees in a proper display of worship. Instead, he leans down to press their lips together, uncaring of how her lipstick is surely smearing on his own lips. How could something as trivial as that matter when he’s presented with the opportunity to kiss Vex?

“You are— absolutely— positively— impossibly— divine,” he insists, just barely pulling away enough to force each word out.

“And you, darling,” she coos, reaching up to fix the strands of white hair that got knocked astray in Percy’s near-frenzy. “We’re going to be late to the gala if you keep this up.”

“I cannot overstate how little I care about that, at the moment.”

Vex’s eyes wrinkle with the force of her smile and Percy wants so much to kiss her again, and again, and again, but she gently puts a hand on his chest to stop him. “As much as I would love that, I believe some important people are attending this event, and Cassandra will have our heads if we leave her to deal with them alone.”

Gods, how is she the sensible one? That’s supposed to be him! Heavens above, though, she’s left him with very little ability to think beyond how maddening she is, in the best way.

Percy clears his throat, and tries to freshen his dumb-struck mind. “Ah— yes. Right. Important people. Business. Boring things that pale in comparison to you.”

“There you are, darling,” Vex agrees, pulling back so she can tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and guide him along towards where the gala is already in full swing. He follows, though he already knows that for as much as he may try to be a good lord and host tonight, his attention will never fully leave Vex’ahlia. Really, though, who would blame him for that?

[thesalemwitchtries]

Dreaming Of a Grave: Chapter Three

Word Count: 3,284

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Named! Fem! Enhanced! Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries sustained through physical assault (no implication of sexual assault at all, so maybe goons beat reader up in her apartment, but they weren't total pricks about it?), imagery/description of injury- metaphorical, distrust of police/government, Catholic Guilt written by an actual Catholic, so yk... its like organic or something, overuse of the series comma, thoughts of violence, Matt being so close to understanding Claire's points about personal safety.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading! Any comments or feedback are much appreciated!

It wasn’t often that Matt had cause to doubt his abilities, but arriving at Tully’s apartment building had left him unsure if he’d be able to pick out the workmen amongst all of the other… possibilities. The first two floors were a mix of junkies and vacated apartments formerly owned by junkies, and each level after got cleaner. 

Still, aside from the few apartments that seemed to have taken Tully’s deal, the building was full of families and people. On the fourth floor, three apartments had newborns, one of them a set of twins. The garbage chute had never been cleaned, and was clogged before it reached the trash compactor outside. The workers had destroyed the central wiring, leaving the hall lights to buzz overhead. Amongst the other smells, evidence of the lack of water struck at his nose. 

How was he supposed to find the scents of two men buried under all of this? Beyond the grime of the street and the unfortunate living situations of the addicts, the building was full of the fragrance of so many lives.

Every person’s scent was unique. They were reflections of an individual’s humanity: body chemistry, habits, environment all mingling together into an olfactory fingerprint. 

If Matt didn’t know Foggy by name, he’d know him by the way his love for garlic clung to him, the spicier scent of a nervous sweat, and how he’d gotten hooked on coconut conditioner from an old girlfriend. And especially by the way Matt could tell he loved to laugh, little hints of it hanging around as pheromones echoing in his ears. 

Charlotte Tanner had a scent like Foggy’s and unlike any other he’d encountered. It was less chemical than most with subtle hints of cocoa butter lotion, she liked to use mint and rosemary, liked burning candles and giving ham to her very round cat. A mix of plants lined the windowsill and her skin, her ferns were thriving; the cacti bloated with overwatering. The scent of a computer, like plastic, metal, and dust all-in-one. Electronics and various mechanical components filled a corner of the apartment with their metallic tang. Then there was her: human, clean, healthy although over-caffeinated. 

Above all of it, was a bright and citrus-y joy. Hope and positivity steeped into the floorboards, nearly hiding the more recents wisps of anxiety. Matt worried that may be the only lasting trace of the visit from Tully’s ‘handymen’.

His knock on the door inspired a wave of bitter panic that prickled at his nose. Ms. Tanner’s pulse raced as she looked through the peephole, before her heartbeat peaked and the fear ebbed. Matt assumed that to be the moment she noticed his glasses and cane, his apparent harmlessness causing her to unlock the door and drop the chain. 

“Hello sir, this is apartment 15, can I help you?” Crisp, polite, and effective.

Something with wheels whirred up behind her, tucking itself behind her legs. It seemed to be about the height of a medium dog, and in terrible shape. On one side the hydraulics were running sluggishly and making a soft chugging noise, the thin metal casing was busted, paint scratched. Matt couldn’t decide what the machine’s purpose was. One of those robot vacuums probably. He’d been thinking about getting Foggy one for Christmas.

“Yes, is this Ms. Tanner?” Matt kept his expression clear, taking a deep breath to try and build a map of the apartment and the people who had been there. He could smell Brett and the stale cigar smoke that belied his mother, and Mrs. Cardenas had been there almost every day. 

“Um, yes?” she replied. The door swiftly closed halfway, shielding her body from him now that she knew Matt wasn’t lost, that he was there to see her. The little robot zipped to her feet, humming OLED display eyes also peering through the crack in the door. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

“No, I’d guess not,” Matt shrugged, tilting his head to focus on her rising pulse and the groan of her injuries. His train of thought was derailed by the mystery of what had been done to her. 

Filtering out the rest of the building and the sound of her brows furrowing in confusion, Matt tried to piece together what had happened. Across her side were hairline fractures on two ribs, a still dark bruise, and bean-shaped swelling. Then he caught it, almost drowned out by the scent of water from old pipes, soap, and lotion; there was a hint of rubber and the grime that lined the streets of New York. Have your face meet the pavement one time in a fight and you wouldn’t need senses like his for it to haunt you. 

Pieces clicked together. She was on the ground when she was kicked, possibly stomped on. Fists clenching around the handle of his cane, Matt resolved to help her, before finally responding.

“Sorry, that was rude of me, I’m Matt Murdock,” he stuck his hand out gently, pleased when she only hesitated slightly before taking it. As they shook hands, he felt the mostly healed scabs on her knuckles. So she got a few hits in— he was strangely proud. Good job sweetheart, never make it easy for ‘em.

“Gr-greeetingss st-teeeameed gueeest,” the little robot said from between her feet, moving back and forth on treaded tires in way that reminded Matt of someone swaying on their feet. The voice was tinny and crackled— the speaker had been damaged, and its speech was drawn out and wavery. Matt had no idea that robots could slur their words.

“Igor, hush,” she said sharply, nudging it back with her foot.

“St-st-teeeameed gueeest! I-iii-i am Igooorrr!” the thing spoke again, ignoring its chastising owner.

“It’s 'eh-steemed' guest,” she emphasized, “You’re getting mixed up with steamed vegetables,”

“You are our e-esteemed-d guest-egetables,” was the loud and almost proud reply. Matt couldn’t hold back a laugh, feeling the warm rush of blood across Charlotte’s face as she finally managed to knock the robot back into her apartment. It zipped off in a winding path, stuttering something about getting a water-glass of waters.

“Sorry, he uhhh- he needs a few repairs.”

Matt nodded, raising his gaze so that it landed somewhere near her eyeline. “Yeah, I’ve been told that’s been going around lately,”

Her spine straightened, the sheepish smile vanishing in a second as the hairs at the back of her neck rose, and her voice was firm as she spoke, “I’m not sure what you mean, I think that you’re in the wrong place.”

“I’m with Nelson and Murdock, representing Mrs. Cardenas and other tenants in the building against your landlord, Armand Tully. She addressed concerns that you had been physically assaulted by—”

Hearing the strain of her arm, Matt slid his cane into the doorjamb, preventing it from slamming closed in his face. The wind ruffled his hair back, but his expression remained fixed. Ms. Tanner tried to hide a grumble, but Matt caught that too as she opened the door back up to his faux-innocent face.

“Ms. Tanner, is everything alright?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking. Leave.”

Matt stood firmly in place. The floorboards creaked under her shifting weight, hand resting on her cocked hip with a huff. Lot of attitude considering I am trying to help you.

“Now.”

“I promised Mrs. Cardenas that I’d speak with you, please, hear me out.”

Not entirely true, but the words had spilled out of his mouth as a frantic need rose inside him. Maybe it was the nature of being a lawyer, but he’d never had to fight someone else to just let him help them before.

People came to him, they asked for his help, and standing across from this woman, so reluctant, had him on the edge of his comfort zone. Matt already felt guilty enough for what had happened. Right here, in the city that he swore to protect. Now the only way to alleviate that guilt required her to help him to help her, and they were clearly diametrically opposed in that regard.

Another put-upon sigh echoed from the depths of her chest. It almost had Matt believing that he was asking her to spend an afternoon explaining email scams to the elderly, rather than offering her assistance. “Okay, alright.”

“Whatever you’re afraid of, my partner and I can help you. You were assaulted in your own home, you deserve to feel safe again, and the men who did this deserve to be punished.” Matt had both hands wrapped around his cane, unable to stop himself from leaning forward in an earnest display. The door creaked closed just a bit more, and Matt straightened again, pleading with her. “We can help you, we’ll go down to the station with you to help you file a police report if you’d like, to make sure that they take your case seriously.”

“I appreciate your concern, but nothing happened to me.” 

His head tilted, the irregular skip in her heart telling him that it was a lie. Not that he needed to hear it, aside from the injuries slathered in a thick layer of makeup, Ms. Tanner was not a gifted liar. Everything about her demeanor told Matt that she’d say anything just to get him to leave.

“Tully, these men, they can’t just get away with what they’ve done.”

The sleeves of her sweater were being pinched and worried between her fingers, her thumb picking at a hole in the cuff. Matt heard the shift of her feet, the deep breath that filled her chest as she steadied herself. Abandoning any pretense of eye contact, her head slumped forward between her shoulders. 

“They’re not getting away with anything, no one touched me.” Another lie, this one mingled with a heavy sigh. There was a desperate tone to her voice where before there’d been exasperation.

A memory came to mind, of the nuns at St. Agnes watching old movies after hours. The kind with pretty women and sad endings, dames looking for trouble and bad guys meeting the fist of justice. They never had particularly happy endings, but he didn't mind that too much, it felt more realistic. Matt had preferred listening to them over the more chaotic alternatives outside of the church grounds, imagining his dad as the down-on-his-luck detective until he fell asleep missing his hero.

Hearing her voice, free from the crackle of old television speakers, it almost felt too raw. Matt could only pray that Ms. Tanner’s story wouldn’t be another similarity, dread sinking into the pit of his stomach. Just because it felt like a portent didn’t mean that it was one. 

“Going to the police can help.” Matt couldn’t help but repeat himself, as if there was some magic number of times that she had to hear it before finally agreeing. “Ms. Tanner, I will help you. I promise.”

Her head swung up to look at him, and Matt felt a prick of hurt when her head shook just the slightest bit. Obviously her disbelief wasn’t personal, but it stung nonetheless.

“No, police would just make everything worse,” she said, and Matt snapped to attention.

General fear of authority and the law was intangible, and in Ms. Tanner’s case seemed to be deeply ingrained. It wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse to fight something like that. If she was being threatened though… he readjusted his grip, head tilting just a tick.

“Has someone been here? Did they threaten you?” 

“What?” Ms. Tanner sputtered, and Matt’s focus narrowed in on her, ready to catch any sign of a lie as it passed by. “No, that’s not— just stop.”

The exasperation had returned with a vengeance, one foot twitching in a move just shy of being a stomp. Abandoning the door, Ms. Tanner’s hands gestured sharply in the space between them. Her pulse was raised in agitation, but remained disappointingly honest beneath her clipped tone.

“I told you: no one touched me, no one threatened me. Thanks for checking in, Mr. Whoever, now please leave.”

Matt suppressed a frustrated groan, why did this have to be so hard? Is this how Claire felt when he ignored her advice and pulled stitches? No, this had to be much worse. All that was at stake was her own safety, it was maddening how easily she dismissed it. Why couldn’t she just let him help her? He wished there was a way to just make her talk, to get her to trust him. 

Even if she didn’t want help, she’d literally been kicked while she was down, and Matt was just supposed to let that go? Let it slide that a woman no longer felt safe in her home, and all for what? For whatever profits Armand Tully saw in evicting his tenants? Matt didn’t think so.

They both flinched at the sound of a crash from inside her apartment, the shattering of glass set Matt’s teeth on edge until the robot’s tinny voice cried out to the doorway.

“Nooo worr-ry-y! Ig-gor m-make mis-istake, but I-Iii-gor try agaaain-n.”

Ms. Tanner’s lips twitched into a smile, a fond huff of air leaving her even as she fixed Matt with the weight of her stare. A foot tap and the pointed clearing of her throat made it clear that his time was up.

“Right, it was nice to meet you Ms. Tanner. I’m Matt Murdock, if you change your mind or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call.” 

With that, Matt held out a business card, his casual and professional demeanor hiding the desperation underneath. He needed her to take it, he needed her to want his help. As the Devil he could swoop in and fight off any intruder, never having to ask permission to rescue people. Matt Murdock however, had rules to follow or risk being disbarred. It was almost enough to make him itch and whine like a flea-bitten dog.

C’mon, take the damn card, please.

Just when it’d become a concerted effort to stop his hand from shaking, her eyes finally stopped darting around in thought. Options weighed, Ms. Tanner’s fingers brushed against his again as she took the card. It left him feeling too light as she turned back into her apartment, multiple locks clicking into place between them. Accepting the card didn’t mean she was accepting his help, it wasn’t even a foot in the door, but it was at least something.

The fact that he happened to like the feel of her skin and the scent of her lotion was irrelevant. 

Floorboards creaked, and Matt suddenly realized that it was weird for him to be hanging around the door. She had lingered too, a nervous eye to the peephole as she watched him turn towards the stairwell and leave. Matt could hear her press her forehead against the door and breathe, the small robot rolling up behind her.

“W-water for-or-r g-guest-egetablessss,” Igor declared proudly, a half-full glass of water balanced on the tray that it held above its head. Drips fell from the edge of the tray, several puddles of water barely contained by its lip.

“Good job Igor, but he’s gone,”

“I-Igor-r w-ill wai-ait.” More water sloshed out onto the tray as the robot bobbed once in facsimile of a decisive nod. Matt paused at the top of the stairs, unsure what exactly he was waiting to hear.

“Don’t bother,” Ms. Tanner muttered, grabbing the glass and mopping up the water, “It’ll be a good thing if we never see that guy again. I don’t care how pretty he is, he’s still a lawyer, that means he’s bad news.”

Matt was conflicted behind his smugly twisted smile. While it wasn’t his ideal descriptor, he could work with pretty. He couldn’t work with her having an innate prejudice against his career.

In her kitchen, the lid of a trash can opened, and she stood holding the card over it for a long time, tracing across the lettering. Matt’s shoulders dropped from around his ears when the lid closed, and she tacked the card up beside her refrigerator. It felt like a win, like some small acknowledgement that she didn’t have to be afraid. 

He was also going to take it as a green light to let the Devil out, if she wouldn't involve the police these guys could go unpunished, Matt could fix that. When he found those guys, he’d be sure to get in the same hits that she had, from someone their size. When that was done he’d dole out their penance of twice the fear and pain that they’d given her.

It was dangerous and he knew it, this tendency of his to make things personal, yet he was unable to stop himself every time. Neither a conscious decision nor a slippery slope, Matt would just find himself devoted to mere strangers in the space of a blink. There was some innate need or urge inside of him that was tying himself to others without consideration, and Ms. Tanner was the latest victim. 

Anything that happened to her from this point on would be Matt’s fault, a failing or an attack on him. It was personal before he even stood in front of her door, before she had invaded his every sense. He would help her because it was the right thing to do, but he needed to keep her safe because it would protect him too, in a way. 

Failing the people that he cared about was like missing the step off of a curb, skidding across the pavement. Road rash had been collecting across his conscience and heart during the past few weeks as the Devil; last night’s failure to protect Claire was a face plant. Recovering from it felt like picking bits of asphalt out of his cheeks, burning and stinging in a way that couldn’t be ignored, only dulled.

Every night he listened as dozens of crimes were committed across the city, too many people to save at once. But, there was also the sound of college girls giggling on the streets, safe from the fate of a shipping container. There was a boy that slept sound in his bed, his father sleeping on the ground because he couldn’t bear being too far away from his son again. He could hear teens playing video games and mothers bundling their kids up to visit the park. People that he had saved, living their lives around him.

Matt needed to hear these things, to know that the Devil was doing something useful. That a drop in the bucket was still a positive change. Upstairs, Ms. Tanner was repairing her robot, talking it through the steps even while it was powered off. He wondered what she would be doing when he listened for her that night.

Like always, failure was not an option, and still felt inevitable. In an ouroborean way, he’d already failed, what happened to Ms. Tanner was his fault, due to his inaction. Matt knew about the window, the guy blackmailing that juror had told him. Was probably even scared enough to have told him more, like where the building was. Then he could’ve been at the epicenter, tracking people following Fisk’s orders, preventing things like this. Instead, his one track mind had gotten the best of him, and who knows how many people had been hurt as a result.

The sinking sun warmed his face, a contrast to the chill air that tugged at his coat as Matt exited out onto the street. He just had a stop at the station, and then it'd nightfall, where he’d have another opportunity to do the right thing for Hell’s Kitchen.

Thanks for reading, have a good day <;3

Next chapter is Karen's turn, and we all know that one of her superpowers is people skills... Also I don't know if anyone's interested, but I lmk if you'd like and I'll tag people to chapters when they come out.

[artbyblastweave]

I think one of KSBD's great strengths and weaknesses is the abundance of additional reading and lore. It provides amazing grist for discussion, but I fear it also tricks Abby into thinking he's written more into the story than there actually is, namely, the skew between ROYALTY's presence in the lore vs the actual comic, and also the difference in depictions between who Salami Davis was supposed to be (awful tyrant) and who he seems in the comic (actually kinda alright, barring the brutal prison sentences).

I think there's something to this broadly, but in Solomon David's case specifically I think I have to disagree; I got the Bad Vibes basically from his on-panel behavior. Part of this is that I think that if you're in charge of an empire you created yourself, you're definitionally kind of a shithead from the word go, part of this is that I'm primed to bouts of paranoia at the site of an environment as shiny and orderly as Rayuba even before any untowardly repressive behavior occurs. One major element is that his Demiurge splash introduction occurs while he's in the process of relieving some of his workers of a burden he imposed on them in the first place, which struck me as extremely performative given that he's touring Zaid around when he does it.

And, of course, most of King of Swords is a tournament arc that basically reads as a colossal, televised PR event/ego fluffing exercise. Ostensibly it's a way to find a worthy successor- but if his concern is really purely about making sure his holdings will be secure against the other demiurges should he step down.... why not just step down from actually ruling the empire but make himself available in a military capacity if the other Demiurges try something?

Here my read wavers a little. Because it's possible that Solomon uses the Tournament as a fig leaf for his true desire to remain in charge forever, making his moral inclinations inviolate law; only running the tournament because he doesn't seriously think anyone will ever beat him. It's also possible that his thinking is so warped that he genuinely believes that recreating the universal war in miniature is a good way to pick a successor, and he might have actually honored White Chain's request that he abdicate if Jagganoth hadn't shown up when he did. But I wouldn't put money on the second interpretation. He did not have the facial expression of a guy about to abdicate, and the parts of his dialogue we can see over Jadis teleporting in read suspiciously like the beginnings of a convenient hedge.

[bigtiddytomboy2]

Your gf recommended the massage place, even told you which masseuse to ask for. You're a bit surprised that it's a guy, but she said he wasn't into women, so it's kinda perfect. You trust her judgement and try to relax while he starts some music in the background. It's relaxing, soothing, and you can really feel the tension and stress seep out of you when he starts to massage your shoulders, rubbing down between your shoulderblades, when he moves down your sides and up your spine again. He is talking to you throughout, but you barely hear the words, his voice fits neatly into the gaps in the music. After a while he lights some short candles and places them directly in front of your face. The heat is palpable. The smell is in your ears almost immediately. It makes your vision swim, your thoughts slow down even further. It gets so hard to think. So hard to stay focused on where his hands are. They keep wandering, you feel like, they keep wandering down, down your body. He's massaging your feet, up your legs. The towel has gone, and you can't tell when it happened. You try to look up, but then you take another breath in and you realize that you feel so weak. Too weak to move. The massage has sapped all the strength from your body, the smell of the candles, the soothing tones of the music and his voice, they're all caressing your body, your mind into docile compliance while he spreads your legs. The docile laziness slowly turns into a heat. The smell of the candles is in your nose, rising up to cloud your mind, snuggling around your thoughts as if smothering them.

You try to squirm away when you feel his cock grind against your pussy. At least in your mind. In reality, you don't move an inch. Held more securely than with any ropes or chain, your body simply obeys him. Your body, your mind, both opened up to him.

He's still talking to you. Something about hypnosis, about an aphrodisiac, about a good deal struck with your gf. Most of the words don't make it through to your foggy, clouded head, but you can't deny how amazing your body feels. A lazy heat, surges of arousal wherever he touches, and an insistent, irresistible need originating between your legs and rolling away into every corner of your body.

You try to tell him to stop when he fills up your pussy. Instead you moan. You try to get away. Instead you push your hips back against him. You try not to like it when he thrusts in again, when he finds that spot, when he starts teasing your clit while he has you at his mercy.

Instead you cum. Over and over again. Instead you give in. Overwhelmed. Overpowered. He takes breaks, he paces himself, just to play with you some more in between his downtimes. The pleasure doesn't stop. And all the while he's talking, leaving suggestions hidden in the depths of your mind.

You wake long after the massage session was supposed to be finished. When you find him at the reception, he explains that you fell asleep, that there's nothing to worry about. You don't know why, but you feel a bit weird. Your body seems to be sending signals that your mind keeps denying. You shake the feeling and book your next appointment.

🥴oh man this is so good, getting hypnotized without ever realizing… when I get home I don’t think anything of how happy my gf is as she asks me if I had a good time, and when I’m going back next…

[imaginethezeldaverse]

D, j, m, k, v ? 🫡

Sure thing. I referenced the NSFW Alphabet Template that I put on a Google Doc for everyone. You can find that here. This is for Yunobo, FYI, but I welcome any asks for any Zelda character as long as they're canonically an adult 😊 Anywho, nsfw under the cut:

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I think he's gotten himself off at least once in his "office" (I say that with quotations because I don't think he has an actual office in canon - but in my head he does) in YunoboCo HQ. Now while that's not the worst of secrets since it's pretty private, it's extremely dirty to him because that's supposed to be his place of business. But sometimes thoughts run wild and he couldn't shake how hard he was so he took care of it under his desk.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Oh look at that! Okay, so I think he prefers to take it slow. Yunobo enjoys the buildup, reminds him of what it could be like to be taken care of by a lover. The strokes are slow and his grip isn't tight on it, it feels so much better that way to him.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Prior to sex, being upfront with him. Not necessarily super blunt but making it clear that he's desired physically. During actual sex - telling him things like 'you feel so good', 'I can't get enough of how strong you are', 'I can't imagine doing this with anyone else' would probably drive him nuts in the best way possible. It makes him feel wanted, which is a huge turn on for him. Might also push him to take the reigns a little more.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Hm...other than a praise kink, I don't think he'd mind cuffing you (his partner) up every once in a while. Might even use the chain that wraps around his chest to hold the Boulder Breaker to do it. Or any extra of the red cloth that ties his chestplate around his body. Something about a personal belonging of his being wrapped delicately around your body to hold you still so can he enjoy you/pleasure you turns him on. Volume = (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Yunobo has never struck me as particularly loud. He's a whimperer for sure, but loud, he is not. However - his voice gets deep. Especially when he's lost in the midst of ecstasy, his voice takes on this grit that you don't hear too much and it's heavenly.

[potatoobsessed999]

Thinking about Lucy’s rescue on the 11th and Renfield’s capture today and having emotions about the parallels and contrasts - like! Look at this!

Seward: [at the end of the entry] “I was too excited to sleep, but this diary has quieted me...” / Mina: [at the beginning of the entry] “Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.”

Seward: “...the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once...” / Mina: “I... threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her."

Seward: “He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.” / Mina: “‘Thank God,’ I said to myself, ‘she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.’“

Seward: “...I saw a white figure scale the high wall...” / Mina: “...the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white.”

Seward: “I could see Renfield’s figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him.” / Mina: “As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her.”

The similarities are almost eerie - the imagery of the white figure against the dark of the night especially stands out to me.

But then look at these (CW for Seward’s ableism):

Seward: “I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow me... in case our friend might be dangerous.” / Mina: “The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy’s condition.”

Seward: “He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off.” / Mina: “There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, ‘Lucy! Lucy!’ and something raised a head...”

Seward: “When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.” / Mina: “When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to wake her.”

Seward: “I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I shall not again.” / Mina: “...when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child.”

Seward: “Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get free from the strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he’s chained to the wall in the padded room.” / Mina: “When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed.”

Seward: “...he’s chained to the wall in the padded room. His cries are at times awful...” / Mina: “I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly...”

I have a lot of thoughts about all this but they’re all jumbled up! These are fundamentally the same situation - Dracula’s psychic influence interacts with someone’s preexisting medical condition and causes them to abscond in the middle of the night - and yet they are so diametrically opposed! Mina (correctly) assumes Lucy is in danger; Seward assumes Renfield is the danger. Lucy is confined for her own protection, Renfield for the supposed protection of others. Seward binds Renfield with chains, Mina binds herself to the key.

One thing that’s really giving me emotions is this idea of who is worth protecting. Seward and co. are indisputably doing Renfield physical, emotional, and reputational harm, but - well, to repurpose Renfield’s own words, they think he doesn’t count. (What price the fall of a sparrow now, Doctor? Or how is it going lately with your spiders?)

And the fact that Renfield’s parallel here is Lucy, whom Seward reveres, whom he references in this same entry as a sort of unattainable dream -

Well. It drives things home a bit.

[hexfloog]

13, 38 & 41 for Evil Conan!

13. What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?

Blue! Deep, dark blues. And he does - definitely not because it's Shinichi's best color or anything.

yeah i might be a little biased here lol, this is a personal preference for them also

38. What memory do they revisit the most often?

So... although Shinichi's memories are technically Conan's memories, accessing them is a bit like watching home videos recorded on a VHS. He has no deep, sensory connection to them; he's aware they exist, he can visit them in this window-shopping kind of way, but he's incapable of any kind of nostalgia for them. He could recall something as influential as The Moonlight Sonata Murder Case and feel nothing.

This drives him mad, of course, because [1] it's out of his control, and [2] he wants so badly to be Shinichi-- he is Shinichi, so why don't the memories feel like his own?

Conan doesn't get to build his own repository of memories until he takes full control, which is well into his relationship with Shinichi and well after their initial "split." So for the sake of a timeline, his "real" memories begin sometime before The Naniwa Serial Murder Case (using the anime canon).

Ironically, I think a memory that would have struck him quite deeply, like Shinichi, is watching Akemi die.

miyano sisters stay winning by living in this gremlin's head rent-free fr (sobs)

For Evil Conan specifically, not only does he get to eke just that much closer to the org, but it's the first time he gets to validate himself as Shinichi to someone who clearly doesn't view him as just a child. I believe that validation will mark any memory in his mind as important and worth revisiting.

...

For the record, Evil Conan would absolutely point at Shinichi and loudly proclaim he's "nothing like him" while beginning hour 10 in the Holmes-specific section of the Kudos' ostentatious library/study combo.

41. How do they feel about children? 

They're... useful.

I think for this one it's important to highlight that Evil Conan's character is always on a downward trajectory from the moment he decides he and Shinichi cannot coexist, and that these answers are for an incarnation of him who is already at his worst, long-steeped in a deep hatred for Shinichi and actively pursuing his demise... but without having gone completely off the rails yet. The only way he could be any worse is if the story branched off on a "bad ending" route-- that is, he "wins" and successfully takes Shinichi's place in the world.

In spite of being more childish than he lets on, Conan believes and acts like he's more grown-up than he really is (something inherited from Shinichi, of course) and he has a disdain for children in the same way that he hates himself. It's projection; unlike Shinichi, Conan has little agency over... well, anything in his life because he actually looks like a child, and children don't have authority over anything in the structure of the world-- a sentiment only reinforced by the way people treat him at first glance. It doesn't matter how cunning he actually is.

That said, since he sees no inherent worth in children due to their status at the very bottom of the food chain, they become pawns in his worldview: another means to an end. He tries to manipulate the Detective Boys more than once during the course of his story, and Ayumi especially is his object of amusement. As he becomes more arrogant, his behavior shifts to be more bully-like, and no child is spared.

I suppose children represent vulnerability to him and, since that is the very thing he's trying to escape, he simply hates them by proxy.

Tysm for the asks \ (•◡•) / This one got long! Question list here!!

[sleeplessinspace]

never fade away - googleplier x afab!reader

heh, there's a lot going on here :D also, part 2 of consecration is still coming! i just really needed to get this fucker out of my drafts, it's been taunting me for two months. and what better time to enact my revenge against @echo-echo31 than now, with chains part 2 finished >:D

this takes place in an au of chains, where alpha has been captured by the human alliance and reader has been freed of the brand's control. aside from those two things, events have more or less occurred the same way.

warning(s): nsfw, usage of fem!pronouns, dubious consent, possessive behavior, implied manipulation, implied aphrodisiacs (the brand, used on reader), praise kink, daddy kink, dom/sub elements, brief description of violence (not directed at reader), orgasm denial + delay, oral (reader receiving), implied breeding kink, implied strength kink, spanking (brief, reader receiving)

There's a slight tickle of awareness in your mind of where you are—a memory hidden within a dream, maybe? Or was it a dream pretending to be a memory?

You can never be sure of what's right and what's wrong when it comes to your thoughts of him.

"You really won't come swim with me?"

You're propped up on the edge of the pool within one of Alpha's bases—you'd stopped keeping track of where you were as long as you were with him—leaning on your arms as you look over at him seated in one of the lounge chairs with his tablet in hand. He didn't require it to do any of his work but used it for your benefit, knowing that you liked to have a visual of where his attention was. He wasn't dressed for the pool either, a pair of black jeans and a navy henley, but it didn't stop you from asking.

Alpha lifts a brow and looks up briefly, synthetic blue flickering. "I thought this was supposed to be time for you to take a break. Because you were tired," he drawls and the way he says the word makes your face hot, toes curling beneath the water.

You feel your core pulse as your mind flashes back to yesterday. He'd come home hungry, something that happened every so often—almost like he was suddenly struck with the knowledge that he had you, wholly and completely, and was free to use you as such—but you'd been in a defiant mood, eager to see what he'd do to you if you... disobeyed, if only for a little bit.

Nearly an hour under his mouth later, there was little fight left in you when he slid into your warmth with ease, dragging you through orgasm after orgasm until you were left dazed and whimpering, cum seeping out of you around his half-hardened cock keeping you nice and stuffed.

You pout, trying to keep your composure as the memory lingers in your mind, "If you won't come swim, can I at least get a kiss? Please?"

"I think I've spoiled you too much, pet," Alpha comments dryly, but he's getting to his feet with a slight quirk to his lips, and you beam up at him.

"You haven't spoiled me enough," you argue and match his smile into the kiss he gives you after crouching near the edge. Just before he pulls away, you snake your arms around his neck and yank, just barely catching him off guard so you can jerk him into the pool.

You're laughing when he pops out of the water, but not for long.

He takes a moment to push his hair out of his face and it's then you realize that you've made a mistake. Your eyes are immediately drawn to his chest, his dark shirt molded to his muscles from the water. Alpha fishes his tablet out of the water and tosses it out the patio and you wince a little.

"Sorry," you whisper, starting to shift backwards in the water, your hand flailing behind you as you slowly try and catch the edge of the pool. "I didn't mean to—"

"You're not tired anymore." Alpha announces with a growl and starts to move towards you, cutting through the water with ease.

You shriek, the sound mostly playful as you go to climb out of the pool and just as manage to pull yourself out of the water, Alpha's hand locks around your ankle and you're yanked back into his arms. The brand is warm, his feigned disapproval betrayed by the affection and arousal you feel coursing through you starting at the base of your neck. "Wait, wait, Alpha, I'm sorry—!"

"No, you're not."

He lifts you up into the air and you flail a bit before your legs go over his shoulders, the heat within you building as he nips at you.

"Alpha, I'm sorry, I'm still a little—" You hide your face, ashamed and he hums, carrying you easily to sit you on the edge of the pool. You try to pull him in, but he ignores your efforts, pinning you down with an arm across your legs, almost folding you in half.

"Shh, kitten," Alpha rips a hole into your swimsuit, and you cry out at the cool air brushing between your legs as he leans down to start biting softly at your thighs. "I had at least six hours of work on there. Having you come apart in my mouth three times and a few times on my cock sounds fair, hm? You ready to pay me back, pet?"

"No, wait, wait, it was an a-accident," you whine as he starts to lick up your folds, slowly working his way up to your swollen clit, sucking softly but you still tense, still so sensitive and your legs twitch under his iron grip. "Please, please, I don't—!"

He licks into you with a vicious care that has you writhing against his face as best as you can manage, pinned as you are. You sob, struggling to center yourself as he slows down just enough to start sliding in a finger alongside his tongue, another following it with ease given how wet you are, and he pulls back to nuzzle at your thigh. "Don't want to cum without Daddy's cock in you, is that it? Good girl, remembering the rules," he teases and you lift your hands to hide your face, pressing down on your warm cheeks. "But what if I try to make you anyway, hm? You know how much I love to watch you fight the pleasure I give you."

"You're b-being so fuckin' m-mean today!" You cry out, one hand shooting down to clutch at his hair, unknowingly pushing his mouth further against you and you shriek when he smirks, three fingers now sliding in and out of you with enough force and skill to make that special knot begin to build in your gut. "No, no, no, please, Daddy, please don't make me—want it to be on your cock, wanna cum with you filling me, please!"

Alpha smiles darkly, shifting so those fingers are pressed against that set of nerves that makes you shake, your frantic cries devolving into nonsense as you try to not to cum on his hand. "Make you? This is your fault, the consequences of your actions. Such a shame it's not about what you want, baby," he purrs and there's his palm, giving you the perfect position to grind against it and your hips are already moving to take advantage of the friction, tears starting to slip down your cheeks as you get closer and closer to the edge, the brand to inject that fiery arousal into your veins, extending the high you're almost finished chasing.

"Mmph, no, please, please just—" you cut yourself off, hand tightening in his hair hard enough to harm a human but he's unmoved as you try to tug his mouth away. "Y-you're just gonna punish me!"

"Come on, kitten—soak Daddy's tongue and maybe I'll let you warm my cock while I replace the work you made me lose. Shh, that's it, there we go, sweet girl—cum all over Daddy's face."

You wake up biting the edge of your pillow as the dream-memory feel of Alpha's tongue buried between your legs fades into nothing, leaving you aching and angry. It didn't feel right to still think about him, let alone dream about him—and oh, did you dream of him often.

Even more frustrating is how kind he seemed to be in your dreams—in your memories? the line between them keeps blurring and you hate it—always treating you sweeter than you would've thought him capable of.

In the beginning, when you'd first been freed from his control, you'd been so afraid and confused. Dreams so vivid they'd felt real, and it was almost like you were losing your mind until you finally broke down and went to one of the Alliance medics. It was a frustrating, long conversation where they explained what had been done to you—how Alpha had slowly but taken over your mind over months until you'd been firmly under his thumb.

There's my good little kitten...

You're on your feet before you realize, pacing the length of your room with an itch between your shoulder blades. The way your dreams always leave you—you hate it, always craving something that you knew you could no longer have.

You could have it whenever you want, sweetheart. You just have to let me back in.

The last thing you wanted was to let him back in, but your body didn’t know any better and you hate it. Such a loyal pet, even after everything that’s happened.

And yet.

Yet.

Against your better judgement, you find yourself heading down to the lower levels of the Alliance base. Down to the cell—it would be much too kind to call the room anything other than a prison, designed to hold Alpha specifically. In attempt to combat his capabilities, twenty floors of the base above his “room” were isolated from any sort of networking and technology. It was kept on a very rudimentary power structure dedicated to keeping the space lit and connected to a lesser version of the base’s heating system, keeping Alpha sufficiently quarantined with nothing for him to interface with. On top of that, the entire floor his room was on was surrounded by something akin to an upgraded Faraday cage, keeping him from connecting to the many satellites the Alliance was still fighting to decrypt and take offline.

You hug your jacket tighter around yourself once you reach his floor. The room is cold and made entirely of stone, sparsely furnished with little more than a single chair propped off to the side of the main door. It wasn’t as if Alpha needed creature comforts; he couldn’t use them anyway. No, the once-feared—still feared, pet, careful now—android was carefully restrained, a mockery of the god he believed himself to be. One half of the room was sectioned off with impenetrable glass and steel and Alpha sat behind it, not unlike a tiger in a cage. On his knees, his arms bound behind him and essentially trapped against his back with industrial-strength magnetic locks. A collar sits around his neck as well, an EMP tied to his electromagnetic signature that could knock him unconscious at a moment’s notice. Powerful enough to take him offline for an extended period of time, though he hadn’t given the Alliance the chance to use it yet.

The muzzle was a recent addition—Janus had come to you explaining how Alpha had practically ripped a poor Gamma’s arm off when they were updating the restraints.

You can’t help the way your eyes trace absently over the slight tension in his body, recalling how on more than one occasion Alpha held you aloft with ease in his arms, pinning you to the nearest wall or the window of his office, trapped on his cock as he made you scream his name, the brand burning in sheer ecstasy—

You lift a hand to the back of your neck where that same brand sits, now completely unresponsive.

Mostly. You think you… feel things sometimes and it worries you. Scares you because of how easy it would be to slide back into old, terrible habits.

“Hello, kitten.”

“Alpha.” You keep your eyes on the hollow of his throat, where his bare cybernetics lay, the LEDs soft with inactivity.

You don’t dare look him in the eye.

Despite the brand’s programming effectively flushed from your system, you remember the early days when he had a hold over you without it, getting you to easily sway to his every whim with a few looks and even fewer words.

Bastard.

As if sensing your rude thoughts—which everyone swore up and down could not happen any longer, he was separated wholly from you—you see his lips twitch into a smile through the duraplastic covering on his jaw. Sharp.

“Four months, twenty days, thirteen hours, and twenty-four minutes have passed since I last had you in my arms,” he tilts his head to the side, the chain connecting the muzzle to the bonds on his back clinking softly with the movement. You don’t dare shift your gaze, you don’t miss his eyes, you don’t. “I missed you so much, sweetheart.”

“The only thing you missed was having your stupid little pet at your beck and call,” you can’t help but snap and drop your hand from where you had been unconsciously rubbing at the brand. “You missed making me play your twisted games, missed taking every part of me and replacing it with what you wanted.”

That smile vanishes and the LED nodes on his throat flicker from blue to dim red. “Baby, you are very, very mistaken if you think what I felt for you—what I still feel for you—is anything other than love,” he hisses, and you take a step back instinctively as he starts to pull at the restraints for the first time since he’d been placed in them. “You’re speaking as if you didn’t invite me to play those games you speak so poorly of. You always begged me to continue, kitten, so don’t pretend like you don’t remember.”

“How could I trust anything I remember from then? For all I know, you tricked me, warped my memories!”

Alpha barks out a laugh and you’ve never heard that sound from him, at least not directed at you, and you find yourself looking up to meet his gaze.

“Tricked you? Oh, sweet girl… I suppose quite a lot has happened since that day, but I never tricked you into anything you weren’t already thinking about. Didn’t you ever wonder where my impulses came from?”

“Faulty processes, some kind of virus in that fucked up code of yours, I don’t know! It doesn’t matter, everyone knows you’re fucking corrupted—”

“You said you wanted all of me and I gave you exactly that,” Alpha says, his voice harsh enough to stun you into silence. In that quiet you hear the sound of metal straining under the force of him trying to stand and you freeze.

“You’re not you’re supposed to be able to move,” you whisper to yourself and throw a frantic glance at the security cameras in the corners of the room, making Alpha laugh again.

The metal bending under his strength is getting louder now.

He's slowly rising from his kneeling position when you look back and you panic, trying to pull out your phone to call for help when his eyes flicker pure white and your phone lets out a whine as the screen flashes bright blue—his blue—and you drop it before it sparks violently. “Alpha, stop! They'll kill you if you break out, you need to stop!”

There’s an impressive shriek of titanium-reinforced steel as he flexes just enough to get the bonds around his arms to shatter, reaching up to yank the rest of it away and throw it to the side. He bends down to snap the chains around his legs and steps free of the mess of his bonds, the only pieces left now being the muzzle and the EMP collar. “You’ve missed me, haven’t you, baby?”

It’s almost like he’s ignoring you, but the way his eyes never leave your form says otherwise.

“I didn’t fucking miss you, now please just—please don’t make me use this. I'll do what I can to keep you safe, but I can't do that if you don’t stop.”

Alpha narrows his eyes at the detonator in your hand, coming to stand in front of the glass, the last barrier keeping him locked away. The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, your eyes locked on the way his fingers are pressing against the glass hard enough for cracks to spiderweb out around each digit.

“Still so distracting, aren’t you, pretty baby?” he says after a moment and you’re just a half second too late pressing the detonator—Alpha rips the collar from his neck and the muzzle follows a second later, the metal of the two popping loudly as sparks fly from the ruined technology. “Daddy's feeling a little merciful tonight.”

You fist your hand around the now-useless detonator, backing up to the door to the room. “You don’t know the meaning of mercy,” you mutter, angry with yourself for trying to help him, still trying to save him because despite everything you didn’t want him harmed or dead.

You just…

You don’t know what you want?

“If you really want to run—if you really want to leave me and everything we share, everything I did for you behind—I'll let you go.”

It's a trap, a trick, another one of his fucked up games. He’d come too far, done too much to let you go.

Alpha's gaze softens for a moment as he looks at you, almost as if he’s taking you in one last time. Then his expression shutters and whatever warmth was in that bright blue gaze is now lost beneath steady, cool calculation.

“I’ll give you five floors to get away. If you succeed, you’re free for good. I won’t come after you and I'll leave the resistance alone… for a little while, granted they don’t infringe on my territories,” Alpha explains and you almost don’t want to believe him but this is the same way he negotiates with anyone stupid enough willing to make deals with him. You’re speaking with the tactician now, the negotiator who felled the world in less than two months.

You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry at the prospect of never seeing him again. You don’t know why your chest feels oddly tight at the thought. “What about the security? They'll see me running, they’ll know you did something.” you ask and he smirks, managing to look down on you from across the room.

“The camera’s been looping a feed of me alone since I first saw you on the other side of the door, baby. No one has a clue you’re even down here. It’s just you and me… Just the way Daddy knows you prefer.”

“What happens if you catch me?”

His lights flicker, almost in warning and you kick back into the door on accident, surprised. “Better for you to focus on your escape. Now, get going before I lose what little mercy I have left, little kitten. Daddy needs to finish getting out of this pathetic prison.”

You’re out the door and flying down the long hallway before you have a chance to second guess yourself, before that odd rebellious part of you still tethered to Alpha has a chance to make you do something stupid. You almost stumble into the doors leading to the flight of stairs, a loud shattering echoing behind you but you keep your balance and you keep moving.

One foot in front of the other, breathing almost panicked but you keep your eyes on the next set of doors, making it up three levels with ease.

The door leading up to the fifth level, however—

It’s fucking locked.

“No, no, no, no!” You slam your fist against the door, trying to yank it open with no success and then there’s the scuff of footsteps behind you, the only warning you get before strong, cybernetic arms wrap around your waist and yank you over his shoulder. “You fucking cheater, you cheated, I was going to get away, I was going to be free of your possessive—you piece of shit, I hate you—!”

Alpha ignores the way you’re trying to pull out of his grip, pinning your legs down so you can’t kick him and turns back down the hall. Legs restrained, you punch at his back and end up stopping sooner than you’d like, the plating beneath his skin starting to hurt your hands.

The room he takes you into seems to be one of the unused conference rooms, shutting the door behind him before he lets you down onto your feet, watching with amused eyes as you immediately dash to the other side of the table, to keep something between the two of you.

Alpha locks the door.

“Let me out.”

“No. You had your chance and you failed, sweetheart,” his grin is just on the other side of cruel as he turns back to face you and reaches down to undo his belt, the buckle clinking loudly in the silence of the room. He slowly wraps a section of it around his fist and gives you a look. “Are you going to make me come over there or are you going to be a good pet and accept your loss with pride?”

A dusty notebook flying by his head is his answer and he sighs, almost amused and the sight of his hands tightening around the leather does funny things to your stomach, things you swear you don’t like.

“You cheated,” you hiss again, circling the table slowly as he does the same. “I was going to win and you couldn’t let that happen, could you?”

“It’s not cheating if you never had a chance in the first place. You’re just a little upset Daddy likes to play to win.”

“Bastar—fuck!”

You make a misstep, stumbling over a discarded power cord and always one to take advantage, Alpha is there. Too quickly, you’re pinned beneath him and your hands are suddenly restrained by his belt.

Part of you is glad he didn’t use it like you expected, while the other part of you is thinking of why he didn’t.

“Mm, there we go,” he growls, low and happy and you whimper at the feel of his hips pressing you into the table. “You always did look perfect beneath me, kitten. I know how hard it’s been for you lately, forced to make all these big decisions without me there to guide you.”

“I don’t need your guidance and I don’t need you!”

Alpha keeps your chest pinned down with one hand while the other traces over your brand, an almost electric feeling racing up your spine.

“You don’t know what you need. But it’s fine—I can fix that.”

You get a brief millisecond, an instant where it feels like time freezes and you feel the scrape of Alpha’s teeth—sharp, sharper than they had any right to be—against the nape of your neck before they sink into your brand and you scream.

It doesn’t hurt.

God, you almost wish it did—no, instead all you feel is pure, thrilling heat, shooting through your veins fast enough to make your head spin. You choke, nails digging into the table and moan alongside Alpha, feeling the full force of all of his feelings crash into you for the first time in months, not unlike a wave breaking against the shore. All of his anger, the hints of fear, that never-ending desire—that fucking obsession with keeping you in his arms and by his side, you get all of it and more, those feelings intertwining easily with the ones you thought you buried.

You don’t even realize you’re begging him, overloaded on your shared senses and when he pulls away, you follow, lifting yourself up as best as you can beneath his touch keeping you pressed against the surface of the table.

“Ah, please… Alpha…”

He flips you over and you moan weakly at the sight of him, eyes glowing brighter than you’ve ever seen them, his tongue licking carefully over one of his fangs. Relishing the taste of his mark on you.

“There she is,” Alpha coos, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips and it doesn’t last long enough in your opinion. “There’s my perfect pet. I missed the taste of you so much, sweetheart. Will you give me more?”

You’re already nodding before he finishes the question, hands flexing in the belt keeping your hands restrained. “Yes, Alpha, please! I want to touch, why can’t I touch?” you whine, trying to squirm free and he shushes you, dropping to his knees and making quick work of your pants. “I’ll be good, I'll be good, please, please, let me touch you!”

“Shh, in a little bit, baby. Keep your hands above your head.”

You’re not happy about it but you bite your lip and obey, trying not to move so much as he removes your underwear, face heating now that you’re bare in front of him. There’s little fight in you as he shifts you around until he’s got you perfectly positioned—ready and open for him to get a taste.

You feel like you’re seeing stars by the time he starts fucking you on his tongue, long enough to press against that precious bundle of nerves that makes you shiver in his grip, hands clenching each other because he told you to stay where he put you, grinding against his face as you get closer to that peak, that glorious goddamn high—

Alpha pulls his tongue out of you with a snarl, pinning your legs down after you tried to tighten them on his head. He shoves two fingers into your sopping cunt with terrible ease, pressing his thumb against your clit in harsh circles that make you cry out, his name, for God and that—

“I'm your God, pet, you scream for me.”

When you blink your tear-sticky eyes open, panting and still shuddering, Alpha is yanking his shirt over his head. His shirt, darkened with fluid at the bottom and you’re too tired to care that you’ve ruined it, you prefer seeing his bare skin and cybernetics anyway and tell him such.

He smirks, reaching down to stroke a hand over your head and you give him a sleepy smile. “Alpha…”

“You forgot my rule, didn’t you?”

You frown a little, all fucked-out and confused. “Rule…? Alpha, I don’t—”

From now on, if you want to cum it’ll be on my cock and with my permission.

You freeze, the memory of his instructions echoing in your mind so loudly you know with certainty he’s thinking the same thing. His cruel smile gets even bigger as you start to stutter, tears of frustration and shame beginning to sting at the corners of your eyes.

“Wh-wait, no, you made me, you didn’t tell me that I couldn’t—! Alpha, I'm sorry!”

He leans down to kiss your nose and you sob, apologies spilling out of you as he turns you over, tugging you back until your feet touch the floor and you’re properly bent before him.

Alpha hikes the back of your shirt up, smoothing his hands over your back and down until they’re cupping your ass, deceptively gentle. You flinch a little at the feel of his nose pressed against your ear and the rumble of his voice does little to calm you.

You broke his rule, you broke his rule, you broke—

“I shouldn’t have to remind you, baby. Four months isn’t anywhere near long enough for that pretty little head of yours to forget one simple rule.” You hate how soft his words are, how his touch is even softer. “Fifteen and then we'll try again, see how good your memory is. Count for me, sweetheart.”

You hiccup, “Y-yes, Alpha.”

The first swat of his hand doesn’t hurt so much as it stings and it only gets worse from there, the sting escalating into a throb that leaves your cunt aching, dripping all over the table as you start to squirm once the two of you hit the double digits. An odd sensation sweeps over you by the fifteenth strike, a dizzy feeling, almost like you’re swimming underwater but Alpha is keeping you tethered to the shore.

“Such a good pet, you did such a good job, kitten. I was going to go for thirty if you failed, but my pretty prize doesn’t make mistakes twice now does she?” You shake your head, your tongue oddly heavy in your mouth as you’re shifted to your side, Alpha lifting one of your legs to hook over his shoulder.

A thick heat presses between your legs and you moan happily, hands flexing restlessly. “Yes, yes, yes, Alpha, please!”

He hisses, the hand on your leg tightening hard enough to bruise—should be covered in my marks, always, let them look, make them see who you belong to—as his cock sinks into your wet warmth.

“I should go slow for you, shouldn’t I? It’s been so long since I've had you like this, had you where you fucking belong,” Alpha growls, slowly pressing in until he's buried to the hilt, his cock a heavy but pleasant—addictive, you’ve missed this, you craved this, and you’ll never go without it again—pressure within you. “All those hours spent listening to those Alliance dogs argue and discuss what to do with me, all those weeks I watched you fight with yourself over coming down to see me—I stayed focused on you. Focused on the thought of this tight little cunt locked around me while I waited for the perfect moment.”

He's not quite thrusting yet, focused on drawing out the sensation with slow rocks of his hips and his pace forces you to feel and to listen—listen to the wet noise of you clutched around him as he presses deep enough to make that tight knot within you sing. You get so lost in the sweet feel of him inside you that you haven’t realized that he’s stopped.

“Alpha, wh-what…?”

He taps your cheek firmly, just enough pressure to make you open your eyes and look up at him. “I hope you didn’t expect me to do all the work after you made me fucking wait, pet. You want to cum again? Use Daddy’s cock.”

It’s hard, even after he takes a bit of pity on you and moves your leg down off of his shoulder so you can wrap it around his waist. Flat against the conference table like this, you have little to no leverage and he knows it, watching you make little grumbles of frustration as you struggle to move. You’re crying by the time you attempt to sit up, maybe he’ll let you hook your bound arms around his neck so you can hump against him, at least, but every time you go to try and pull yourself up, he shoves you back down, hand pressed to your chest not unkindly.

“Alpha, please, I need you to—I-I can’t do it!”

There’s a sly smile on his face, one that confuses you because he wouldn’t make you do something he couldn’t do, would he?

Daddy always plays to win, pet. Even when it seems like there is no game.

“Don’t want to cum after all then, hm? Did you get it all out of your system when you made a mess all over my shirt earlier?”

That’s not—

“N-no, wait, Alpha, I just needed—”

He clicks his tongue, cutting you off sharply and pulls out a slow slide that leaves you empty, shoving your legs down when you try to hook him back in. You try and fail to keep your eyes off of his cock, off the slight sheen of slick. “You don’t know what you need,” he murmurs and reaches up to finally untie your hands and you make a happy noise that makes him soften, if only slightly.

Alpha lets you knot your fingers in his hair and pull him down into a kiss, feeling every inch of his possession swim through you as he reaches up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs stroking over the dried tears on your cheeks. He pulls away slowly, kissing your palm when you whine and try to pull him back down.

“I was going to be mean, fuck that tight throat of yours until all you could taste was me,” Alpha says lowly, letting his hand wrap slowly around your neck, but the force in his grip isn’t there, so you stay calm and breathe, gazing lovingly up into his eyes. “But I’ve denied myself for too long. I want to see you fall apart on my cock; I want you to watch as I fuck my cum into you.”

You’re mumbling again, whispering agreements as he urges you to hook your legs around his hips and your head lolls to the side on the table, catching sight of your blurred reflection in the darkened windows. Something tickles at the edges of your mind—this isn’t home, you’re not safe, not yet—at the sight of them and you make a little worried noise.

“Alpha…”

Alpha plants a hand beside your head, blocking your view and turns your focus back to him with a whisper of intention, that slight static in the back of your mind. You meet his eyes again and fall into that captivating electric sea as his other hand moves to press at your brand, at his name.

“Mm, we’ll be home again soon, pet, and you’ll be safe. No one is ever going to take you from me again. Let Daddy worry about it. You just focus on savoring the feel of my cum in you when I pump you full, understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”