#Shadows scars and salted lines

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Baby, Mine

Azriel x Reader - Angst/Fluff - One shot

Rhys returns from under the mountain and Azriel’s life is changed forever as a bond snaps with the female his brother brings back with him. After an unexpected pregnancy is revealed, Azriel strives to show his mate just how much she and their child mean to him. Please read warnings below.

Bonus Chapter/Part 2

Warnings: discussion of rape and S/A, pregnancy resulting from rape, mentions of trauma, language, mention of pregnancy termination

“We should get up. My stomach’s growling.”

“And I thought it was just the little one chatting with my shadows.” Azriel teased, flushing beneath her gaze as his scarred fingers traced lightly over the growing swell of her abdomen, becoming more apparent by the day. He’d been nervous touching it for the first time, like he’d desecrate that precious life force growing underneath with his hands that had inflicted so much pain. But the way her eyes lit up the first time he touched it, he never wanted to forget the feeling of love and joy radiating into him through that newfound bond. It was beautiful - made him feel worthy of helping raise the beautiful life she was bringing into the world.

Though her stomach growled again, she made no move to get up, and by the way her hands were holding onto him, Azriel knew better than to go retrieve a plate from the House of Wind’s kitchen for her. So he sent a shadow beneath the door to see if Nuala or Cerridwen were there and if they could bring leftovers in, that is if Cassian and Mor hadn’t devoured the entire breakfast already.

“How’s she doing?” Rhys asked into his mind.

“Better than some days but not great, Rhys.”

There was a pause before Rhys’ guilty voice reentered his conscious.

“She’s the most selfless person I know, Az. I’m glad you two have eachother. But if she needs anything, if you need anything, let me know.”

And she was. Selfless in a way that Azriel couldn’t fathom. Selfless in a way that made his gut churn, a way he wanted to roar at the moon and the stars, and anyone who would listen. Selfless when she should have never had to be. She was bright and radiant and kind. The world looked at her and saw ethereal sunshine, walking starlight, unfathomable beauty both inside and out. But there was darkness and pain there too, so buried down deep that only Azriel could feel it in the middle of the night as whimpers disrupted her sleep.

So many nights Rhys would have to come in and cradle her mind, send her soothing thoughts and visions of anything beautiful that could mask the perils that haunted her dreams.

Azriel hated himself for it, the jealousy. He wished he could soothe her in that way but no matter how much love he sent through their bond, that darkness rooted itself so deeply within her that sometimes it took significant power from Rhys to reach it.

As if Rhys wasn’t already fighting his own trauma and waging against the insurmountable guilt he carried after being under the mountain, plus worrying about Feyre in the Spring Court. And that wasn’t to say Y/N was a burden in any way, though she felt she was. It killed Azriel to see both his mate and his brother fighting so much grief and not being able to do anything about it.

She’d have been better suited to be Rhysand’s mate than Azriel’s own by their intertwined traumas, by their ability to put themselves aside for a better world. Azriel, of course, fit into this court of dreamers but she… despite only being here for such a short period of time, she was the biggest dreamer of them all.

Another rumble from her stomach snapped Azriel out of his thoughts, mentally noting to Rhys, “She could use breakfast.”

“I’ll send some for both of you. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Azriel smelled the salt of her tears before he saw the silver lining her eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow, draping a wing over her, he began to ask softly, “Hey-“. Her head immediately shaking and she choked on the word, “No.”

“Baby, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a burden. He just wanted to know if you needed anything.”

She took a few deep breaths, willing away those tears. “He doesn’t have to check on me. It’s my f-“

“Stop that. Listen to me, I’m always here to listen to you and I know that you’re dealing with complex emotions and trauma that I cannot even begin to fully fathom but this.. it’s not your fault.”

Her eyes welled up further as Azriel continued,

“I don’t want to lecture you or invalidate what you are feeling. Your emotions are justified but… these thoughts will eat you alive, they’re vicious lies that have been conditioned into you, and I can promise you that nobody blames anything on you. This entire family is so fucking grateful to have you as a part of it. In a world of darkness, where you had every right, every reason to bring that darkness with you, you chose light.”

He choked on his words as those tears flowed down her face. “You chose light when it only brought more darkness upon yourself.”

She cut him off. “She’s not darkness.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “She?”

And through her tears, he saw the slightest gleam of radiance in her eyes. “I can just feel it. Feel her.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to Y/N’s belly. “Yes, you are absolutely right. She is not darkness - she’s a beacon of light, the brightest star in the sky, perhaps aside from her mother - but the mental load you are carrying, it is dark and it’s heavy. And yes, you would carry darkness with you regardless of this spark of hope” he rubbed her belly in tender circles for emphasis. “But I know that mind of yours. That you are telling yourself that you’re a burden, that you made the wrong choice, when there was no wrong choice.”

At this point, the tears were streaming down her face, his shadows dutifully whisking them away, but only gratitude and love flowed from her.

A knock came on the door. Azriel’s eyes glazed over as Y/N recognized the telltale signs of what was happening. A line creased in his brow before she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

“You sure, my love? He understands when you need space.”

She nodded. “I know but I think I need to see him today.” Azriel brushed his thumb in soothing ministrations across her abdomen until she pulled her night gown back down to cover herself.

The door creaked open and Rhys padded over to the bed, guilt and adoration limning his features. “Hey, starshine.” She blushed at the term. She hated her own name after Amarantha had called it so many times under the mountain. Rhys had begun calling her Starshine in secret due to her Day Court origins and the fact that he was convinced she’d been more suited for the Night Court.

Rhys had been drawn to her under the mountain, something about her reminding him of his brother. Rhysand could admit that Azriel was the most beautiful of the three brothers, his features seemingly crafted by the gods themselves. But if Azriel’s features were crafted by the gods, Y/N’s were crafted by the Mother herself. Aside from that, she had a quiet presence, though far less stoic and broody than Azriel’s, it was more of a quiet, gentle grace. A grace that Amarantha had tried so hard to shed her of but was never quite successful.

Amarantha, of course, made it her mission to both seek pleasure from her and torment her. When she never fully broke, Amarantha decided that instead of throwing her to the dark corridors she stuffed most lesser fae in, she’d make an excellent play thing. She looked mostly High Fae after all, yet had enhanced sexual appeal due to her nymph ancestry - perfect high and round breasts, long legs, a firm yet supple ass, and an arousing scent - needless to say, Amarantha delighted to add her to her roster of bed chamber accompaniment.

Y/N and Rhys developed a quiet understanding of each other and the roles they were forced to play in the year that she’d been under the mountain before Feyre arrived. They did not grow close enough for Amarantha to become concerned but enough that she knew her play things got along well enough to bring them both into her chambers at the same time.

Rhys would never forget the first time Amarantha had forced he and her into her chambers at the same time. Y/N tried to be strong, and she was. Another aspect of her that reminded him of his brother.

But she began to crack slightly, and Rhys knew Amarantha would make it so much worse for her if she did. So he did the only thing he knew to do and held her mind. He showed her visions of the Night Skies of the Night Court, the spirits of Starfall, the laughter of a family surrounding a table in a beloved restaurant, anything that could help her through it.

As he held her mind, she’d unwittingly sent visions from throughout her twenty-two years of life prior to being captured and brought under the mountain. She was loved deeply by her family who had little more than love to give. Eventually they had been murdered by Amarantha’s cronies at the age of nineteen - she’d been able to escape and live among the High Fae who sneered and objectified her, but offered enough coin to sleep with her to keep a roof over her head.

Rhys had determined that night that if they ever made it out of there alive, he was taking her to Velaris with him. She’d never live like that again.

He even smiled at the thought of introducing her and Azriel when she was ready to meet his family, already picturing his brother’s rose-dusted cheeks in her presence.

“Thank you” Azriel’s low voice withdrew Rhys from his thoughts, taking the plate from his hands.

A familiar scent wafted off of Rhys to Y/N. Pregnancy had heightened her sense of smell substantially.

As she sniffed the air Rhys gave a soft, sad smile at the eye brow she raised at him before asking, “Where is she?”

He shook his head, darkness rolling in waves off of him. “Tamlin locked her in his fucking manor. She had a breakdown.”

Her face drew tight. “That bastard!” Azriel flinched at the rage flowing down the bond. “She must have been terrified.”

“She certainly terrified the servants in his manor. She shrouded herself in darkness and nobody could get through to her.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Rhys nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Rhys. Where is she?”

“At the Town House.”

Her eyes blew wide. “Cauldron boil me, is she staying?”

Azriel smiled as he felt her excitement flow into him. A bit of that Day Court sunshine returning to her.

“I don’t know. She knows she can’t tell anyone if she goes back, but…”

“I felt it through the bond, Y/N. I think she’s here to stay.”

Azriel’s shadows agitated at the pause in verbal conversation, chattering back and forth,

“Secrets”

“Secrets”

He rolled his eyes and dismissed them, already knowing there were some things that remained between just Y/N and Rhys. He’d accepted it the very moment he’d shown up after he received word that Rhys was finally home and the bond snapped as soon as he laid eyes upon the radiant female by his side. He knew it snapped for her too when she walked right up to him, touched the hands he tried to hide behind his back, her eyes speaking everything she couldn’t. “I see your scars. I bear them too.” And pressed a kiss to each hand.

“Do you want me to leave? I assume she’s at the Town House but I’m sure she’ll be visiting here too, yes?”

Azriel bristled. No way in hell was Rhys going to make his mate leave, whether this home was his or not, she had a right to be present wherever she wished.

“Easy brother.”

Azriel shook off the feeling. The mating instinct was still so strong that he had a hard time not jumping in to defend her at the thought of any threat, physical or emotional.

“Y/N” Rhys took her hand.

“Don’t bite my head off for holding her hand, either.”

Azriel huffed before firing back to Rhys’ mind “I can’t wait for you to find your mate someday so you can see what it feels like to be so wound up like this.”

Rhys only gave a small, secret smile in return.

Y/N interjected. “Are you two done gossiping or can I know whether I should pack up or not?”

“This is your home just as much as it is my home. You are my family and I want Feyre to meet all of you. Cassian has already barreled through the door of the Town House along with Mor begging to be fed. Feyre went up to nap and recollect herself.”

“Can we have dinner with her… if she wants to?” She asked softly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness to her voice.

Rhys gave a nod. “I was thinking that same thing. Would you be comfortable?”

She nodded before the reality of the situation caught up with her.

“Y/N.” Rhys leaned in, gently tilting her head up to look at him. “I am not ashamed of you. I will never hide you or the life you are selflessly bringing into this Court of Dreamers.” His eyes lined with silver. “And I will always be so proud of the love that you both share. I knew from the moment I met you that my brother would adore you. And the fact that you two are mates? It’s one of the greatest things to come from that shit hole of a mountain. A reminder of the beauty that can prevail, even after the most dreadful of circumstances. I love all three of you.”

Azriel held his mate closely, ensuring she felt just how loved she truly was.

“She kicked for the first time the other day.”

Rhys raised a brow.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Ugh, you two are so skeptical. I really believe that this baby is a girl.”

Rhys eyed the scarred hand protectively placed over her round bump, so many complicated emotions running through him, with love being the strongest.

“Feyre will likely ask questions tonight regarding all of us, our stories. Nobody has to share anything they do not wish to, but you also may share if you are comfortable doing so. I would really like for Feyre to become a member of the Inner Circle-“

Rhys looked to Y/N rolling his eyes at the smirk and waggling eyebrows she gave him.

“Stop that. My point is just that, I would like for her to know all of you. I know she’ll love you all just as I do. Hell, she’ll probably love all of you before she’s ready to even fully tolerate me.”

Azriel let out a chuckle as his mate quipped “Tell me the story of the time she threw a shoe at you. It’s my favorite!”

“You cruel, lovely little thing.” Rhys laughed. “See you both for dinner.”

As Rhys exited them room, Y/N sighed. “You were awfully quiet.”

Az nudged her. “And that surprises you?”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Azriel pulled her in close, peppering kisses across her forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for. You are still healing and now you’ll be facing someone else that was under the mountain with you.”

“She saved us all, Az.” She looked up into his hazel eyes with nothing but genuine adoration. “Without her, I never would have met you. And what kind of existence would that be?”

She began picking at the plate Rhys had brought in. Letting out a moan as the flavors burst on her tongue.

Az couldn’t help the involuntary twitch of his wings at the sound.

She laughed. “Don’t get any ideas until I’m finished with my food.”

Azriel raised his palms. “I’d never get between my pregnant mate and her meal. With the way she’s started moving, she’d likely kick me away anyway.”

She took another bite while nonchalantly commenting, “I thought of a name for her.”

“Oh yeah?” Azriel’s brows raised in anticipation of a potential name for their child.

“Azure. The same blue as the skies. I thought…”

Azriel cut her off, marveling at the name. Whispering more to himself than her. “Blue like the Day Court skies, blue like the skies that I love to take you flying in.”

She flushed. “Yes, exactly. And though it’s a different shade of blue, like your siphons.”

A lone tear escaped his eye. “And,” she continued with a coy smile. “We could call her ‘Az’”

Azriel sat still for a moment. And she would have thought he didn’t like it had it not been the rush of pure shock and awe flowing through the bond.

Suddenly he took her face in his hands, barely giving her time to swallow the bite of bacon she’d just taken, and crashed his lips into hers. And after her lips were swollen and puffy from the heat of his lips, he began pressing kisses all over her belly, whispering between them, “I love you, little Az. I love you more than the skies I fly in. More than my own name. More than any dreamer could dream of being loved. I can’t wait to fly you through the open skies, and show you every shade of blue this beautiful world has to offer. Nothing in this world matters more than you and your mother. I couldn’t be more proud to be your father.”

And he meant it. Every single word. The blood running through the baby growing inside of his mate didn’t need to be his, what mattered was the love flowing within the child and he intended to pour every single ounce of love he had into their baby.

It was Y/N though who broke down at those words. She and Azriel had spent every free moment together since meeting. He’d healed her in ways that she never could have dreamed. Finding her mate changed the time after Under the Mountain from the lonesome trauma reckoning hellhole she’d anticipated and into a time of healing. He listened to her, understood her, let her set the pace in every aspect. And he’d shared his trauma with her, all of it.

The child who had been abused by a wicked stepmother and horrid step-brothers, overlooked by his own father had grown up to be loving, caring, and patient in every way. And now, he was going to be the parent of a child that was not his by conception, choosing to love the child just as he would his very own. A vow he’d sworn in their mating vows and sealed with a bargain.

“What is it, love?” Azriel wiped away her tears.

“Stupid hormones. I just love you so much and I need you to know that you are so much more than I ever could have dreamed of. If I had to, I would go through it all again as long as it led me to you.”

Azriel’s eyes began watering again. “Look at us, Y/N. We’re quite a sight. Whatever you say tonight, just don’t let Cassian know that I’ve gotten so soft.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled as she gave a sweet smile. “I have a feeling that softness has already been there, my love, I just had the privilege of coaxing it out of you.”

He smiled. “Truth Teller personified.”

————————-

“We’re heading up now.” Rhys’ voice cut into Y/N’s mind.

“Are you sure about this, Rhys? Most of them do not know what all happened under the mountain. What if it’s too much for Feyre to take in?”

“She’s my mate, I have to hope that she will love and accept us all in time. It may be a lot to meet us and hear our stories but they’re a part of us, a part of loving us. I’m worried about Cassian scaring her off more than anything.”

“Valid concern. See you soon. Despite the circumstances, I’m so happy she’s here.”

“You know,” Rhys chuckled. “I feel the same way about you, Starshine.”

“You flatter me. Now enjoy your flight with the literal girl of your dreams.”

“She’s glaring daggers at me right now. Pray I make it there alive.”

“Where’d you go?” Az nudged.

Leaning into her mate’s side, embracing the warmth of his arms wrapped around her shoulders she replied, “Rhys and Feyre are on the way.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked.

“I’m sure you can already feel my nerves down the bond but I appreciate you for asking.” She teased.

Azriel kept his pace slow as they wound through the hallways of the House of Wind toward the dining table. “If you’re not ready…”

She took a steadying breath. “No, he needs to get off on a solid foundation with her. And Cassian, Mor, and Amren have eyed us for a while, they realize that something is off. Plus, I mean, look at this thing.” Her delicate hands found her stomach. “They’re going to figure out that the timelines don’t match up soon enough.”

“Our girl IS growing.” Azriel spoke, not missing the opportunity to feel the life growing within his mate.

She teased, “You’ve referred to the babe as “her” a few times now. Coming around to the idea?”

“I know better than to go against your intuition.”

With that, Y/N gave a wicked grin. “Mother knows best.”

As they approached the dining room, Azriel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right by your side.”

She beamed. “And I’ll be by yours too, with whatever you may share tonight…and forever, of course.”

As everyone arrived and gathered at the dining table, Y/N couldn’t help but admire how lovely Feyre and Rhys were together. Though she hated the situation that brought her there, that Tamlin tried to hoard her away in his manor, she couldn’t help but feel joy knowing that she was finally beginning to see the true Rhysand.

The Inner Circle kept up with the typical antics and plenty of laughter filled the space, but the conversation eventually turned more serious as everyone took turns giving Feyre insight into themselves.

Feyre looked to Y/N with curiosity. “You were under the mountain, but Azriel was not?”

Her hands shook as she prepared to share. A warmth covered them as Azriel gave a gentle squeeze, sending waves of that reassurance in abundance. She took a breath.

She began by sharing the background of her family, their deaths, that she’d sold her body to survive afterward, how she’d only been under the mountain for a year before Feyre arrived.

“You didn’t know Azriel before they took you?” Feyre asked. Not harshly, just inquisitively.

Y/N held her head high. Her story was not one to be ashamed of.

“I did not. Rhys was one of the only souls to show me kindness under the mountain. I have nymph ancestry with primarily High Fae features. Amarantha took an interest in me and….”

An unreadable expression covered Rhys’ face. This was his trauma too, but he gave a reassuring nod.

“She began taking me to her chambers. I had no choice. It was warm her bed, or face physical torture until death.”

Feyre flinched along with Rhys. Y/N recognized that they were remembering the human girl Amarantha had tortured to death just before Feyre’s arrival.

“She also, against our hopes, realized that Rhysand and I had an understanding of eachother - serve her or die. Being the lust-driven wretch that she was, she began taking us both to her chambers. There was no room for weakness in there. She wanted us just weak enough to submit to her, but we had to remain strong in every other aspect. The first time she had Rhys and I, together,” she cleared her throat, giving pause before continuing, “Rhys saved me. I began to crack, and he held my mind. I will let Rhys speak on his own trauma and the mental load he carried, but he didn’t hesitate to help me get through it. It was not the last time he had to help me through it.”

The table was completely silent. Heart-wrenching expressions filled each face at the table. Palpable rage could be felt radiating off of Amren, though her face remained straight.

Her voice began cracking. Azriel pulled her close into him. “When you saved us,” She looked to Feyre. “I don’t mean to fawn or gawk over you, but Feyre, you did save us.” Feyre gave an empathetic look, nodding to Y/N to continue. “Rhys brought me back to Velaris because he couldn’t bear for me to return to the life I was living, because this Court of Dreams is made up of individuals who have lived through terrible traumas and, despite every reason to lead bitter lives- have chosen to dream of a better world. To fight for a better world. And he knew a certain Shadowsinger and I would get on quite well. In fact, he’s been a smug bastard ever since over just how well things went between us.”

“When I met him.” She stared lovingly to Azriel who swallowed a lump in his throat. “The bond snapped between us immediately. The same day I was brought here, I met my mate.”

Instinctively she placed her hands on the swell of her abdomen. “Rhys gave Azriel leave to spend time with me, for him to help me through the aftermath of what I’d been through…”

“But two weeks after arriving back, my scent began to shift.” Mor’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I became very sick shortly after that. Rhys called in a healer, Madja, who confirmed that I was two and a half months pregnant.”

Cassian audibly gasped and Mor murmured “Oh my gods.”

Azriel kept his composure for the sake of his mate, but this was killing him. His brother and his mate being forced by that fucking witch. “Azriel is not the biological father of this baby. The child was conceived under the forced coupling of Rhysand and I by Amarantha.”

Feyre’s face was a mix of sadness, and rage, and sympathy.

“There were options to terminate the pregnancy. However, due to my Nymph ancestry, such options can have negative, potentially deadly effects. Aside from that, though I never planned to have a child - I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another family member. Rhys, after losing his family, felt the same, which he only expressed after I shared my feelings with him. He was completely supportive of any decision I made.” Feyre looked to Rhys and then back to Y/N, no negative judgement written on those lovely features.

Y/N looked to Azriel with a loving grin “And Azriel- he took me to a priestess that night. We both wanted to accept the bond from the moment we met, the connection was unbelievably strong, I never believed in the power of the bond until I found him. And now because he’s ever the romantic, though I see him already blushing at the mention of it, he wanted to make a vow before the Mother - a vow to love me no matter what choice I made, a vow to love the life within me as his very own child, to love and cherish us both until his last breath.”

She pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, revealing the intricate tattoo solidifying his vow.

“And Rhys,” She gave a soft smile. “He made a bargain to love and care for this child and to recognize Azriel as its father. We will not hide the parentage from our child. And Rhys, I know, already loves them dearly, but mine and Azriel’s decisions for our baby come first and will be respected as any biological parents would.”

She’d left out the part where Azriel had gone under the mountain to investigate later on and found that Amarantha had begun supplying a fertility tonic instead of birth control to Y/N after the Calanmai that Rhys had gone to the Spring Court and seen Feyre. Though she didn’t know who Rhys saw, she likely suspected he’d developed interest in someone else and become jealous, hoping an accidental pregnancy would either create a rift in any potential relationship or, even worse, that the baby could be used as leverage against him.

The table remained silent until Rhys chimed in. “So my brother is my child’s father. I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Despite that sadness the Inner Circle felt, Rhysand’s comment elicited smiles. Azriel gave his brother a nod of thanks for breaking the tension while affectionately caressing his mate.

Mor eased the tension further by chiming in “Y/N! You are further along than we realized which means….. we get to go shopping for our newest family member sooner!!!”

Feyre decided soon after that she would like to work with the Court of Dreams.

————————-

Epilogue

Because his mate was always right, Azriel was indeed the father of a beautiful little girl, clever and stubborn like her mother, and the light of his life. Her mother the sun, and she the moon.

He and Rhys had just returned from taking “Baby Azzie” who was now a toddler to get pastries along the Sidra. Azriel returned with his half-asleep daughter in his arms, who perked up upon seeing her baby brother cooing in his bassinet. “Nyxie!!” She yelled, hurrying over to the winged babe. Rhys, however, arrived with numerous shopping bags in his own arms.

Feyre, who had been lounging with her head on Y/N’s shoulder gave the two a big smile. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “All of that better be for Nyx.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a laugh before Rhys spoke. “Well, half of it is, but only because someone batted her little lashes at us repeating ‘Brother, present. Brother, present’ until we took her into what is conveniently her favorite toy store.” Az cut in, “And because my brother is getting soft in his old age” before Rhys could remind Azriel that he was, in fact, the older of the two, Az continued, “Rhys had to buy something for her for every item she picked out for Nyx.”

Y/N groaned. “Cassian literally just bought her five new toys and six new outfits on their last outing.”

The raven-haired toddler with her mother’s nose and radiant skin, Rhys’ smile, and by some gift of the Mother - had Azriel’s golden-flecked hazel eyes, toddled up to Feyre, giving her a big hug. She then turned to her mother, leaning in to whisper something, that came out as quietly as a yell. “I got something for sissy too. Daddy has it in the pocket realm.”

Y/N’s face flushed as Rhys and Feyre gaped. “So much for keeping that a secret for a little longer.”

Feyre squealed leaning in and throwing her arms around Y/N. “I thought that maybe I was getting allergies, your scent hasn’t been as strong but you were glamouring it!”

Rhys pulled Azriel into a long hug, then walked over to Y/N with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Azriel placed a hand on his chest as he took in the sight of his blended family. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected but, to him, it was everything.

[yandere-wishes]

Hi!! Just wanted to say May I request Yandere Capitano with a reader that’s like “omg you love me? No worries girl I love you too🤭” and doesnt mind his yandere tencedies? she is like really chill!

̩̩͙❆ Anon I tried to answer your ask as best I could but totally forgot about the reader being chill part and kinda made her a bit crazy. I LOVE it when the reader is also unhinged, There's something so delicious about crazy intercepting crazy.

̩̩͙❆ I wrote something similar here: Ice on Ice

｡ ₊°༺🧊༻°₊ ｡

̩̩͙❆ He's salt in the wound. a delicious itch that slithers beneath the skin and nips tenderly at your veins.  

̩̩͙❆ You try to shy away from his kisses, to fear the metal and frost. But instead, you get lost in his scars, fresh and old, raw and weathered. Your fingers trace his jagged lines, nails picking at the cicatrix pealing away the eschar. He only pulls your hand to his lips laying fervent kisses across the palm.

̩̩͙❆ Capitano runs his lips along your neck, inhaling your scent as you revel in his metallic touch. "You should be scared" he chuckles, "Most damsels fear the knight, fear things that are wartorn." His breath hitches, teeth digging into soft skin leaving kisses and claims. Your only reply is a wanton moan.

̩̩͙❆ Somewhere behind you, a body writhes with a final breath before going limp.

̩̩͙❆ Capitano likes to play the role of the vigilante knight. Fine. You'll play the role of the sweet damsel, the valiant darling. You let him kiss you like he's trying to kill, like he's trying to preserve. Wartorn things are not known to be gentle. You appreciate the fact that at least he tries.

̩̩͙❆ You'll kiss him goodbye at the door while hiding sadak knives behind your back. His lips bruise yours, teeth biting your lips raw marveling at the sweet taste of your crimson essence. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to spend a moment apart from you. But he must obey his queen, he must follow the frozen path. You wait until his silhouette disappears into the immortal snow before turning away and closing the glacier door.

̩̩͙❆ Knights and spies. Swords and Knives. Killers and killers. All of it just sounds like 'lovers' to your jejune ears. Maybe it's the eternal cold that sets into people's hearts, maybe it's the human nature to kill first and question later. Regardless you've come to learn that your lover has many enemies staggering around Snezhnaya. People who wish to see Capitano's helmet resting by a marble tomb.

̩̩͙❆ You extinguish those who plot against him, those who scheme in shadows against the crown. There are none foolish enough to attack him outright. But they prepare his demise in the dark, a hundred arrows pointed at his back. Posion-laced cocktails served at a mandatory banquet. You've learned to hide amongst the shrouds, to leave nothing behind but fatal wounds that won't stop bleeding. You've learned to protect what's yours...

̩̩͙❆ Oh, sweet darling, protector of the knight.

̩̩͙❆ His returns are becoming all too sweet, you can't remember when you started awaiting him at the door, heart in your hands, dying for a cold kiss from a cold man.

̩̩͙❆ You jump into his arms once he opens the doors, Capitano laughs twirling you as he muses over how much he's missed you. You push up his helmet eagerly devouring his lips as he squeezes your body closer relishing in your sweet scent and the fullness of your fragile body beneath his steel fingers.

̩̩͙❆ "Tell me how you slayed them. Tell me about the gore and the way the sun reflects off your red-marred sword" Capitano spears no details, sweet intimidation tactic to keep you in line. Carnage drips from each word, as you peel away his armor, kissing every new piece of revealed skin. Running your tongue inside his fresh scars. You straddle his lap working nimble fingers under his armor pulling away the iron and letting it clank against the floor.

̩̩͙❆ You push him down roughly onto the bed, enjoying the way he hisses and squirms from his broken bones and wounds pushed open. You love him like this bruised, bones still unmended, scars still gushing out blood. You run your fingers over his biceps as he begins to lay kisses across your neck. Fingers sinking deeper into the plush of your thighs.

̩̩͙❆ You paint scars upon his back as his lips peck and bite your hips and chest. Teeth pulling your flesh as he glides his fingers across your spine, enjoying the view of you writhing and moaning under his icy touch.

̩̩͙❆ "I love you" he whispers, a forbidden prayer. Delineating the shell of your ear with his lips. "I shall burn the world for you, my lady, kill any who try to pry you away from me" You cuddle closer never able to fully repeat his words. 'I love you' you long to say, instead you settle for sinking your teeth into the flesh over his heart, and biting until his blood floods your mouth.

̩̩͙❆ I love you, I love you, I love you...

[lamaery]

Simply wanted to draw a Jon. It's been a while. And it felt wrong not to add a Martin. Cow-mug or cat-mug? ----------------------------- image description: Two digital potraits of Jonathan Sims ex-archivist and his Martin K. Blackwood painted in a dynamic mixture of rough, broad and thin, squiggly brush strokes. The first images shows Jon's head and upper body, sitting and reading a paperback book. His long black, salt and pepper hair is gathered in a loose knot at the back of his neck. The black beard on his jawline, pointy chin and upper lip is not very dense. Small round scars pepper the brown skin of his face, neckand the back of his visible hand. Additional there is a thick pink-white-ish line stretching across his pronounced Adam's apple. He wears a thick woolen cardigan in a deep green and rectangular glasses through which he gazed with his large, heavy lidded eyes not directly at the book in his hand, but just over the pages at something else to the left. His expression is not fully open and happy, but certainly unguarded and soft. In the shadow of the book cover which has the symbol of a green eye on his, one can make out a black ring on the middle of his left hand. Martin is depicted as a light-skinned, big, broad man with a round face and tousled, ash-blond hair. He too wears glasses, although their frames a big and much rounder than Jon's. He wears a green-blue pullover and holds two mugs in his hands, both steaming with hot tea. One mug features the cartoony face of a cat, half hidden behind the tea string and paper bit on those. The other mug has a shaggy Scottish highland cow on it and the painful pun "Cow are you?" There are soft dimples in Martin's round cheeks as he smirks mirthfully down to his right.

[solbaby7]

Hi! Could I have a piña colada with a salt rim? And make it neat please 🫶

[“are you crazy we’re in public” “then you’d best be quiet” + smut + azriel ]

Shame on you for being foolish enough to feed a starving animal.

For looking past his threatening exterior, greeting him with kindness and coaxing him closer instead of shooing him away like you were supposed to do with rabid animals. Not offering him the warmth of a home and a bleeding heart with endless love to give. How ignorant of you to assume that offering up warm meals or sweet desserts and soft sheets with fluffy would ever be enough.

Not when the only prize to Azriel—was you.

That greed shows when you’re led along the sidewalk, nudged down an alleyway and pressed up against a brick wall swathed in inky shadows. “Az,” You address him breathlessly, heart instinctively hammering just a little harder in your chest as you register the intimidating loom of his stature. “Baby, what are you doing?”

He nearly laughs, letting free a low rumble of a chuckle that has his wings rustling gently at your sides. “What’s it feel like I’m doing?”

You feel as if you’re melting like ice on a sweltering summer day under his borderline obsessive attention. His touch is possessive against your jaw, tilting your neck to make more room for the claiming kisses that trail down, down, down. It’s impossible not to give into it—to lean into the pressure of his mouth on your skin, his teeth nipping at sensitive flesh and his hands.

Gods, his hands.

All searching and filled with a ravenous need as they graze over the thin fabrics of your dress, tracing over familiar curves until desire overrides rational thought and that soft material is all but disintegrated in his grasp. It takes a second too long to notice that the cool breeze is cutting against bare breasts and by time you do realize, Azriel’s already pinching at perky nipples, sucking marks into supple fat and robbing you of a clear conscious as pleasure zaps up your spine. “Are you crazy?” You weakly scold, arching into his touch when wandering fingers graze scandalously lower. Low enough to slip past the protective barrier of flimsy undergarments. “We are in public—someone could see.”

The very mention of it makes his mouth curl into a wolffish grin; makes him cruel as he runs a thumb through your slit, collecting slick and spreading you open with two deft fingers. “Then you’d best be quiet then, hm?”

“A-Azriel.” You attempt to close your legs but obedient shadows keep you how he wants you; all presenting and pliant before him. “Wait—fuck!” The helpless yelp is silenced by the pressure of his thumb on your clit, rubbing devastating circles that leave your thighs shaking and stomach contracting as you clench around nothing. Rough brick digs into soft skin, catching on silky hair when he’s forced to lean forward to plant a kiss that dampens your desperate whines down to breathy whimpers.

It’s a little messy, teetering the edge of frantic with his teeth nipping at your lips. Tongue tracing over the roof of your mouth while skilled hands fall in sync with the desperate roll of your hips as you chase your high. His cock throbs at the trust you put in him—completely exposed and yet you don’t even acknowledge it when chatting ladies and tipsy gentlemen stumble just a little too close by. If anything, he swears it makes you grind down just a bit harder. Manicured nails rake over the broad line of his shoulders, one leg hooking over his waist for better stability. “More,” You keen, cheeks burning with a blush at the lust in your syllables—the downright indecent sound of your arousal fucking singing against his fingers.

It’s wrong. Improper. Unladylike. Undoubtedly more than a little grimy and yet you’ve never been more turned on. It practically leeks out of you, dripping down the same scarred fingers that keep switching between rubbing and teasingly tapping at the sensitive bundle of nerves between supple thighs. “How quickly your tune changes when I’m touching your pussy,” Azriel muses, tone going dark and misty while his ego inflates fifty times too large from the way he leaves your chest heaving and eyes rolling in the back of your head without even need to pull his cock free from his breeches. “Thought you were worried about someone hearing?”

“I was—I am!” You really really try to hold out, to listen to the very reasonable fears you’d had about being caught but when he makes you feel so good it’s difficult to find the room to give a fuck if some random stranger saw the High Lords shadowsinger guiding you to your orgasm. “Fuck! ‘m gonna—mmph.” A hand smacks over your mouth, teeth biting into the flesh of your palm.

“There you go, sweet thing.” Pleasure simmers on a pot in your gut, its contents boiling and bubbling; fighting the constraints of its confinements until everything spills over. “Feels much better when you just let go, doesn’t it?”

Shame on you for being foolish enough to feed a starving animal—now all it knows how to do is take.

“Don’t fuss,” Azriel commands, the hard length of him finally freed from its confines and throbbing with the desire to carve a space inside you, branding your walls with his name. “Just want one more.”

[brewed-pangolin]

Fine I'll send another. Captain MacTavish ON THE BEACH. 🥵

I love the beach. I live on it during the summer. It's my second home, I swear. And the way the sea salt air and warm waters can cure the soul is something I just can't ignore with this man. I love this ask so much!!!

18+ MDNI Sexual Themes

You sat alone, comfortably in your beach chair with a cold beer in hand under a magenta colored sky as the sun set beyond the horizon of a turquoise painted surf.

The rhythmic sound of the waves synchronizing with the beat of your heart as the scent of sea salt and sunscreen etched itself into your skin.

The air was still warm, yet it carried a cool breeze off the waters edge as the slow curtain of dusk crept over the white sanded landscape.

It was perfect. A picturesque conclusion to a hot summer's day.

And off in the distance, with a Yeti tumblr of whisky in one hand and a cigar permanently clutched in his mouth, Captain MacTavish cast out his last line into the crashing surf and placed the warn grip seamlessly into its plastic holder dug into the sand.

The beach had done wonders for him since his retirement only a few years ago.

Soothed his war torn psyche with the constant ebb and flow of the tide. Molded his scars beneath a layer of sun kissed skin that further accentuated the seascape blue of his eyes and made every woman swoon with just a mere glance and a smile.

Yet it was here, under the blanket of encroaching night that you saw the man he had truly become.

A man at peace with himself. Letting the setting sun and roll of the tide absolve him of his past and breathe fresh life into his lungs at dawn's first light.

You couldn't pull your eyes off him anymore, and you were no longer ashamed about how your stare lingered on him.

The loss of sunlight elongating the shadows within the curves of his musculature. Accented by the seafoam swim trunks that hung perfectly on his hips. Creating a more defined sculpture of his frame as he effortlessly strutted along the sand to take his place beside you.

"How long you gonna fish for tonight, John?" You asked quietly, rim of the beer can caressing your bottom lip.

"As long as you'll let me, m'lass."

You smiled, watching him raise his tumbler in cheers to take a healthy swig while gently tapping the ash of his cigar into an empty can.

"Guess we'll be here all night, then."

"Aye. Looks that way."

As he relaxed back in his Tommy Bahama chair, your hand reached out to instinctually cusp the back of his head. Thumb and index finger pressing into the back off his skull, pulling a slight groan from his chest as your touch soothed his sun drenched soul.

"Careful, lass. Y'know what that skillful touch a'yers does to me."

"Mhmm. It's a good thing we brought the boat."

Soap rolled his eyes, glancing between your smirking expression and the vessel anchored just beyond the last sandbar.

"Which one ya love more, hm? The boat, or me?"

You raised a brow at his testing inquiry, firmly pressing into the back curve of his jaw with your fingertips as a hushed murmur fell from your lips.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to, John. Won't get you anywhere."

Soap growled in response. Placing his hand on your thigh and giving your flesh a firm yet playful grip.

"May have ta shorten th'fishing trip then. Looks like I gotta assert my claim over you again."

"Claim over me, John?"

"Aye. Ain't no way I'm losing you to a gas guzzling bàta."

-

You both lasted no more than another twenty minutes before loading everything into the skiff and jetting back to his prized vessel. Where Soap MacTavish made good to his word and staked his claim over you once again.

Spreading you over every flat surface beneath the bow and docking his thickened cock repeatedly into the deep cove of your cunt.

Master of the Swell Masterlist

This is but a taste of the new WIP I have in store for you, Soap Squad. Johnny's got the 4Runner, the Captain's got a yacht. And goddman, do I have plans to rock that boat.

Tagging those who showed interest. Let me know if you liked to be tagged for further posts. Much love 💛

@deadbranch @ohgeesoap @astraluminaaa @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @d3athtr4psworld @ghosts-goldendoodle @homicidal-slvt @shotmrmiller @glitterypirateduck @macravishedbymactavish @sofasoap @tacticalanxiety @random-thot-generator @writeforfandoms

[verysium]

Hi please ignore this if you aren't taking requests but I have this very specific idea if you could do it:

Sae cheating on Model S/O with their rival model right before a big modeling competition which the now ex S/O wins and to kinda take revenge the now Ex S/O saying to the rival model "say hello to Sae for me"

I know this is super specific and it's up to you if you would like to take this request or not I'm currently looking for a modelling agency IRL

i took some creative liberties with this one. it was heavily inspired by yasmeen khan's 1001 nights. i do not know much about professional modeling, so most of the actual references are obscure. hopefully, this works for you though:

instead of a heart, you were born with a wound, a three-by-five inch gash that allowed the light to pass through.

doubt festers like an aperture, a brief shutter of the lens before your eyes blink away all uncertainty. in the confines of your dressing room, the mirror replaces your face with sloshing light, the silver streams of your reflection dripping down through stained fingers. it's nothing compared to the brightness of your screen, the damning evidence of a murder scene splattered across dry text.

who the hell is she? what do you mean? are you fucking cheating on me sae?

there's a knock on your door. it's alessandro, the stylist. his voice cuts through the silence, reedy and skin-tight. he wants to know why you've walked off mid-shoot, when you'll be back to rejoin the other girls on set. you think twice before you respond to his call, taking a deep breath before you face your interrogation.

there's blood on your gown, right above where your heart used to be. a fist-sized prism flashes within your chest, shot through with the hue of your arteries. crimson for the knife-thin glint in your eyes. poppy for the withered petals of your lips. scarlet for the salt encrusting your mouth. ruby for the iron ore of your tongue. red was always your color.

the photographers line up before you, judgement painted on their faces, both sets of eyes unblinking. tears with mascara make a good cover shoot, but a scornful lover with his other woman make for an even better story. you've long run out of tears to cry, tried your hand in the art of storytelling. the only way you know how to love is to angle your face towards a crowd, to bite your lip until it bleeds. your smile never wavers in its sharpness, every confession clasped tightly between white teeth.

snap, snap: once upon a time, there was a boy who weaved lies. click, click: once upon a time, there was a girl who fell for them. flash, flash: once upon a time, this could have been a love story.

there are harder things to hold than a pose, and your resolve becomes nigh unbreakable. in front of every shattering bulb, you hold strong against the impact force of time. your body is sanctified in the golden light, a yellowed blade across the horizon.

perhaps the next girl would be softer, bleeding flowers into aching mouths. perhaps the next girl would be beautiful.

but for now, you remain cold and hard and bright. you stare directly at the sun. you crush every bud beneath your fingertips, cut your flesh on its thorns. down to its very bone, every wound becomes a scar, every smile becomes a story.

when the shoot wraps up and the other woman steps in, you grin with enough light to cut shadows into her body.

"you're his new girl, right? say hello to sae for me."

[ilyuu-archive]

morning call.

the ends of the horizon stirs awake, and silks of gold drapes itself on the line that splits the skies and land. it just so happens that you wake along with it with the warmth of your other as a quiet promise. (or you wake up next to him.)

ft. albedo, ayato, childe, kaeya, kazuha & xiao.

warnings : a bit suggestive! (kaeya), fluff, kiths, a lot of kiths, soft times, blushy boys, descriptions of scars (childe), Imk if i missed anything!

albedo.

the delicate tandem of breaths shared is all you heard, the four corners of the room flooding back into your senses, filling you of all sorts of feelings and thoughts that fades as swiftly as it came. that and the cool touch of skin tightly on yours, fingers locked. his fingertips scratches the back of your hand every then and so, and every shift brings forth a calm wave, pulling you under as it crests and drowning you in familiarity.

you turn your head to the side, the pillow underneath you wrinkling, and held your breathe in when you saw him. there’s always a touch of eternity to him, how smooth and soft he looks, almost docile, whenever he sleeps. his lips slightly ajar, faint shadows of his lashes, strands of his sun-kissed hair in disarray. always the composed, and yet, not a silver of said composure is to be found in his side of him.

a pulse echoes, a bit louder - it may be his or yours, or both - as you lean in and peck the corner of his lips. a soft pink blooms on his pale cheeks, and it adds more color onto the dawn. the snow that slowly falls from the skies, clouded in its monotonous winter and bitter bite, seems to melt from his skin, almost fading all traces, as his eyes flutter just slightly to see you.

ayato.

a softness you felt familiar runs through your hair, untangling all of its ties and knots, brushing your scalp. as the tingly sense seeps in, the veil of sleep slips from you, and the world around starts to grow a bit lighter and brighter. it paints the room in a tender tint, yet frames the edges of his skin in its glow. his irises still held that solemnity that you seen in him a many times, yet faint - in lieu, a look of gentle content he gazes at you with - that air of cool collection that clings to him drifting elsewhere.

and he allows himself this small fracture of a morning as you close your eyes, lost in his touch - a bit crispy, yet soothing and ethereal all the same. there’s no pause, no slowing down, in the day ahead, as now is the only moment time can give him to spend on whatever is needed.

the world around him will continue on along with him, but, for now, he’ll ask for it to drag on a minute more as he moves his hand to cup your cheeks, stroking the corner of your eye as you, too, allow yourself this bit of the morning.

childe.

a scent tugged you out of your blanket of warmth, although the comforting tepidness you found yourself in as you do rouse awake might be a bit better - sandbearer, and a whiff of salt, albeit faded. it swirls around him and you, as you felt a tight tug of his arms, wrapped around your waist, to draw you close and closer to him. curled into the nook of his neck, hearing his slow, steady breathes, you’re almost lulled back into that sense of security.

it’s only when you spot scars, all faint and dim, a story, a chapter, marred across his figure, peeking out from underneath his shirt. a peek of his collarbone from a few loose buttons shows a strip of skin, starting from his shoulder blade and yet, not knowing where it ends. others as well, peppering from here and there, a few nicks that seems almost indistinct unless you know what you’re looking for.

of course, you shuffle a bit until the scar stands in front of you, and place a small kiss - it’s then that you feel him stiffen, his breath caught in his chest. he lets it out for it to only come off as breathless, a surprise puff of air that skims on embarrassment. and embarrassed he is, for his cheeks take on a crimson that fits him all the same.

kaeya.

a wintry puff of air drifts to the shell of your ear. you let it. it happens again. your brows furrow. it happens one more time. you pull the edges of the blanket overhead, and a muffled chuckle brings the room to life. a series of rustling ensues, that in the quiet, it sounds almost so and too much - you soon find that you’re not the only one hidden away underneath the thin cover of protection, from both the dawn and the cold.

a pair of lips that felt hot, yet cold all the same, pressed against your neck and a sigh left you at the prick of warmth shivering up your skin. his soft chuckle draws you from your daze, a carefree breath against your ear that drips with his usual allure. it wafts over to your lips where it met his - a slow exchange of heated breathes, and a small space of quiet names and murmurs.

until, there is no breath in either of your lungs, as you tug the blankets off of you both, letting the canvas of the day sift into the panels of the windows, bathed in a different type of warmth. as motes of dust floats around, you lie yourself on kaeya as his lips once more meets your skin - a chaste peck on the tip of your nose.

it still flusters you, as much as it amuses him as he chuckles, the sound pleasant and kind to the ears.

kazuha.

the tepidness of the morning does little to rouse you up. rather, it was the loose locks, splayed across the still surface of the pillows, that tickled you. your vision a bit hazy, trying to adjust to the sudden light, you only see what’s close to you - that is, kazuha soundly asleep, the occasional shift of his hands as he presses it in the small space between the two of you. be it a picture to capture a small, common moment as this, or a haiku to try and keep the feelings swaying in the air in words and letters, neither nor more will do justice to the sight that lies before you.

before you know it, your hands are already brushing his hair off to the side, tucking a few strands behind his ear for his own comfort and as lightly as you can to not rouse him awake. it’s only a few seconds in and that seems to be something to go awry, with your fingertips skimming his temple, and a sound humming in his chest. it’s then that his eyes flutter open, the light a bit too bright, aglow with the promise of a new day, before slowly adjusting to you.

and he smiles. he smiles a smile that seemed too soft, too tense, a phantom of all that is too kind living in the way his lips curved. one that is too tempting to kiss.

and so you did. (met with a surprised look, eyes slightly widened as his smile turns shy. welcomed into the realm of consciousness with a kiss - he finds that it’s quite cute.)

xiao.

a pair of piercing eyes is one of the first things you see, the settings a backdrop of melting canary and gold - it doesn’t compare to the shade of his irises, though, and you soon find yourself sleepily seeking it, a silent, slow moment of the morning spent on the crinkle of his eyes. it’s almost too soon that his skin starts to turn a faint pink, and that a sigh leaves his lips, as if to let go of the stress stiffening his shoulders. that alone sets a small smile on your face.

it’s that which prevents him from pulling away, from leaving a dent in the sheets next to you should he have left - it was a quiet yearning of his to see you smile, first thing in the morning. he has yet to understand that, out of anyone, anyone that would’ve fit with you as nicely, you decided that he was worth enough to become the very reason you light up.

for the day was already bright enough, with the sun sitting on the dot of the horizon, and you chose to brighten it up even more because of him. so he continues to stare at you, taking you in of this side of yours drawn out from the dark, the edges of the night left cornered in its crevices as you do the same.

(yes, even as his skin starts to heat up and that the smile on your lips grows in every second that it does.)

general taglist (open!) : @/zuyoo, @starz222, @haliyamori, @kazumist, @/tartaglia-apologist, @mikacynth, @angelkazusstuff, @doumalove, @kpop-and-otome, @emo-mess, @kissedbysilk . . .

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 22: Reminiscing

Mountain wakes in the middle of the night and watches his mates sleep.

Thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and to @ghuleh-recs for making the dividers <3

Another alternate prompt for today!

Mountain can't sleep. It's strange. He's normally the first of the three of them out, snoring gently before his partners have even closed their eyes. Normally sleeps through the night without fail. But despite being awake, he cherishes it, the room dark, barring the silver moonlight that slips through their curtains, just enough to see by.

He turns in Dew's arms, slowly, carefully, not to wake him. But if Dew can sleep through Aether's snoring, rattling in his chest like a chainsaw, Dew can sleep through anything. The fire ghoul's expression is peaceful, eyes gently closed and moving under lids, dreaming. The furrow between his brows is smoothed over, and Mountain can't help himself from brushing a strand of spun gold hair back behind the point of his ear.

It moves his hair off of his neck, and it's just barely bright enough to make out the silvery, parallel scars that line the sides of Dew's throat. Mountain exhales through his nose, unable to resist bringing his fingertip down, tracing featherlight over one of the long cauterized scars.

Dew's ear twitches, piercings jingling, and Mountain pulls his hand back. He stirs, but doesn't wake, mumbling something nonsensical. Mountain's lips quirk up, just staring fondly at his smaller mate. He remembers when those scars were fluttering teal fins, when the spun gold hair was silver.

It makes something pang deep in his heart, the remembering. When things were unimaginably bad, when the three of them clung to each other like fresh, new kits too scared to leave the nest. Scents changing, sea salt to campfire.Terrified, unsafe, paranoid of every shadow.

Things are better now, the band den full of pack again, ghouls that Mountain loves with everything he has. And he has Aether and Dew, peacefully asleep in their shared nest.

He smiles, moving to settle back down. There's a hand curling around his bicep, and he jolts, Aether's eyes glowing amethyst in the dim light as they meet Mountain's.

"Everything okay, sweet thing?" Aether whispers, voice gruff with sleep. "I knew you woke up early for the greenhouse, but I didn't think it was this early yet." The joke is light in his tone, thumb smoothing over his freckled skin, right on his farmer's tan line.

Mountain snorts quietly, kicking into a rumbling purr. "I dunno why I'm up, sorry for waking you."

Aether shrugs with one arm, the other pillowed under Dew's head. "You didn't, not really, just sort of... felt your emotions. More intense than they usually are this late."

"I was just thinking," he says, eyes drifting down to their mate between them. The grip on his arm tightens, Aether's thumb still rubbing in an arc over his bicep.

"We're okay, we made it," Aether whispers, and Mountain nods.

"I know, this is real."

"We earned it, we earned our rest," he says, eyes half-lidded with sleep but still so kind and warm, the magick swirling in his irises like galaxies.

"If we earned our rest, can we please fucking sleep?" Dew mumbles groggily, shifting between them with an adorable pout on his lips.

"Sorry, firefly," Mountain whispers, leaning down to press a kiss on his mate's forehead, letting Dew pull him closer. Their legs tangle together, and Mountain can feel Dew's pulse where their chests are pressed together, remembers how feathery and frantic it was back then, just how much terror tinged their scents. It was so bad they had to get new sheets.

Dew's expression softens, wrapping his arms around Mountain's torso, squeezing him that much tighter. "You okay, junie?" His voice is soft, sweet, the way he speaks to them versus the way he speaks to the rest of the pack.

Mountain nods, a soft keen slipping past his lips as he ducks down again and nuzzles into the crown of Dew's head, avoiding the sharp point of his little obsidian horns. "I love you two," he whispers, eyes darting from Dew's to Aether's and back. "So much. I don't know what to do with it all, I love you so much."

He can see the way Aether's cheek dimples as he smiles fondly over Dew's shoulder, can feel the way Dew's grip around his middle tightens. "Love you too, junie," Dew whispers, breath infernally hot against the shell of Mountain's ear.

Aether's hand squeezes his bicep in three quick pulses. "Love you too, sweet thing. Don't know what I'd do without the two of you."

Dew cranes his neck, peering over his shoulder at him. "You won't have to find out, swear it on our Father Below," he declares, a stubbornness set in his shoulders, and Aether leans down and kisses him. He turns, leaning over Dew's narrow shoulders to kiss Mountain too, tasting the beeswax of his lipbalm.

"Alright," Dew huffs, pulling the two of them back down to the mattress. "I love you two dearly, but can we please sleep?"

"Anything for my darlings," Aether hums, wrapping his arms around the two of them, hauling them closer to him. "Good night."

Dew hums, satisfied, copper eyes shutting as he snuggles between them. Very quickly, Mountain's the only one still awake. He looks at his mates, feels their body heat burning warm. He settles into the nest, breathing in their oh-so familiar scents, and lets that carry him back to sleep.

[nocaptainonthisship]

Memorium

In which Ghost is an eldritch horror who feasts on memory, and you go willing to the slaughter.

It's common knowledge around these parts, like tossing salt over your shoulder and tapping wood and never breaking a fairy ring. When things aren't going your way and you're down on your luck, someone will invariably joke that you should find the Ghost. Call on the devil and he will answer. Call on the devil and he'll find you. Call on the devil and he can make your dreams come true.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Your three favorite childhood memories go missing in exchange for your debts paid. The scent of your mother’s perfume disappears from mind forever, but so does the blight on the farm. You could find a husband if you forget the first boy you loved.

Most people don't believe in it. In him. They think he is a fairy tale, a myth forged of mist and shadow. You believe in him, though. You wouldn't be here if you didn't.

Your grandmother was the first of your line to call upon the beast. By all accounts she was the first to ever learn the truth. Granny didn't trade her favorite memories, the ones which kept her warm. She took one look at that cracked skull and understood greater power lies in pain.

Granny traded memories of riot and ruin and rot. She fed the monster well. In return, the Ghost made a ghost of her husband, and ensured no memory was so painful again.

Your mother, also, had called the Ghost, once upon a time. She fed him memories of death and decay and deviance, that she might drive the highwaymen from town. She told you only the skin of the story - not it's blood and bones. In stories, you came from a line of heroes brave and bold and wise enough to tame the beast.

You have been woefully unprepared.

They all think the Ghost is just a legend, a homegrown superstition. Who would be so desperate, they ask, to give up something so precious?

(Who would be so foolish, you wonder, to sacrifice something so beautiful and useless?)

There is power in the painful things, in the scar tissue and bile. There is power in the altar, in the sacrificial blood. There is power in the naming of the things you'd leave behind.

Granny had been cursed with a husband who would bruise as soon as bed her. Mother had been cursed by the violent opportunists of this world. You've been cursed by that which cannot be named nor pinned to one single cause.

Luck had never been on your side.

But you had listened to the stories, and instead of gathering bouquets of bitterness by the roadside, you gathered sacrifices, instead. When they mocked and bullied, you thought, "That will get me riches." When they pushed and prodded you, you thought, "This is enough to take me far from here." When permission never granted made no difference to the hands which sought to trap and tame, you thought, "Maybe he'll accept this sacrifice, too."

Some days it seemed all the memories you made were in service of an Eldritch God. You stored them up and let them fester and knew one day he would feast. You would bring him such a meal he might never go hungry again. This alone keeps you warm, when the night is at its peak. You live in flux, one step in the future where you know your gruesome end. Until then, it is nothing but noise, nothing but the patter of rain against your neck.

Perhaps they think it strange that you seem so unharmed. They call you witch and wanderer, an orphan of no father with no riches or home. They call you the devil’s plaything, and you can’t prove them wrong. 

Granny couldn’t warn you and Mother didn’t try. But there is power in many things, and none so much as three. 

You tried to live as people do and make the best of any home. You tried to live as the good ones did and find joy in the mundane. You tried to make the best of things, but you’d been rotted to your core. 

Thirty-three years you wait, until you know the time is right. The third of your line, on the third night of March, you walk into the woods and leave the past behind. 

There is no ritual to call the beast, no secret magics passed around. When one wants to find a Ghost, all they must do is ask. You walk into the woods until the echo of your steps is in fact no echo at all. You walk until your memories bleed, his fetid breath upon your nape. 

There is power in the third of things, but you think you offer him more. Every thought that comes to you is more foul fuel than the last. The curse you’ve carried since the womb begins to lift at last. For the first time you wonder if you were nothing but a pig fattened up for slaughter. Suffered, you had suffered so that he might be fed. 

And now, all that suffering, it drops out of your head. 

You wander through the forest, with a monster on your heels. He herds you far away from home, in honor of your deal. The Ghost will take your suffering and give it all away. The Ghost will hold your bargain up and you will never hurt again. 

In the deepest forest, where the sun can’t find him, the Ghost has made a home of wood, of stone and rugged mortar. You think it odd and almost charming that the monster has a home. This Ghost has never frightened you. Not in the way he should. He leads you to his table and lets you make yourself at home.

Without the warmth of memory, you’re a strange and broken thing. There are holes now inside you where you think your spirit should sing. You scraped away the broken bits, the rot and ruin and rust. You cut away the wicked scars and are left with skeletal remains. There are holes inside you, where the human used to dwell. 

“What gift would you have of me?” the Ghost asks with a growl. 

How can you say the gift is given, before he even uttered a word? He’d feasted on your demons, that they might no more haunt your door. Now, there is nothing left to hope for, except another dawn. Now there is only hunger, in the yawning chasm that is your soul. 

When the Ghost smiles it is with the blood of your soul still dripping from his teeth. 

When you smile back, there is poison on your tongue. 

Even monsters need a mate, in the darkness of the woods. 

It is myth and legend and mysticism, the ghosts who haunt the woods. Aunties say they’ll eat your dreams and steal the good away. Fathers warn of violent ends and hope hung out to dry. But some remain who know the truth, who know where power lies. They’re storing up their hurt and grief to make their sacrifice. 

One day, when the power is right, the Ghosts will become three. 

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 3.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

more worldbuilding and a deeper delve into aemond and euna's ever changing dynamic + a battle! i'm terrible at writing combat so i hope it isn't too egregious. one of the songs of this chapter is "skinwalker" by robbie robertson. i used to listen to this to fall asleep as a kid, hehe.

previous | next chapter

word count: 3.7k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it, graphic depictions of violence (this chapter)

(you're the) devil in disguise - elvis presley • skinwalker - robbie robertson

A swim always did well to clear her mind, her fur slicked back against her skin. Her nostrils were plugged close, taut against her muzzle as she bobbed and weaved through the kelp forest. 

Breaching for air, the moon began to rise above the horizon, shifting the tides as it did every day. She needed to shake the exhaustion of the day by running herself even more ragged, testing her limits and gliding through the water like a falling star, the water swirling and flowing past her streamlined body. 

Euna tried to delve deeper into the animalistic part of her brain– the part always there, scratching and screaming to be let free for every moment she was in her human skin. The sea called to her even when she was only feet away from it, even when she was miles inland where she couldn’t smell the salt any longer. A skinchanger always teetered the line between animal and human, an unskilled skinchanger could be stuck in their animal skin forever. Euna had been warned about this so many times by her father, but she didn’t see the harm in it. She wouldn’t totally mind being a seal forever, eating fish and swimming the expanse of the sea.

Her mind wandered back to the purple-eyed crow. She quite liked his scent, it was warm and heady, musky. It reminded her of sitting close to the fire and mayhaps singing the skin of her fish a bit too much under the flame, but it was still delicious and comforting nonetheless. Euna had met other crows before– some of them even lived at her tribe– but none of them were like him. Aemond. He even had a peculiar name. Ae-mond. She spoke it under water, bubbles whizzing out of her mouth and traveling to the surface.

His scent was warm and comforting, but his eye told a different story. His scar paired with his sapphire eye was unusual to her and she wondered how he lost it. When they had stared each other down earlier in the day, she could see shadows dancing past his iris, his pupil dilating in turn as he observed her, as if he was measuring her worth. Euna had stared into countless eyes, living and dead, but none entranced her so like his, reminiscent of a beautiful lavender flower that she liked to put in her tea or braid into her hair during the warmer months. Just past his pupil, the very edge of pain could be seen and she wondered if he saw ghosts dance just beyond his vision, taunting and haunting him just as she did. Could he remember their faces or were they just smudged, out of focus and just out of sight like her family was? 

She still thought of them– her family, even if she couldn’t exactly remember. When they lingered in her peripheral and she would whip around to see them, they would disappear, dawdling just behind her. Over the years, she had come adept at shutting them out. Her papa told her she was sensitive to the afterlife just like their shamans were, but her power was untrained and rampant. She could quiet and dim the specters by swimming and overwhelming her other senses. She never saw them underwater and was ever grateful to the Gods that she could skinchange and escape them. But, every so often, Euna would smell something on the wind, something long locked away that would spring them back to life, their voices whispering to her– those would be times she would sleep in the kelp forest, hugged against stalks of algae, curled into herself and forgetting everything, turning off the human part of her mind and just living as she felt the Gods truly intended her to be.

Bobbing to the surface and taking in another gulp of air, she saw movement on the hilltop near the crest of the camp, overlooking the entirety of the valley. She smelled the air, expecting to inhale the familiar scent of her own tribe– a mixture of sea air and musk– but a pungent smell filled her nostrils. It smelled of burned bones and pervasive cracked pepper, mingled with stinging pine nettle. This wasn’t of her tribe, someone else was on the hill, observing. She blinked her eyes profusely, grumbling at the way her seal eyes couldn’t focus well outside water, everything above the surface. Even with her poor eyesight in this form, she could see multiple figures.

Diving back down, she plunged towards home, towards the sea door. It was a cave connected to her and papa’s house which led directly to the sea. It was built by Atohi for Euna to constantly have a way to dip in and out of the water with ease. She bursted out of the opening that filtered to the sea in the cave, drenched with water. It pooled at her feet and squished against the rocky ground as she flung open the sea door.

Aemond and Atohi were sitting around the fire, turning towards her direction as she all but barreled into the home.

“Euna? You look spooked– you see a whale?”

“No, papa,” she murmured, pushing away some of the wet hair sticking to her forehead, “Saw people. Smelled them. Those Haunted Forest fuckers are here– they must’ve followed,” she took a breath, her hands shaking slightly. Usually after a swim, she needed to eat profusely to regenerate all the energy burned– but there wasn’t time for that. Looking to Aemond, who’s cheek was puffed, fish cake in hand, “Can I trust you, crow?”

He swallowed the piece of cake, putting the half-eaten food down. “Unsure. Can I trust you?”

Euna groaned, pacing towards him. The sea water dripped from her body onto his leather clothes. “I don’t know– probably! That whole… killing you business, I didn’t mean it– just wanted to…” she growled, taking the Catspaw dagger still stashed at her hip, offering it to him, hilt first. Her hand was quivering against the handle, “I trust you. I probably shouldn’t– but I don’t have time to whine and moan about it. Please,” her voice was a hushed whisper, her mismatched eyes wide, her pupils trembling slits. “Help us.”

Aemond regarded her carefully, looking to the offered blade, then back to her. In his eye, she must’ve looked quite pathetic. She was soaked from head to toe, hair plaited to her face, her coat sticking to her like a second skin, eyes wild. Cautiously, he lifted his gloved hand and took the blade from her. “Very well. I’ll offer my assistance– only because your father has been courteous to me and given me the best meal I’ve had in moons. You are still a hellion.”

Euna let out a puff, nodding slowly. She turned to her father, “Papa–”

“I got it under control, Euna,” he responded gruffly, his hand going to his cane and twisting the bottom half from the top, revealing a sharpened dragonglass core. He laid it across his lap, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ain’t helpless yet.”

Aemond had a glint of amusement in his eye at the old man’s resilience, offering a hand to Atohi. “Thank you for the meal.”

“You’ll be back for another, son. Go kill some of those fuckers n’ I’ll make you up some of that fried venison we talked about.”

“You told him about fried venison– with gravy and rice? That’s my favorite!” Euna whined, then snapped back, “Not the time– let’s go, Aemond. You know how to wield a blade?” she asked as they stepped out of the abode, propping a stone against the corner of it.

Aemond gave her an unamused look. “Of course I do– I trained with the finest of knights in the Red Keep. My mentor is… was Ser Criston Cole,” he twirled the dagger in his hand, furrowing his brow, “... those words mean nothing to you. In short, yes, I can wield a blade. Mayhaps better than… what, those ‘Haunted Forest fuckers’?” 

“Mmm, always encroaching. If you don’t know ‘bout us free folk, most are warmongering, always wanting what others have. We down here at the coast are pretty happy with what we’ve got– don’t want more than we need. All tribes aren’t the same, and many of ‘em are happy to kill and pillage and take and take and take…” her voice trailed off as she unsheathed her dragonglass dagger. Nodding her head to Aemond, they pressed down close to the cliff wall, making their way up to the hilltop overlook. “... not sure how many, be prepared, watch my back,” she whispered, “... please.”

Aemond gave her a stiff nod in return, wishing he had more than just the dagger to defend them– but he made do. Not only that, he had a small wish to show up the tiny wildling woman and show her that it was a fluke that she caught him in the first place. If she was only wielding a dagger, then so was he. 

Finally reaching the crest of the hill, Euna saw five figures ahead, their torches snuffed into coals. They were about four feet away, the closest one crouched with his back turned. She slunk over the incline and lunged at the closest one, sinking her dagger into the base of his neck. 

Aemond watched with a wide eye as she went feral, the tip of her weapon poking out of the front of the intruder’s throat– he made a sickly gurgling noise, falling to the ground before he could even grab his weapon. One of his companions looked over, hastily sparking flint to try and light their torches once more, but was met with a swift end by Aemond’s Valyrian steel, sliced vertically up his throat. 

One of them managed to light a torch, whooping and hollering– there were more than five, at least four more filtering out from the sparse forest twenty feet away. Aemond reached down to the bleeding out wildling, grabbing the glinting steel at his waist. It was castle-forged steel, a shortsword no doubt pilfered from a crow– no, fucking Night’s Watchman, why did he think to call them crows?

Twirling the blade, he stowed the small dagger at his waist and steadied his form, his right leg behind him as one of the other wildlings came towards him. Their weapons clashed, steel against bone spear. The sheer strength of the man caught Aemond off guard slightly and it’d definitely been some time since he actually properly fought. Staggered, he whipped backward and parried the next attack, sending the pommel of his shortsword into the man’s nose, hearing the bone and cartilage crunch. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his blood felt like it was on fire. He split the man down the middle, kicking him back to dislodge his weapon. He felt fucking good, he hadn’t felt like this since… since… 

His mind flashed back to Storm’s End and he lost his train of thought, not prepared for the next opponent to barrel at him, broad-axe raised high. Aemond held up the length of his sword horizontally to parry or stagger– it did more damage to himself than his attacker, his weapon skidding off to the side. Everything felt in slow motion as he reached for the Catspaw dagger once more, only having seconds to spare before the axe cleaved him in two–

A flash went past him. It was white, furry and huge. The light of the fallen enemies revealed one of the largest wolves he’s ever seen– no, the largest wolf. It was a fucking direwolf. He’d only read about them in the stories, how Northerners kept them as pets until they went extinct. He watched the direwolf tear into the man’s neck, ripping sinew from bone until his screams died down. Then, it turned towards Aemond, padding slowly to him. Was he really about to get mauled by a wolf? 

It sniffed him, a glint of recognition coming over its gaze. Aemond still had the dagger raised in a defensive position when he heard Euna yelling to him. His head swiveled to her– she was grappling the back of a wildling almost two times her size, drenched in blood and dirt.

“Ours, Aemond– wolf’s ours, n’ any other animals!” she shouted before sinking her teeth into the man’s shoulder, beating on his head with her fists.

Ours. Ours? What in the Seven hells did that even mean– 

The wolf stood on its hind legs, taking the shape of a woman. She was older, hair peppered with white. She offered a hand to Aemond, “Smelled Atohi’s fishcakes on you– knew I didn’t have to rip your throat out too, eh?” she was wearing the pelt of a wolf, no, the wolf that she just was.

Cautiously, he took her hand, his eye wide.

“Euna ain’t told ya? Shit– it’ll be real clear in a minute, crow,” she gave a laugh, howling and wild, reminiscent of a wolf. “Arms up, more are comin’.”

Aemond watched as more men filtered out from the forest– but for every man that came out of the forest, at least two animals descended on them. His heart was thrumming in his chest, blood screaming in his ears. He watched two bears cleave down four men at once, a bison gore a man from the abdomen up, an eagle swooping from the sky and gouging out the eyes of an enemy, a mountain lion descending from a tree onto the back of some poor fucker.

His head was swimming– he must be going mad, surely. That must be it, he must be in some sort of bad dream and he would wake up at Castle Black again and be served shit slop for breakfast. His vision became fuzzy as the battle came to a close– their side was victorious. 

“Aemond?” Euna called out to him, her voice sounding far away, “C’mon.” she interlooped her arm with his and pulled him up. “Ayita, will you tell papa everything’s alright? Crow’s moon-eyed, gonna get us cleaned up.”

“Sure thing, Euna.” the wolf woman from earlier nodded before shifting back into her wolf skin, dragging a lifeless corpse by the arm like a ragdoll.

Euna lead him up the cliffside to a rocky outcrop against a higher palisade, where there was a cave opening. Inside, it was lit up by some bioluminescent mushrooms, leading to a pool of water in the back. It was warm inside of the cave, like it had been at Euna and Atohi’s house– except there was no fire. Glancing at the pool, Aemond saw the steam rising from it. It was a hot spring of sorts, somewhat like the ones that supposedly were under Winterfell. 

She placed him down against the cool stone wall. “... so,” she hummed, placing her hands behind her back, “... what do you think?”

He ran a hand through his hair, sitting against the wall with one leg out and one propped up, his knee bouncing. “‘What do I think?’ About what, exactly? That your tribe is full of skinchangers? That skinchangers are real?” 

She shrugged her shoulders innocently. “Something like that.”

“... well. It is certainly a shock seeing a wolf turn into a woman and back again like its nothing– but… considering my family’s unique traits, it isn’t much of a stretch.”

“Unique traits?”

“We’re dragon riders. We have the blood of the dragon running through our veins and can bond with a dragon.”

“Dragon… riders,” Euna repeated, almost a little dumbfounded, “That’s weird.”

Aemond scoffed. “Your people turn into animals! That isn’t weird?”

“Nope.”

“Gods– okay, so do you turn into an animal, too? I didn’t see you tearing someone limb from limb as a… weasel.”

“Yes, I do. I’m not a fucking weasel,” she growled, crossing her arms over her chest, “You can quickly learn who in the tribe turns and what they turn into,” slowly, she peeled her cloak from her body– she was absolutely stained in blood– and showed it to him, exemplifying the webbed feet and small snout, “by the cloak they wear.”

Aemond stared at her for a long moment. Then, he burst into a fit of laughter– genuine, heartfelt laughter. His raucous chorting ricocheted off of the walls of the cave, booming around them. A tear formed at his eye. “Is that a… seal? A fucking seal– so, what do you do? Throw fish at your enemy? Splash water at them? Gods, that’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

Euna glared at him, placing her cloak aside gently, making sure it was safe before she descended upon him, pounding her fists against his chest, growling and screeching. “Don’t be rude! I’ll fucking scratch your other eye out too, Aemond!” she hissed, her face contorted into a rage, her teeth bared and gnashing near his face.

He was still laughing, finding her rage amusing. He let her pound her fists on his chest until she exhausted herself. He grabbed both of her wrists and stilled them, earning him an agitated growl from her. “Calm down, pipsqueak. It ‘twas only a jest. I’m sure that… seals even have their uses amongst direwolves and cave bears, hm? Like bringing back tasty fish for your father to cook up– like a dog.”

Euna slammed her forehead against his, dazing them both for a moment. “Maybe I will kill you– you’re fucking rude, Aemond!”

“No, I don’t think you will.”

“Let go and I’ll show you.”

“Hmm. No.”

“Aemond.”

“No.”

Their faces were inches apart and Euna was snapping her teeth at him like some kind of rabid animal– she would be better suited as a snapping turtle than a seal, mayhaps. Aemond encapsulated both of her wrists in one of his hands, his other one coming under her chin to still her head, staring at her. 

Her face was splattered with blood and dirt, her mismatched eyes staring daggers at him. Her chest heaved up and down from the exertion of her fit, the tension in her body relaxing as her breaths evened out. She sniffled slightly, pouting out her bottom lip. “I won’t kill you. Papa would be cross. He likes you.”

Aemond perked a brow. “He’s known me all for about four hours.”

“He is a good judge of character, I guess– I still don’t like you. But you can live.”

“Oh, I can? How gracious of you, little seal.”

“Don’t call me that. I will bite you.” 

“Hm,” he hummed, letting go of her chin, but not before giving it a little tug and rasping his thumb over her bottom lip. “So how does it work? The… skinchanging?”

“It’s inherited– the pelts,” she explained after giving a little bite to his thumb before shoving off of him, pulling the leather cord from her braid and undoing it, her fingers parting her locks, “Passed down from generations, leading all the way from the children of the forest, who gifted a pelt of each animal to our ancestors.” she thumbed the drawstring to her shirt, undoing it and promptly taking it off, tossing it aside, leaving her bare chested.

Aemond’s eye widened, the tips of his ears warming before he looked away. “Fucking hell– have you no shame?”

Euna looked at him, puzzled. “... shame? About what? Baring my body without clothes?” she snorted, kicking off her trousers and throwing them at Aemond– they landed with a wet slap on his chest. “You kneelers are something else. A naked body won’t kill you, Aemond. Come on,” she dipped her toes in the warm pool before slipping in. She hung at the edge, elbows over the side, “You’re dirty and you smell like shit. Wash.”

He didn’t move. 

“I won’t stare at your cock if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t matter if it's small or nothin’.” she giggled. 

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?” he growled, giving in to her goading— mostly because he was covered in blood and dirt and probably did smell like shit. He stripped out of his Night’s Watch garb, the cool air from the outside of the cave wafting in and chilling his skin. He was bare before her, and she kept her gaze above his abdomen, thankfully. As far as he saw anyway, she snuck a few glimpses between his legs out of sheer curiosity. 

He sunk into the water, feeling the warmth wash over him. It was cleansing and calming, the heat permeating through his skin and bones to his very core. Aemond let out a drawn out sigh, as if some great weight had been lifted. His thumb hooked under his eyepatch and he tossed it towards where she had her coat. His head thrummed slightly, the weight of the sapphire pressing against his skull. Throwing all proprietary to the wind, he pried the gem from his socket, rolling it in his palm for a moment before setting it aside. 

Euna watched him carefully, most of her body submerged in the water. Her nose and eyes were the only things above the surface, her hair floating out around her in flowing tendrils. 

They locked eyes for a moment and the world fell silent as she slowly waded towards him, her gaze wide. 

He looked back down at her, feeling an odd stirring of something within him— the same thing he felt when he first saw her. His hand floated towards her, pushing her head above the water, his thumb grazing over her bottom lip again. 

She bit it again, but not hard this time. It was soft, the pad of his thumb pressing onto the tip of her tongue as they came closer together. He smeared the wetness onto her lip before their breaths both hitched at the same time, lips melding together. They both didn’t know what sparked it, mayhaps the heat of battle, their blood cooling, but neither of them questioned it as their mouths moved against one another, the heat rising in both of them, the sound of the water swirling and the wet smacks of their lips and tongues dancing echoed in the cave.

Little did they know, lost in their sudden passions— they were being watched.

taglist: @heavenly1927

[beansidhebumbling]

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

The two sisters arrived at the townhouse in a flurry of blood, broken wings, and tears. The rain pounding on the shingled roof was too similar to the hammering in his skull for Rhysand’s liking. Feyre was beside herself, collapsing in his arms, a bundle of salt water and regret bound in a slight frame. Nuala stood nearby, expertly bandaging Azriel who gave a nod at Rhys’ cocked brow. His focus so torn between consoling the Saviour and calculating exactly how fucked they were, meant he only registered Nesta and Elain as two shadows of his own follies in his periphery.

When Cerridwen arrived with steaming tea, he handed Feyre off to Mor and made his way to the Shadowsinger, who had stationed himself by the rich velvet curtains of the sitting room window.

Casting a bubble of privacy around them with the wave of his hand, he turned his ire on his brother and growled,

‘What in the Mother’s name happened, Azriel?’

The Spymaster huffed, one scarred hand raising to tug at the ebony curls of his fringe. His shadows agitatedly moved in whisps and turns around his body, the same coordinated dance as flocks of birds in flight.

‘We walked right into a trap is what. I had no clue…’

He paused for a moment to stare at the storm that raged and scattered oak leaves along the small front garden.

‘Nes…We need to discuss some things privately Rhys, the Cauldron-’

An unyielding grip on Rhysand’s silk clad bicep halted Azriel, whose mouth clamped in a tight line. Rhysand turned, scowl adorning his face to shoo away the intruder when, like walking into an April shower, he was caught in a cloud of jasmine, and freesia, and something intoxicating he could not name, as he came face-to-face with her.

Hair freshly washed and braided framed a heart shaped face. Whiffs of fresh florals and a sticky sugar sweetness trailed like vines in the air. She was glaring at him with a wrath that seemed depthless, churning in the misty eddys of her glorious eyes.

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

*

    Feyre had once told him they looked alike.

She had been flattering herself Rhysand thought unkindly. No living being could compare to the harpy that stood, stony-eyed and iron-spined before him. For she was beautiful in the way only those made of blades could be.

‘You’re Nesta, Feyre’s sister.’

His unimpressive observation was uttered far too breathily. Azriel’s eyes burned hot on the side of his face. His lungs were too busily engaged with supplying air to his brain as it ran in circles because she was his-

‘You’re the bastard Feyre is engaged to.’

Drenched in acid and seeped from behind gritted teeth, the quiet words still caught the pointed ears of the Saviour.

‘Nesta! Don’t you-'

Feyre started from her seat beside Mor, lit with indignation on his behalf. Her strange loyalty to him received so quickly and nearly entirely undeserved… the human in her remained. How long before she lost that? Before her emotions cooled in the way of fae who had centuries to ponder and simmer on feelings? Was her forgiveness obtained as quickly as her loyalty? Rhysand knew with a sickening surety he was guaranteed to discover the answer to the last question.

He held up one hand never glancing at the Saviour, for he had no will nor ability to look elsewhere, not when the rest of his life stood before him seething so prettily.

‘Feyre darling. It seems your lovely sister wants a word with me.’

The words charmingly uttered did not temper Nesta’s ire in the slightest. Unable to resist the chance for time alone in her all-consuming presence even if it meant to face the full force of her rage, he offered hastily,

‘May I suggest we talk in my study Nesta? So you may express yourself unencumbered by an audience.’

��Rhys, there’s no need for that..’

Again he cut Feyre off growing impatient with her continued interruption. Did she not see the chess pieces were toppled around them, the plans so carefully formed crumpled and tossed?

Three steps ahead was still two steps behind his father had advised.

What would he say to his son now when it all seemed irrelevant? Now that his heart was threatening to leap from his throat to land at the slippered feet of his-

‘Feyre my darling. Please.’

He allowed some authority to leak into his tone. Feyre stiffened slightly, eyes open and pleading but after a few strained seconds she nodded her head slightly, moving to Elain’s side even as silence reigned.

Nesta’s eyes had only narrowed further throughout his interaction with the Saviour and when he extended her his arm, she looked pointedly at it, draped in the finest black silk woven by the Mothfae of the Elfeisian Valley, before ignoring it in favour of gliding from the room. With her chin held high, gaze higher still, she threw a scathing look at the Morrigan who whispered something to Cassian as she left.

He followed hurriedly, eyes glued to her, the dastardly pull, making her rejection of his proffered arm sting. She was a mere human not a day ago, a scornful shrew by Feyre’s account, a thorn in his side demanding security and protection below the Wall, when, if not for his vested interest in appeasing the Saviour of Prythian, he would have happily eaten her heart, and that of her doe of a sister too. Now she was a goddess who gazed upon him with such loathing that it tickled some perverse part of him.

If attention borne from hatred lit his skin aflame he could only imagine what such intense focus borne from more amiable feeling elicit in him. 

*

    As the door swung closed, the quiet hush of voices within could be scarcely heard, and mattered little, for she stood, arms folded before him, rendering him dumb as power eeked from her like rays from the sun.

He needed to say something.

Make some move.

Fall to his knees in a plea for marriage or forgiveness. Too slow at contemplating his options he lost his chance for action when she snapped,

‘Lead the way villain.’

His tether.

His entrancement.

The bond was pulled taut between them. Rhysand wondered could he see it shimmering if he squinted. And that chant continued in his pulse, catching his breath and breaking the rotten meat that lay in place of a heart.

Nesta

Nesta

Nesta

His mate. 

*

    Upon entering the study, Nesta made a beeline for the cushy leather chair in the corner and while arranging her full skirts gestured for him to take a seat at his desk, in his study.

Outside lightning struck and the sharp outlines of their shadows rose to almost kiss along the wall. The impertinence of her action, the arrogance, bit like venom at the back of his mouth.

But with it came the recollection he had pulled the exact same move on the eldest Vanserra not two years ago, making him almost shivery in anticipation. He had always revelled in a battle and here before him stood his equal who seemed to possess his playbook also.

So, he sat.

‘To what do I owe the honour of your anger?’

The languid drape of his frame, the jeering tone of his voice belied that he meant it. It was an honour and the way her power suffused through the air, cloaking him in blessed heat was driving him slightly mad.

It licked at his blood. His power hungered for her, the fantasy of her coated in the obsidian hand of night taunted him. Would she fall drunk when encased in his blanket of stars and gloom? Would she beg for a taste of eternal darkness?

Nesta shifted in her seat unaware of his more desperate musings. She did not waste time and spit out,

‘What have you done to my sister?’

Rhysand felt his jaw clench slightly despite himself. A slight flaw in his poker face. His composure shaky in the face of jasmine and freesia and the thought of burying his head in the curve of her neck and inhaling.

The tell was enough.

She could smell the answer in the scent of his posture, had clearly played the liar's game before. Those sharp eyes catalogued the slight fluttering tension in a beat. In response her fists clenched and the black of her pupils slowly began oozing out to coat iris and sclera, until like the gods of old her eyes were two obsidian holes in her fine face.

She had taken from the Cauldron. Azriel’s most grave fear, conveyed mind to mind, confirmed.

Mother save them all. 

*

    Even as his self-preservation screamed at him, to fight, to flee, the ribbon between them sung because..

.....because she was looking at him.

He wanted to swim in pools of eternal death, to bask in the creeping rot until he was but molecules. Molecules of a male, floating, drowning, dreaming in her.

‘So it is you who taints her ribbon of gold with decay, who has forged a chain of darkness to tie you to each other. Did you think you could get away with that?I could smell it on you. On her. Polluting the atmosphere with its wrongness.’

A predator on the hunt she rose from her seat to circle the desk, leaning in until he felt the sharp press of her nails against his throat as she squeezed her hands around his neck.

He caught the moan of ecstasy that carried from deep within.

Beautiful.

Vicious.

Witch.

His.

She had to be. He was hers.

*

    Would she mark him with a cut if he begged?

Let red drip onto her fingers, stain them. Hope that some of it might seep into her skin, so he could be part of her, so that his darkness could rest easy amidst silver death.

His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open and not submit to the scratching loveliness of her touch.

‘I will ask once more and then I will not again. What have you done to my sister?’

Her hands tightened for a second before loosening to let him reply,

‘What will you do if I do not answer Lady Archeron?’

He taunted.

He leaned into her, even as she recoiled, hands retreating to hidden pockets in her skirts.

In the icy absence of her touch, some form of sobriety presented itself.

From the simple cotton confines her right hand rose wordlessly and she held a clenched fist before him. He stretched his palm out to receive the silent offering.

A grey acorn dropped, scattering into ashes upon contact.

Her left hand braced on the arm of his chair so eye contact was unavoidable. She craved his fear, to see it surface in the violet gleam of his gaze, he reckoned.

He craved things far more precious than fear from her.

The dust marked his palm, etched itself between crevice and wrinkle, as she whispered calmly,

‘I did this on the way in. I felt the surge of life that it held. What would have been an ageless oak in the garden of the fae-scum that reside here. I felt life and I pulled. I pulled all that could be from it.'

She bared her teeth in a horrifying facsimile of a smile and hissed,

‘Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.’

An old ditty from some human plague.

He steadied himself, searched for the spine he was fairly certain she had not ripped from him yet.

‘I am no acorn, Nesta.’

‘No. But when I scatter your dust along the Sidra who will be able to tell the difference?’

There was a beat of silence.

She had a point.

Nesta tilted her head, tapping her foot in anticipation of an explanation.

‘Do your human tales mention the Weaver?’

She scrunched her fine arched brows before stating in a distant voice,

‘A Witch of Waste and Middle... who threads the tapestry of fate.’

‘Clever little thing aren’t you?’

Her eyes flashed.

‘Clever enough to know to mind my manners when someone could turn me to dust.’

His lovely mate, all bark and bite.

‘Touchy, touchy.’

He sniped but when she snarled and her hands started to glow silver, he held up his own in surrender.

It wouldn’t do for her to kill him before she had a chance to fall in love with him. With this in mind he spoke carefully,

‘I made a bargain. A fiddly thing they are, love. Like thread, so many loops to be found. Dangerous business to mess with loops and the Weaver. Only the brave or foolish do so.’

In a voice drier than the sands of Day she retorted,

‘A tragedy then that you are both.’

A small laugh burst from the rising corners of his mouth. It was his true laugh, high and cold and utterly inhuman, not the warm gravelly one he created to enchant the Saviour.

‘You flatter me.’

She did. She flattered him every second she spent in his company.

He wondered did she find him pretty? Did she admire the sharp angle of his jaw, the sheen of his hair, the lean muscle of his frame?

‘I’ll flatten you if you don’t get to the point.’

‘A bargain with the Weaver to alter the bonds. Break and remake.’

Feyre’s bond to Cassian now a fraying string, a red primrose strangled by bindweed. A new one built of night and darkness and Winter’s blood. Nesta released a strangled scream, storming to the other end of the room as hot blush painted her cheeks and the pieces clicked together.

‘Oh you heinous piece of shit. You didn’t just break whatever bond she had, you tied her to you.’

A simple plan. Bond with the most powerful fae in Prythian. On the infinitesimal chance his mate appeared he would kill them. So simple and yet…

He had miscalculated.

A rare occurrence.

A fatal mistake.

He could not kill this creature of mercury and boiling burning anger, whose blood was dripping from clenched fists onto the well tufted carpet.

She had no such qualms however.

‘I’m going to murder you.’

Vow uttered she prowled towards him, stopped in her tracks as his low warning reached her.

‘I really wouldn’t recommend that if you value your sister.’

‘Is that a threat, you fucking monster?’

She thought him a monster. Strange for it to hurt so, an apt descriptor, one he had revelled in now sat heavy in his chest coming from her.

‘I’d prefer you think of it as sound advice. How about a deal?’

She scoffed, her disgust apparent.

‘Now why would I make a deal when I could just kill you before you hurt my sister or anyone else?’

True fear laced his voice as he responded,

‘Because your sister’s life is tied to mine.’

And only the Mother knew what possessed him to attempt to lighten the mood after such a confession.

‘I do so like a bargain.’

Nesta recoiled in horror.

‘Your lives are tied. What would possess Feyre…’

She trailed off. The answer hung in the air between them but he vocalised it all the same,

‘Love.’

There was no glee in Rhysand saying such a thing. Feyre’s love, adoring and fragile, still young and wild, a toy he’d played with for his own amusement, would eliminate whatever slim chance he had with Nesta.

His best laid plans would soon be his ruination. His heart could not be ignored, nor the screaming writhing bond that made his ribs ache. He had to salvage something from the wreckage of his greed and ambition.

‘Stay in the Night Court and I’ll break the false bond with your sister.’

‘I’d sooner drown myself in your river than vow to stay in this court under your rule, to be used for whatever evil you concoct next.’

‘A century. Stay here a century and Feyre can go where she pleases, free from the bond. I’ll fund her travels and comfort.’

Nesta let out a derisive snort.

‘Oh that is a given. She is the Saviour of you and your rotten kind. You fooled my sister and you brought myself and Elain into this mess with your carelessness and arrogance.’

She shook her head sadly.

'And a century? Not a chance.’

‘Need I remind you, you are one of my rotten kind now. Fifty years.’

The sharp intake of breath from her was all he got as she turned her back on him and did not deign to answer. No hostile party had ever turned left back open to him before. It pleased him that he did not frighten her.

Silver linings to cling to, as like ice melting, she sought to slip from grasping fingers.

‘Twenty and you live in the Townhouse and work under my employ.’

‘So you can exploit my powers? So I have to suffer your miserable presence?’

So he could see her face each day. So other Courts would cower before them. So he could offer her the world if she asked.

‘Consider Rhysand that if I figure out how to get to the Weaver myself I will fashion my own bargain with her.’

He was bombarded with different horrifying visions of Nesta. Hanging from one of the great oak trees that grew in the Middle, the Weaver hacking off limbs from her corpse to make wax and soup, her bronze hair matted with blood as her skull cracked like a runny egg, leaking all she was onto damp grass. Nesta with her newly burgeoning power was too weak yet for the Witch of the Middle. A dread settled in his bones and panic eroded his voice so it left his chapped lips in a rasp,

‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please... just five years. You will stay in the Townhouse and your time is your own.’

He held no cards, not at her own unwitting threat to her safety. She seemed to sense it, the gambler’s instinct gleaming in the twinkle of her eye.

‘Three years. I will live in Velaris independently on the condition you break the tainted mess that connects you and Feyre before the year end.’

He went to agree and was stopped by her voice continuing a pitch lower and finely sharpened like a dagger.

‘If not I will leave and make it my mission to take your court apart brick by fae-damned brick.’

*

    Three years.

He was glad the bond hadn’t snapped for her yet so she did not know a bargain was unnecessary. He would throw himself off Ramiel to make her smile.

Three years to convince her he was a male she could love. Three years to earn Feyre’s forgiveness and qualify for Nesta’s consideration.

Three years.

A blink of an eye, especially when he had no clue how to break a bargain with the Weaver.

But Rhysand had faced worse.

He extended his hand.

At the very least he could touch her, feel the soft skin of her pale hand meet his, at least once more, relish in the sparks that flew and the marks they’d share.

There were silver linings after all.

[oftenwantedafton]

Trapped - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Detective Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

CW - blood and violence

Excerpt: You’re an adult now with several years of experience as a police officer behind you and the gun at your waist is a small comfort when you patrol the area. You shiver as your eyes scan the vacant lot, imagining shapes in the shadows where perhaps there are none. You are grateful it is closed, the front entrance encased in rusting steel bars and a thick padlock. You do not know if it is enough to keep new thieves out.

You pray it is enough to keep the evil inside.

Also available on AO3

The cracked mirror divides the man’s face by a jagged line, a dark scar that partitions his features. Blood spatters freckle skin and stain the creases that bracket icy blue eyes still illuminated with an inner light from the thrill of the murder he’d just committed. The crimson liquid mixes with perspiration, tracking down stubble coated cheeks, a lover’s caress tattooing a salted blood trail across pale flesh. He can smell the metals of that crimson life force, nearly taste it, even. The knife resting on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink is still dripping, rivulets painting spidery paths like blood vessels. A pair of gold framed glasses perch nearby, temporarily abandoned as they were unnecessary with the enhanced vision of the rabbit suit he’d worn.

He cups his hands under the spray of water from the faucet, letting it run cold over the long digits for a few moments before he bows down and splashes his face, rubs it over the back of his neck and lets it trickle over his upper body. He can still hear the symphony of screams, the fear and terror echoing in Parts and Service. He’d nearly forgotten how sweet that melody sounded.

He pulls an undershirt and dress shirt on, slinging a tie around his neck and sighs, almost regretful at concealing them again.

Suddenly the man leans forward, squinting and frowning at a stubborn bloodstained fingerprint on his shirt collar. It seems he’d been a bit careless cleaning up the evidence of his crime. He’ll have to use peroxide on that when he returns home. Home, he thinks, sneering. Well, not really his true home, but what he calls his dwelling. It’s a front, just like his position as a career counselor, just like the false accolades framed in the walls of his office and the name placard on his desk. Lies, all of it, but they all believe him, so gullible, so trusting. Adults or children; it makes no difference now.

He smiles humorlessly, eyes flickering to the mascot head he’d carried into the employee bathroom with him, its counterpart suit already stowed away securely. It’s deteriorating further, the fur and fabric wearing away with time, exposing metal and wires, lights and circuitry. Damaged, but still very much of use to his purpose, even after all this time.

Just like this old friend here. He caresses the blade for a moment, reliving the feeling as it had sunk into soft flesh. The possessed animatronic had started the bloodletting, and he had continued, long after the trap had mauled with razor sharp blades. He’d carved until there’d been very little left that was recognizable as a human being, let alone the middle aged security guard he’d hired earlier that week.

He’ll need to replace him, of course. There was still the problem of unwelcome intruders. But he had no doubts some other desperate soul would come along, eager for work, willing to do anything. Fate always provided.

He shuts the faucet off, wiping damp hands on his trousers, then drags a rag over the knife until it gleams in the floursescent lighting. He’ll need to sharpen it again, but that can wait for the morning.

Hooking two fingers inside the rabbit’s head he’d worn earlier, it lifts easily and William Afton begins humming as he exits the restroom.

***

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone who’s ever lived in Hurricane has. Perhaps they’re whispered late at night by a campfire, or uttered as a threat to misbehaving children, no mere ghost story or tall tale but a dark history of crimes committed by a killer who’s left no trail.

This was the terrifying legacy of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.

Never go near the abandoned pizzeria.

Everyone knew it. Back when the business had been operational, multiple children had consecutively gone missing, and even though authorities had searched thoroughly, multiple times, no trace of those kids had ever been found. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air, leaving their parents forever worrying and wondering, imagining the very worst had happened. Perhaps it had.

Perhaps the reality was even worse still.

Despite all of this, it didn’t stop occasional break-ins. Teenagers on a dare, thrill seekers, people looking for a way to earn money. There were bound to be plenty of copper pipes and wires, valuable sources of metal for construction. Arcade and change machines still loaded with cash. The animatronics themselves, with their complex inner workings, must be worth something.

Some trespassers had made it out, but they never seemed any richer. There were only more stories. The place was haunted. The animatronics moved, not in their preprogrammed state but of their own volition, wandering the halls, investigating the rooms. Sometimes people saw a yellow rabbit, taller than the other mascots, the costumed individual moving fluidly. Its eyes were silver and it laughed, low and mirthless.

You believed them, because you’d been to that restaurant, years ago as a child, to play the arcade games, to attend a classmate’s birthday party. You’d known even then something was wrong. You could never explain it. It was just a feeling. You could hear the establishment calling you, beckoning you, imploring you to explore further, to become a part of the wonder, the mystery within its depths.

Maybe it was the yellow rabbit trying to lure you in.

You’re an adult now with several years of experience as a police officer behind you and the gun at your waist is a small comfort when you patrol the area. You shiver as your eyes scan the vacant lot, imagining shapes in the shadows where perhaps there are none. You are grateful it is closed, the front entrance encased in rusting steel bars and a thick padlock. You do not know if it is enough to keep new thieves out.

You pray it is enough to keep the evil inside.

***

As it turns out, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza has a new employee.

You see the car one morning as the sun is just rising, a rusted sedan seated in front of the main entrance. Parking nearby, you keep the engine running, watching as a young man likely in his 20’s emerges from the depths of the building, securing the heavy lock and chains before trudging to his vehicle. You can see smudges beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted, awkwardly fumbling in the pocket of his hoodie until he locates keys for the car. It’s then that he seems to notice you, his right hand frozen while inserting the key into the lock, the other hand clasping a worn looking copy of a book entitled Dream Theory.

You step out of the car, still not shutting off the engine, and introduce yourself, one hand still resting on the open door, as if you are ready to make a quick escape, to bolt from this wretched place once and for all. The other hitches in your belt, within reach of your firearm, the holster snap already unfastened.

The man nods cautiously, telling you his name is Mike Schmidt. He’s the new security guard working the night shift, he elaborates.

You ask if he’s seen or heard anything unusual, noting the hesitation before he shakes his head. Upon inquiring who hired him, you receive a name you don’t recognize, accepting the business card he digs from the pocket of his jeans. Steve Raglan, Career Counselor.

You warn him to be careful, eyeing the creased spine of the dog eared paperback one last time before you settle back inside the car, tapping the business card against the steering wheel thoughtfully. You follow the security guard out of the parking lot and then turn onto the freeway.

Perhaps you should pay this career counselor a visit.

[yoinkschief]

Me when I men

Dog Teeth AU Tom Character Reference Sheet

WARNING: Slight NSFW - Mild, Non-Explicit Nudity under the cut

My other husband I love him so much let me kiss you on the lips volatile ball of angst and anger

My poor boy was cursed with his father's hairline and sress he cannot carry,,, to be fair that last bit was his own doing

I sure hope he looks nautical enough,, I mean I want him to nautical INSPIRED, not a member of the marine court, y'know?

My lover said "very Garp of him" and I think that's that One Piece Marine DILF guy so that's a plus :)

I also wanted his outfit to be a direct contrast to Tord's - I mean red and blue are already contrasts on the color wheel but kinda so is green so I wanted a little more driving force: white against Tord's blacker color palette

While white is supposed to represent purity, I assure you, Tom is anything but

It's more a reflection of how the characters see themselves: Tord KNOWS he's a piece of shit and happily flaunts it because no one can do anything about, he holds it with pride even

But Tom doesn't believe he's being an ass, he thinks he's genuinely doing the right thing or at the very least the lesser of the two evils he was forced into, and than on it's own has some merit but this is just to say Tom isn't exactly the "savior" of the story despite what the white palette may suggest

It certainly is what he wants to portray to the public, however

Mmmmm mann

I'm apparently really into sharp contrasts or something cause I keep shading with very bright colors against very dark shadows,,,, it's really fun actually so whateva

Also that cape thing Tom wears ? Worst thing ever, it's like a texture issues but instead of the texture bothering him it's the uneven amount of weight, like he's painfully aware it's on his left shoulder and not his right and it irks him so badly but "it carries his rebellion's symbol so he has to wear it in public" or whatever

He's really only seen wearing it during important or public matters, when it counts

Otherwise that thing's in the bin

Back in his OG style but with the horrible hairline and salt in his hair

He got a day off

He snuck out of the lime light

"Ohh I drew him naked to show off his tattoos and to talk about them"

No I didn't

I'm a liar

I drew him naked cause I wanted to draw his tits so I did, simple

But I will talk about his tattoos some more :)

First of all: That scar on his left shoulder is from the house rubble, that cut we see on his arm at the end of The End pt. 2, yeah that's where that comes from

As for his tattoos,,

I know I've explained these somewhere but I'm explaining them again cause I dunno if I explained it someone's DMs or not lol

The Harpoon tattoos are pretty self explanatory, and I also just wanted to show off colored tattoos on darker skin complexions cause that's the stupidest argument I've ever heard and black/dark skinned people should be able to get colored tattoos

The rest are kind of important to Tom and the story line,,,ish?:

the Shark Teeth tattoo comes from the time he visited Hawaii to find out more about his father and his Father's side of the family and their customs, traditions, his heritage, etc. etc.

To make a long story short: there's a reason his father doesn't talk about his side of the family often, but it didn't ruin his experience while visiting some lesser hostile family members in Hawaii like his cousins, and he even got to surf with them - which was when they decided to convince him to get the Shark Teeth tattoo

On top of Tom just being really obsessed with sharks and having infinite knowledge on all things shark related, it's supposed to represent strength, guidance and protection which I think is very fitting for Tom

The "Wolf" tattoo kinda stands out because Tom's Irish, not Scottish or any sort of Norse. So why the Nordic rune?

Well :)

Back when Tom and Tord lived together, they weren't always at each other's throats

I think I mentioned this in my Strip Mafia AU reference sheet for Tord ignore how I forgot to flesh out Tom's,,, I have it I just haven't cleaned it up yet but I'm gonna rehash it here really quick:

Tord gave everyone in the house a tattoo he thought best represented them, including himself (which was the Ouroboros tattoo seen on his character sheet) and Tom's was the rune for "wolf" and I think there are very obvious reasons behind it

Tom stays around his friends a lot, he's got more bite than bark, very unfriendly to outsiders, the list goes on really

It's so odd seeing Tom in so much white if I'm being honest

I'm so used to him being in like angst blacks and greys and I don't think he's adjusting any better himself LOL

[greyskyflowers]

I like the idea of Zosan for a lot of reasons, and my best friend adores them so that's definitely part of it, but I also just really really love the idea of Sanji coming to terms with not only liking Zoro but also that men are much different than he originally thought.

Zoro is rugged. He's a big, tough guy that probably doesn't shower very often and drinks his body weight regularly. He's not what someone would consider delicate or beautiful or soft.

I personally imagine Zoro would have the body of a strongman, not perfectly chiseled but strong. Solid. Meat on his bones and a thick core like a barrel (titsfordays).

But I also think it's worth mentioning that even with those things, there's no reason he can't also be delicate and beautiful and soft.

Why does it have to be or instead of and? Isn't Nami strong and beautiful? Isn't Chopper soft and capable of harm? Isn't Robin gentle and wrathful?

I bet he's soft when he helps them up from the ground, huge hands so careful of injuries or hurting them more. When they drag him into a hug or cling to him when they're running from something or even just stand next to him, he's got to be soft. All that muscle and power hidden under a healthy layer of fat, scars and stretch marks etched in lines on his skin, and he's so warm all the time. He radiants heat under their hands and against their sides.

I bet he's delicate when he's sleeping, lashes fanned out and whispy shadows on his cheeks from the sun. When he moves more like a prowl, instincts sharp and sense pulled tight in awareness. He's a taunt thread, a knife's edge, a spider's web... He's delicate when he takes care of his swords, and in how he holds himself when Chopper climbs all over him.

He's probably beautiful when he's happy. I always picture him with big dimples when he throws his head back to laugh and those wonderful crinkles by his eyes from how they scrunch up with his smile. He's one of those people who looks good sweaty and worn with life. Dirt and blood have settled into the creases of his skin and no amount of cleaning will get rid of them. He smells like sweat and salt and sea.

His eyes are multicolored in the sunlight, all the hues popping out as he squints while looking out over the water. He looks healthy and happy, taken care of and loved.

I like Sanji taking all that in without really noticing and it just hits him one day.

Maybe he passes Zoro sleeping on the deck, the fleeting thought that he looks especially beautiful today going through his head. And he has to stop because today? As in he thinks Zoro is usually beautiful but he's just looking extra fine today?

Maybe they're all curled up to sleep together on cold waters and windy nights, just a big pile and everyone snuggled in close. And Zoro is surprisingly soft under his hand. There's a give to him that Sanji wasn't expecting from where his hand had ended up on Zoro's hip.

Maybe Zoro gets dragged into helping cook and Sanji is so surprised with how careful Zoro is with the dish. How delicate he is with the small tarts, trying not to bruise any of the fruits, and carefully adding things to the top of the finished dish.

Another post that's been sitting in my drafts forever because I never could get it to where I wanted it to be or finish it, but I'm trying to clean them out sooooo... Here it is.

[aotearoa20]

Foresight Mighty.

//1/2//3//4//5//6//7//

He ought not have been surprised the second time. Try as he might, he never could forget the spectre from his son’s future, if indeed that’s what it was. Little Nelyafinwe grew up and up. Fëanáro watched for any sign of the dark spirit he’d seen within him but could find no trace.

And then his second came, Kanafinwë who demanded attention from the moment uttered his first breath. Ever he had something to say and was determined that all of Elvenesse would hear him. Telperion was waning when he entered the nursery. He smiled as he rescued the poor nurse from her night long vigil, trying to coax the baby to sleep.

Kanafinwë stared up at him, round eyes wide open as he lifted him up into his arms. He heeded no scolding, only giggled as Fëanor sang and spoke to him in hushed tones of his newest projects. But Fëanáro was in a fair mood and happily indulged the boy, as he settled them both down in the rocking chair.

The first he noticed of it was the cold.

Their home was close enough to the trees that he’d never needed to worry much about it unless they were travelling. But he shivered as a breeze, poured in through the balcony. He wrapped Makalaurë tighter in his blankets as he carried him over to the window to close it.

As he looked out a strange sense of foreboding settled over his heart. The noises of the courtyard disappeared sharply as the latch fell in place. His reflection stared back at him worried, before his breath misted it over. Fëanáro felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and took a breath. They were not alone.

There was a flicker of light in the glass. Two pinpricks of treelight in the shadowed corner of the room. The creaking of the rocking chair didn’t slow, thudding on the wooden floor in time with his heart. The Prince turned slowly to face it. It takes all his will not to pull away, it stinks of salt and rot.

“Who are you?”

He wanted it to step into the light. He wanted it to stay as far from him as possible. Kanafinwë started whining in his arms and Fëanáro hushed him absently. There are no footsteps but he can feel the presence of it approaching. When it finally stopped before him, it loomed over him, tall and thin like a shadow.

It’s face was hidden by a threadbare hood. Swallowing hard, he stepped forward and pulled in back from its face. His chest felt full but hollow. A sob gets caught in his throat. He cannot recognise him. He cannot recognise this poor withered creature.

“Káno?” He prayed that he was wrong.

It blinked a couple of time, dazzled by the candlelight. Tears run down it’s cheeks, leaving pale lines in the dirt on his face that look like claw marks. He reached to wipe them away but pulled back in horror when he found even his touch bruised and tore and the phantom’s face.

“Who did this to you?”

It looked at him - looked and looked and saw nothing. He wanted to pull him into his arms. Hold him until he could remember his name but he was terrrified to so much as take his hand lest it crumble into dust. He could not even put down the little one for fear he might fade away when his back was turned.

So he reached out with his fëa to the frail elf he knew must be his son. There was so little of anything left but he at last brushed upon his spirit. He never felt fire burn cold before but he cradled the spark with unseen hands and prayed it was enough. A soft gasp escaped the elf’s lips. Fëanaro frowned. Had he even heard him breathe before then?

“My child, what happened?”

Fëanáro watched as his eyes cleared and finally focus on him. The weathered lines across its face pulled taut as he stepped back in horror. He raised his hands as though to ward him away and Fëanáro saw the same festering scar that had marred his brother. The vision opened his mouth but spoke in a voice like the whisper of waves on the shore. Leaning closer to hear it let out a whimper and Fëanáro sighed. He could not understand a word from his mouth.

“Káno - ” His own voice trailed off. A sound, a melody, shivered into the air. Too low for him to hear at first, only feel in the still gaping chasm of his chest. Makalaurë’s lips barely moved but the song grew and shifted. It was beautiful. And awful. It crawled to the back of his throat, he felt sick but thought he might fall apart if the boy stopped singing.

Darkness he saw, such complete and utter darkness. He couldn’t move for the terror of it. Blood on the sand and trees of pure silver. Two silver haired boys, or perhaps just the one, they looked so similar, and then their hair bled dark.

He found himself beside them both crouched in… a wardrobe, he thinks? He looks at them both and knows, the way one knows in dreams, first that they are Nolofinwë’s kin. Second, that they must be quiet - there was a monster prowling in the room outside. The music has not stopped, it’s ebbs and swells and it feels as though it’s burning him from the inside out.

He looked through a crack in the wood and saw seven flames burning white against the darkness, only to be consumed, one by one until there were just two. Suddenly they begin to burn bright enough to rival Laurëlin at her prime. He had to look away from the brilliance of it. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

The baby writhed in his arms and cried out. Fëanaro must have also, even long after the vision’s presence slipped away. Nerdanel finds him on his knees in the nursery, cradling the child and weeping. He couldn’t stop, not for another day or so, even after he’d forgotten what he was crying for. Though he could not recall the tune of the song, it doesn’t leave him. Some nights, years later he wakes with tears in his eyes. Each time he slips out to check, to see his son sleeping soundly in his bed.

[farrahda5hywrites]

La Foudre et Le Tonnerre

Pairing: Aleksander Morozov(a) x Implied!Moon Summoner!Reader

Summary: Memories of your past return in a bizarre way

Warning: Light Discussions of familial death.

Sequel ficlet to La Sombra y El Jardín, Read the first one here.

Notes: I really like writing this non linear series as little snippets rather than a full on fic because I like the idea of this project being something I just come back to whenever and not having an exact linear progression

Taggies @marvelmusing

You made a habit of getting up early in the morning to sit outside and smell the salt in the air. The Darkling, although you never call him that to his face, never hesitated to join you soon after. The both of you spent a couple weeks at the cabin, at first keeping your distance from him, but you soon relaxed to spend some time with him.

He immediately confirmed what you already knew. You had a great power within you, but you had yet to harness it to its full potential. You were surprised, however, that he neglected to explain what exactly it was nor did he offer to train you to harvest it. Still, he treated you with respect and appeared to listen to your every word when he asked you a question. Some were personal while the others were about the insight about the future of Grisha.

“My grandfather worked in the fisheries.” You said sipping your tea. Your words came out quietly, and you paused looking at your cup. “I haven’t spoken about him in years.”

“Tell me about him.” The Darkling commanded, and you shot him a glare. Repeatedly, you tried to explain that your memory was like a gust of wind. You strongly believed the loss of your memories were a result of your time as a vagabond. “I mean it.”

“Of course you do.” You stared out in the distance. “He had a beard.”

“As most grandfathers do.” He chuckled.

“He would carry me on his shoulders.” You shrugged. “I….really don’t remember much else.”

You closed your eyes. You could see the outline of your grandfather’s face. His hair contrasted the color of his beard— one grey almost white and the other full and robust of its natural color. His enormous smile lighting up the room, and you swore you could hear his laughter and feel his smile lines. Joyful in his old age.

The Darkling, despite a youthful face, was the opposite. He had scars across his face, hurt in his dark eyes, and pain in his shoulders. He held himself up regal and stoic, but you sensed the deep trauma he carried. He kept himself hidden by his shadows or covered his face for the first few days he stayed in the cabin. It was an accident you saw his face before he allowed you to. He was outside in the garden, perhaps basking in the sun when you glanced at him. Regardless, he was a handsome man, but your grandmother’s voice reminded you not to stare too long.

A shift in the wind, and you sensed the smell of rain. A storm, not the one you described to the Darkling, but a strong one nonetheless. Without a word, you stood up and took off running at the first crack of lightning and ran back inside. You ran into the back room and lay down on the lounge chair and covered yourself up with a blanket, curling up on your side and tucking your head in.

I’m not scared. You told yourself. It was the truth. You had never been scared of these types of storms. You vaguely remembered cuddling with your mother in front of a fire. Throughout your travels, you always had to push through the storms as much as possible and get on your way. Ironically, the safety of this cabin was awarded you the luxury of fear and the refuge of comfort in the same moment.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you and focused on your breathing to drown out the sounds of thunder. You jumped, feeling a hand on your back.

“Are you all right?” You expected to hear teasing in his voice.

“I am all right.” You whispered. “I got startled.”

“Would you like me to sit with you?” Before you answered, he made room for himself beside you.

A silence filled the air before you spoke again.

“My grandmother used to hold me.” You cleared your throat. “Will you…”

You felt his arm drape over your waist and his other arm above your head. You relaxed significantly poking your head out your blanket cocoon.

“Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

x.

You woke up again to the same sounds of thunder and lightning with an added clanging of pots and pans. Discombobulated and angry, you hopped up heading toward the noise. You stomped grinding your teeth, and you stepped into the kitchen, eyes half lidded.

“Tea?” The Darkling asked meeting you halfway.

“You are as loud as the thunder.” You mumbled trying to rub the sleep from your eyes. It felt futile, so you ended up turning around heading back to the back room and flopping on your bed.

The Darkling was quick to follow you bringing the tea tray along and placing it on the desk on the other side of the room. You rolled over to face him hearing the sound of him clearing his throat.

“I will be leaving shortly.” He said. “As soon as the storm passes.”

“You won’t be back for a while.” You touched your chest feeling a pain rising from the pit of your stomach. “You may not come back.”

“What is it?” His voice changed from a soft gentle tone to a commanding one.

“It may be the last time I see you.” You sat up clutching your head. “I….don’t think that’s accurate. I….”

You glanced up at the Darkling as crouch down to your level, and you gasped horrified seeing the face of your grandfather. You blinked, and it was gone, but you began sobbing uncontrollably.

Your family waited months for word about your grandfather’s disappearance, and the word never came. The ship was presumed lost at sea probably destroyed in a storm like the one that rang in your ears or a vortex. You never asked your grandmother the truth or her theories. All you know was your grandfather was gone, and part of the joy your family had died with him.

You stared at your feet coming back to senses by the warm embrace of the Darkling.

“His name was Issak.” You mumbled. “My grandfather I mean. My grandmother married him on his ship because she didn’t think he’d return. Like a curse if he went back on his word.” You half sobbed and half laughed.

“You have my symbol and my word. I will return here to the best of my ability. All right?”

You nodded and wiped your face. “Wait until noon.” You sniffled.

“I shall.”