#and then just never let that sentiment leave his mind so they all assumed he hated them rip

[conelluwrites]

the red means i love you

Reader/Doppelgänger Francis (main focus on the doppelgänger aspect) (reader goes by she/her and is described with vaginal terms)

posted on my AO3

word count: 2.6k

title from The Red Means I Love You by Madds Buckley

Contains: monster fucking (doppelgänger fucking), headcanon design for non-disguised doppels, barbed dick, breeding, and blood drinking

You let the wrong one in, but maybe it's not as bad as it seems when you invite him back to your apartment.

“Mmm…”  The voice sounds uncanny, too similar to Francis with the slightest hint of a purr that the tired milkman would never express, “I’m rather thankful that you let me in earlier, you know?”  His uniform is clean and tidy, well put together in a way that Francis would never be able to achieve due to his early morning risings.  His hair is just barely out of place.  Things that no one would notice-- things that make her wish that she had called Francis’ apartment to see if he was home.

“W-Wha-!”  The doorman stumbles back in fear, causing her to bump her back into the chest of the doppelgänger who all too readily wraps his arms around her waist.  One of his hands trails down her rigid arm and grabs the hand of hers that is trembling its way towards the phone.  Even if he didn’t intervene, the D.D.D. would not arrive in time to prevent any damages, he was in the safety room.  His fingertips are inhuman, too sharp but not yet undisguised, as they intertwine with her own to prevent her from dialing the number she memorized so easily.

“Shhh, shhh…  There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”  He coos, brushing his nose against the exposed flesh of her neck.  “No need to scream, no need to squirm, no need to put up a fight…”  His voice is velvety but now lacks the tiredness the real Francis carries.  It’s not surprising that he’s giving up his disguise piece by piece, she assumes that it must take some level of effort to be so near-perfectly disguised and she knows at this point she’s utterly fucked.  “I could take you away from this annoying position forever if you want.  No pesky D.D.D. agents, no more anxiety from our kind, no more living in fear.  Sounds pretty nice, hm?”  His free hand goes to hold her chin, his sharp thumb slightly digging into her jawline.

“But I gotta protect my neighbors.  My job-- sitting here and looking at everyone and their documents, it might suck at times but it keeps everyone safe.”  She says, her voice trembling.  Her throat is bone dry from fear, her chest aches from the uneven breathing leaving her slightly open lips.

“Oh, my dear, that’s such a noble sentiment.”  The doppelgänger sighs dramatically before shaking his head.  He spins her around in his grasp, the hand that was holding hers goes to her waist.  His fingers trace along her jawline, making sure to keep a gentle, but firm, grip on her so she cannot try to escape.  There’s a bright grin on his face, his teeth too white to be human.  “But how many times have they let you down?  Surely they have failed you before.  People are fickle creatures; they don’t appreciate what they have until it’s gone.  I promise to protect you, sweetheart, just let me stay with you tonight, hm?”

Her mind races, so many thoughts of her own death and the death of her neighbors.  “How do I know you won’t hurt me?”  The answer is obvious-- if the doppel were going to hurt her, he already would have.  He’s stronger than her, stronger than any human and she’s still in his grasp.  If he wanted to maim her, he would have already.  “You doppelgängers just want to kill and eat us.”

“Ah, you misunderstand me, darling!  I could never harm a hair on your lovely head.”  The doppelgänger earnestly insists.  His thumb brushes gently across her cheek, trying to so lovingly convince her.  “All I want is to hear more stories about your day and listen to those sweet little fears of yours…  And yes, perhaps indulge myself in some delicious blood as well.”  He’s whispering intimately, as if they’re a pair of lovers.  The grip on her waist tightens slightly but remains mostly gentle, it’s almost comforting despite the sharp nails against her shirt.  “C’mon… please trust me.”

“But I-”  her voice dies out the longer she allows herself to fall into the illusion of mutual trust.

“It’s okay, my love,” he murmurs understandingly, “don’t overthink things, hm?”  He kisses her temple tenderly, a perfect imitation of love between humans.  His eyes flicker towards the phone, allowing even himself to dream of a different world where he could whisk her away and keep her all to himself.  “Let’s just go for now, let’s go somewhere private where no one can bother us.”

She relents easily, tearing her gaze from his face and allowing it to travel down the white uniform before making its way back up to his face.  “My apartment is on the first floor.  We… We can go there together.  We don’t have to worry about others seeing us, everyone else is in for the night.”

Francis’ grin grows even more, his canines growing sharper than any humans can be naturally, “That sounds perfect.”  He sounds appreciative, leading him gently to the door to exit the safety room.  The walk to the apartment is short.  As the apartment door closes, the intensity changes slightly; he is watching her carefully while also taking the new space.  “Nice place.  So cozy…”

“Thank you….” She murmurs. “I figured it’s safer for you to be here than anywhere else in the complex.”

Francis’ doppelgänger hums thoughtfully before nodding in agreement.  After the brief exchange, he takes the opportunity to explore the small apartment, touching things lightly as if trying to understand their purpose and history though touch alone.  Every movement exudes confidence in his decision-making process, evaluating the potential of each object.  “You’re so brave, you know.  C’mere.”

She walks over to him hesitantly and stands there.  The doppelgänger is taller than her.  Despite it all, since he’s imitating one of her neighbors that she’s rather fond of, she feels herself relaxing.  He wraps an arm around her waist casually, pulling her close while leaning down until their hands nearly touch.  He inhales deeply, enjoying the warmth that a human being brings.  He drawings circles on his back with his free hand.  He continues to lean down slowly -- closer and closer to her neck.  Her breath hitches as his nose finally meets her neck.  Her hands meet his waist and tighten slightly, crinkling his shirt.  Adrenaline is racing through her body, making her tremble slightly but she refuses to pull away.  The way the doppelgänger rubes and nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck is the sweetest thing she’s experienced recently.

The doppelgänger lets out a satisfied rumble, savoring the sensation of her trembling beneath his touch.  If anyone saw them now, they’d assume it was two lovers locked in passion.  His lips brush against the skin he finds lightly before he stops abruptly.  “Promise me something -- promise that you won’t run away.”

“...”  She considers his words carefully.  Every primal instinct in her is begging her to run, to get away as fast as she can.  But she hasn't and, to be honest to herself, she doesn’t want to.  She’s rather content staying like this, being in his arms with his face buried in her neck.  She know he could bite her, sink sharp teeth in her neck and finish her life in less than a second, but she finds herself trusting that he won’t.  “ I promise.”

“Good girl.”  He praises softly, finally giving into temptation and pressing his teeth gently against her neck.  Not hard enough to yet draw blood, just merely teasing her.  His arm tightens around her as the gravity of her promise fully settles between the pair.  The danger she’s in never fully dissipates but mixes well with the affection he’s showing her.  “You deserve a reward for trusting me.”

“Oh?  Like what?” She asks, her grip on him loosening as her body adapts to the unfamiliar situation.

Francis’ doppelgänger chuckles, the vibrations tickling her neck.  “Don’t fret, just something that will make us both happy.”  With a groan, he allows his disguise to slip further and further, his teeth sharpening.  They puncture her skin ever so slightly, blood trickles immediately out of the small wounds.  With a satisfied hum, he pulls away and licks his lips, allowing blood to pool.  “Just relax, enjoy this moment.”  She struggles out a broken moan; it’s not necessarily painful but it reminds her of how weak and vulnerable she is in the moment, a feeling that is intoxicating.  “Relax.” he murmurs against her skin soothingly.  There was no aggression or hunger driving him, it was just to provide nutrients for him to continue his time with her.  Slowly yet deliberately, he licks up the collected droplets while sucking lightly on the wound.  He alternates between suckling and licking the wounds, moaning.

“Y’gonna leave a hickey on me.” She sighs out, her body relaxing even further.

“Only for me to look at later.”  He promises, his breath hot on her dampened flesh.  The rhythm slows down until it stops altogether and he pulls away.  Slowly and carefully, he raises his gaze to meet hers.  “Now tell me more about those annoying D.D.D. agents.”

“I don’t know much about them, to be honest.  They don’t hang around after the cleaning procedure and they don’t talk to me aside from congratulating me on living another way.”  She says, swiping a bit of her own blood from his lips with his thumb.

“You should know more than that.”  He growls. “We could use your help some day.”

“We?  You want me to help the doppelgängers?”

“Of course.  Someone like you, someone so skilled at calling us out…  You could be helpful in our cause.”

“I don’t believe that’s such a worthy cause…” She murmurs, resting her head against his chest.  His heartbeat is inhuman, too slow to be human, but it’s relaxing.  “Though…”

“Though?  You would be safe -- you’d be part of our family.  Perhaps one day I could introduce you to some of the ones I’m closest to.”

“Mm.”  She weighs his words carefully.  In a disturbing, unacceptable way, it’s almost sweet.  “I suppose that, as long as I’m protected by you, I’d be honored to meet them.  Does that make us mates?”

“Indeed.”  Silence stretches between them for a moment.  “In our world, we share souls upon consummation.”  He stares into her eyes after the statement, gauging her reaction based on his customs.

“Ah, like marriages for humans then?  Do you want to consummate our bond?”

The doppelgänger stiffens slightly at first before relaxing.  “Yes.  But we must proceed cautiously.”

“Why’s that, my love?  Is your genitalia that different?”  She asks, leaning up to nuzzle her nose against his for a moment before pulling away and going to stroke his cheek softly.  The skin is rubbery and like ice against her fingers.

“Hm…  No, not quite.”  There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, he allows her mind to wander with possibilities.  “Our release is also quite different, I believe.  Is that okay?”

She’s quiet for a moment, allowing herself time to fully comprehend the possibilities ahead of her. “Yes.  I want to be your mate, so please…  mate with me the way doppelgängers do.”  Francis’ doppelgänger feels a surge of triumph.  The transformation starts gradually as he allows himself to rip through his disguise.  The clothes rip and tatter, falling to the ground around him as she lets him go, allowing him to fully transform.  Glistening black scales peek through skin like moonlight reflecting off ocean waves, his fingers grow out to sharp daggers, his arms and legs elongate as his muscles tense.  His teeth barely fit in his mouth, the sharp points poking slightly over his lips.  His cock is impossibly thick and long, tiny barbs lining the sides as it oozes black pre-cum.  He lifts her effortlessly, his hands on her ass as he carries her to her bedroom and places her gently on the bed.

“Lie back.”  He commands quietly, watching every breath he takes with anticipation and hunger.  She lays back, obediently as he hovers over her patiently.  There’s no shame or hesitation in his gaze as his hand travels up her shirt to lift it over her head.  She tugs off her pants, leaving her in her bra and panties.  His gaze is full of pride.  “You’re mine now, my soulmate.”

“You’re perfect.”  She says softly, cupping his face and kissing his monstrous face lovingly.  Her lips meet his rough lips and pointed teeth.  She winces preemptively as his sharp claws make easy work of her panties, tugging on the fabric until it tears away and reveals her glistening sex.  The thick, black sludge lubricates his cock, making it ease into her cunt slowly and easily despite its grand size.  She feels the tiny barbs grow slightly, just enough to dig into her walls to prevent her from squirming away or resisting.

He hisses appreciatively at the compliment and the feeling of her heat enveloping her slowly.  “You’re tight.”  He grunts out raggedly, thrusting deep.  The sensation matches beast-like intensity, every movement echoing throughout the small bedroom.

“Hah, you’re bigger than I expected.  So fuckin’ thick.” She pants out, her cunt swallowing his cock with little resistance.  “I was scared about the bars, but shit…  your cock is so perfect for me.”  The doppelgänger lets out an animalistic moan at her declaration, his thrusts becoming more aggressive and intense.

“That’s it!  Take everything I got!”  He exclaims hoarsely, nails digging into her hips.  “Answer me, would you want children?”  He gasps urgently.  Despite the heaviness of the question he posed, he keeps pushing relentlessly -- seeking assured release.

“I-I-!  Yes!  I want to swell with your young.”  She says lovingly, moaning.

He roars at his words, bowing low to catch her lips.  The kiss is filled with dominance and ownership.  “Perfect.”  He growls into her mouth, shifting positions easily so she’s on top of him.  “Ride me until we’re done.”

She straddles him easing, wincing as the shift in positioning digs his barbs deep into her cunt.  “Fuck, baby…”  She breathes out, her hands on his chest.  Her hips raise up and down rapidly despite her legs trembling greatly.

“Let me see those pretty eyes looking into mine.”  He orders hoarsely.  He hisses as her cunt adjusts.  The pain she felt was only temporary, but served its purpose well: reminding her whose body she was riding, a dangerous creature holding immense power over her.  His own gaze burned with need and desperation, pleading silently for satisfaction.  

She looks into his eyes obediently, so full of adoration for the monster.  “I-I-...”  Her breath hitches, she can’t finish her sentence.  She’s too embarrassed to admit her love for him.  Instead, she leans down to kiss him.  Her soft lips meeting his rough, uneven ones.

“Say it.  Tell me how much we mean to each other.”  He demands huskily.  His barbs grow slightly more, haling her movements for a single second.  It’s a sign of his nearing climax that’s mirrored by her frantic movements once she adjusts to the growth.

“I love you, fuck, I love you!”  She moans loudly.  Her cunt begins to quiver and massage his cock.  “Cum in me, cum in me, cum in me.”  She whimpers as his barbs dig in even more as her tight walls convulse around him.  Suddenly she can feel a torrent of his dark, murky cum release deep into her cunt.  His cock swells greatly, making her gasp and cum around him.  Her slick dribbles down his cock and coats him.  Her body slowly relaxes as his barbs retract but he remains swollen.  She lays limp against him, breathing heavily.

He roars hoarsely, pumping several times harder with his thickened cock.  He remains still, breathing heavily with his arms tight around her as he lays on his side, holding her tight to his chest.  It’ll take several minutes for his cock to decrease in size, but it’s unlikely that either of the two will be awake.  “Our bond is sealed.”  He rasps against her ear, nuzzling gently against sensitive skin.

[twinkling-moonlillie]

Lucifer Morningstar Relationship Headcanons!

A/N: I haven't written for Lucifer before, but this man has my heart and soul so I am going to start! Also, feel free to DM or chat! I love talking and meeting new people, and I need more people to simp with over Lucifer.

Warnings: Minors do not interact, these headcanons include both SFW and NSFW

✶ Lucifer is deeply sentimental, never one to shy away from his feelings. When he is in love, it is all consuming and a driving force for him. He would do anything for those he loves.

✶ He is a gentle lover, a tender lover; a foil to Adam, if you will. When he is in love, he takes it slow, gently drowning you in his affections.

✶ A gift giver? Absolutely! Whether it be handcrafted pieces of art that he made himself or buying you stuff that reminded him of you, he revels in the idea of lavishing you with gifts.

✶ If we are to assume that you are with him after Lilith, expect some slow burn. Not only does Lucifer have to live with the consequences of his decision to bestow free will upon humanity, but the woman he (presumably) loved left him. The guilt he fee is massive, so please just be patient with him. Let him open up to you. Don't make him feel like a burden.

✶ Once he does start to fall in love with you, the first thing he will do is take off his wedding ring. He is a little hesitant, but the way you make him feel...it's refreshing and invigorating.

✶ After years of being too afraid to dream, you rekindled his passion. How could he not fall in love with that?

✶ He loves kissing you - forehead kisses, hand kisses, cheek kisses - he will kiss you until his lips turn violet and melt off.

✶ Although he doesn't acknowledge it often, he has a tendency to be a bit possessive. Not that he is controlling, but more so that he wants to show you off. He wants everyone in hell to know that he pulled the most beautiful and kind person to ever grace the universe.

✶ Some days when he has to go to meetings early in the morning (he is the King after all), he will always make sure to wake you up softly so you know when he is leaving...only to kiss you back to sleep.

✶ Going along with his love of craftsmanship, you become his muse. There will be several different versions of you as a duck, an apple, whatever comes to his mind really.

✶ Lucifer as a whole is a bit eccentric and peculiar, but charming nonetheless. There is a reason why he was able to seduce Lilith and Eve.

✶ If you two pursue a relationship further, you must be able to get along with Charlie. Charlie is Lucifer's pride and joy, and if you can't get along...well Lucifer would choose his baby over you.

✶ But that's alright because Charlie is very easy to get along with!

✶ He frequently uses pet names such as sweetie and sweetheart, as well as angel and apple pie.

✶ He always calls you the apple of his eye.

✶ NOW TO GET ON TO THE SPICY STUFF >:)

✶ Take one look at that man and tell me he ISN'T a service top. You can't! It's impossible (/j).

✶ Lucifer is desperate to prove himself, to prove his worth, even if he knows you love him. That's why he loves servicing you; he will spend hours pulling you further and further into pleasure.

✶ We all have seen episode eight, we know that he will spend hours between your thighs until you are an overstimulated mess. He gets off on the idea of you relying on the pleasure he gives you and no one else.

✶ It's a pride thing.

✶ His favorite position to have you in is missionary. He just loves to hold you close as he slowly enters you, being able to see how you writhe and become a moaning mess for him.

✶ He also loves to hold you close from behind and pound you (spoon fucking). That's mostly reserved for morning sex though.

✶ Again, he is a deeply sentimental and loving man so he prefers to make love to you than fuck you. But he definitely could fuck you if he wanted to.

✶ His wings have a tendency to poof out right as he is on the verge of coming. Sometimes he wraps them around you, sheltering you in a heavenly cloud.

✶ He has a daddy kink and a breeding kink. No, I will not take any arguments against this.

✶ He just desperately wants to claim you fully, and what better way to do that if not through breeding your pretty pussy.

✶ But really, this man is desperately in love with you. Please let him love you <3

[webslinger-holland]

Another Dream | Kaz Brekker

Summary: In which Kaz reveals what his true dream is.

Warning: slight angst...its short...and major fluff near the end

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Fem!Reader

Type: Oneshot

Word Count: 1.9k

The chapel hadn’t sustained much damage from the battle. A few wooden pews ended up getting pushed and overturned. A few shards of glass scattered across the floor from broken windows. Yet, the stainless window remained absolutely untouched. The image of the Saint Sun Summoner cast colorful rays of light onto the stone floor.

At the given moment, Y/n was sitting on the edge of one of the pews. Her eyes remained on the saint in front of her. She had never been the religious type; she often left Inej be the expert in that area. But she found comfort in sitting in the small chapel.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour ago when they almost lost their lives to the shadow monster they encountered in that very room. The crows had done risky jobs in the past, but none of them involved looking death right in the eye like they just did. She was still shaken up from the whole ordeal.

The familiar sound of a cane clicking against the stone floor could be heard behind her. The leader of the crows was making his way down the center aisle of the church, coming to a halt slightly behind the pew she sat in. She did not turn her head to address him.

“Lantsov paid up,” Kaz had come to tell her. “Everyone will get their cut.”

“Good,” Y/n nodded once. She looked over her shoulder, resting a hand on the back of the pew. “And Nina?” 

“She’ll receive a pardon for deserting and another for her Fjerdan. As long as he stays out of trouble, the charges will be dropped.” Kaz explained.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Y/n let out a sigh. She went to turn back around in her place. Her eyes naturally gravitating to the stain glass window once again.

Unbeknownst to her, Kaz began staring at her through the corner of his eyes. He felt his heart tighten in the confines of his chest upon just looking at her. He spent so many years admiring her from a distance, never being able to find the courage to act on the feelings in his heart.

He had known for a very long time that she did not want to stay in Ketterdam. There were too many painful memories to give her reason to stick around. She always loved to travel anyway. She wanted to move west as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Now that the fold had been destroyed and the job was complete, there was nothing preventing her from moving far away.

Just by looking at her, Kaz could tell that her mind was in a different place at the given moment. She was probably already planning about the adventure she’d be on, the journey across the sea, and the exploration of a new land. She’d be thinking about how great it would be to leave Ketterdam behind, along with him. 

Under the notion that the two of them would have very little time left together, Kaz tried being slightly sentimental for once in his life. He racked his brain for something that meant worthwhile and heartfelt.

“I also...” Kaz’s voice trailed off. “Wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Y/n said sadly. 

“Since I assume you’ll be leaving as soon as you find a ship,” Kaz predicted. She nodded her head at this. “As you should. It’s what you’ve always dreamed about,” Kaz said in an almost harsh tone. It sounded mocking.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Y/n responded in retort. She spun around in the small wooden pew, staring at him with a strong him of confusion in her eyes. “What would you have me do? Stay in Ketterdam?” Y/n persisted.

In response, Kaz went to turn his head away from her to avoid eye contact at all costs. He wanted nothing more than to slip behind the facade he held, void of all emotions if he could help it. His face was blank as if she hadn’t just expressed the one thing he desired the most. Having her stay in Ketterdam.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a dream,” Y/n scoffed at his stone cold expression. She faced forward once more. What followed was a moment of pure silence.

With a haunting past, Kaz Brekker was cursed with torturous nightmares most nights. However, on the rare nights that he had dreams, he always dreamed of her and absolutely nothing else. His imagination would run wild of the endless possibilities they could share together.

In his dreams, Kaz would find himself stroking up and down her bare back with his own hand. There’d be no gloves. No urge to pull away at contact. No memory of his past. It was just the two of them together. 

They would spend hours together in bed. He’d brush her hair away from her neck to grant him access. He’d burrow his face into the crook of her neck, placing the most delicate kisses along her kiss. He loved hearing the sound of her sighs in his dreams. 

He could see it all now. Her body lay underneath his. Her delicate hand trailing up the length of his chest, stopping to linger at his heart. He take her hand in his own and give it a gentle squeeze before leaning down to capture her lips.

His dreams wanted them to be together. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot her own name. Being brought back to reality became his nightmare. He came to realize that he’d never be able to have that and his dreams would never come true. His armor was still in place and she’d be leaving soon anyways.

After the moment of silence, Y/n had tilted her head to the side as if she was trying to look at him through her peripheral vision. She grew curious. Her mouth parted to ask a question.

“What is your dream, Kaz Brekker?” Y/n wondered.

Slowly, Y/n turned around in her place. She looked at him expectedly, patiently awaiting for his answer. She quirked her eyebrows to show her curiosity. He studied her face for a moment. He thought about his choice of words, struggling to express his true emotions. 

The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. You, Y/n. You.

For a second, Kaz opened his mouth, but no words came out of his mouth. He was so close to confessing his true feelings to her. However, the fear quickly overtook him. He resorted to fortifying himself behind his walls again. He quickly tore his gaze away from her.

“To die, buried under the weight of my own gold.” Kaz claimed. 

She faced forward. She felt herself rolling her eyes at his answer, even scoffing under her breath. She couldn’t believe him. 

“More money. More scores to settle,” Y/n deduced. She quickly rose to her feet, which only took him by surprise. She went to approach him. “Was there never another dream?” Y/n tried one final time.

The silence to follow was enough reason to leave. She went to brush past him with the intent of walking away and never looking back. But as she began to walk away from him, Kaz reached out to grab onto her wrist. He stopped her.

“Stay,” Kaz pleaded. His voice was rough stone. “Stay in Ketterdam. Stay with me.”

Slowly, Y/n shifted her body to face him She briefly glanced down at the gloved hand which held her wrist captive. Her gaze shifted back to the look of desperation in his eyes, silently pleading for her to stay for his own sake. She could feel the tears begin to gather in the corners of her eyes.

“What would be the point?” Y/n whispered. She shook her head at the notion.

He only drew closer to her. He refused to look away from her now, knowing that if he did, he might lose her forever. He took a breath. 

“I want you to,” Kaz confessed truthfully. He saw the look in her eyes change slightly. She was taken back by this. He needed to make himself clearer. “I want...I want...you,” Kaz confirmed.

The two of them didn’t seem to realize how close they had gotten to one another. Their chests were pressed together and they were able to feel another’s breath fanning their faces. Either of them had been so close to anyone before. 

With great hesitation, Y/n had lifted her head to stare directly into those brilliant green eyes. She felt the tears streaming down the slides of her cheeks. She shook her head at his words.

“And how will you have me?” Y/n wondered in a soft whisper. “Gloves on? Fully clothed? With your head turned so our lips never--” but she was never able to finish that sentence.

Because the rest of her words were lost against his mouth. He had grabbed her face with his two gloved hands and pulled her into a captivating kiss. He kept his eyes squeezed shut so tightly as if he was trying to silence the voices in his head. He felt sparks of lightning tingling against his lips, knowing his mind was screaming for him to pull away. But he didn’t want to.

Yet, he kissed her so gently and carefully in fear of losing her forever. He felt her body begin to relax in his grasp. She gripped the lapels of his black trench coat, pulling him harder against her if that was even possible. His arms had shifted to circle around her waist, gathering her body against him.

A hint of pressure only caused a most delicate hum to escape past her lips, muffled against his mouth. If he could bottle the sound and get drunk on it every night, he would have without question. Their lips moved together in a synchronized harmony as if they were two puzzle pieces made to fit together.

The kiss had brought a newfound sense of warmth and comfort to his old stone heart. The memories of his brother, which were often brought from contact, hadn’t plagued his mind. He focused on the feeling the softness of her lips, how she tasted, and how she felt agains him. 

She couldn't believe what was happening. Even she had dreamed about what it would be like to touch him, but never so far as kiss him. He tasted like the expensive liquor from his flask, which he always kept in his coat pocket. His lips moved compellingly against hers as if they were fighting to persuade her to stay. And it was working.

With great reluctance, their lips parted ever so slightly from one another. Their breath held without thinking. The suspense in the air was caught at the top of their throats. 

The two of them had leaned forward to rest their heads against one another’s. They panted softly to regain their breath. They remained so close to one another that their noses brushed against each others. They stare down at each other’s lips, tempted to continue.

“You...” Kaz panted. He brought a hand up to cup her cheek lovingly, staring into the depths of her eyes. “You are my dream. You always have been.”

Upon hearing those words, Y/n felt any tension leave her body and she finally relaxed. She felt a small smile growing at the corners of her lips. She closed her eyes to savor those precious little words.

“Stay with me,” Kaz pleaded one last time. He nudged his nose against hers as if trying to persuade her and it was working. “Stay for me, my dear.” Kaz whispered.

She had never heard him speak so desperately. Though he was a master at crafting a lie, she knew him well enough to know that he’d never lie about his feelings. He wanted her and he was asking her to stay with him. 

Her eyes glanced between his own and his mouth. “I’ll stay...for you,” Y/n agreed.

Upon hearing this, Kaz felt like his dreams had finally come true. He inclined his face towards hers so that he could lay his lips against her own once again. He pulled her body as close to his as humanly possible, now knowing that he’d never have to let go. She was finally his.

[midnightsunnyday]

Thinking a bit about Mammon and what we know of him canonically, his behavior, values, principles, and conduct, and how they seem entirely different from what we know of his fanon interpretation.

Canon Mammon is…well, let’s just call a spade a spade, he’s a clown. The certified Butt-Monkey of the brothers, if something bad is going to happen, nine times out of ten, it’s going to happen to him. Dude is a truffle pig for trouble and for the most part, loves to sniff it out and roll in it.

Have the fans explain it, and Mammon is a saint who's never done anything wrong in his life ever, yet story-wise, Mammon’s downfalls and shortcomings are usually due to his own dubious inclinations, though to be fair, are a consequence of him being the literal physical manifestation of one of humanity’s sins: greed. We see this through his gambling habits, his tendency to engage in shady deals or practices, his lying, and his cheating, but what really gains him the ire of most of his siblings and others is his tendency to steal and sell any and everything he assumes may bring him a profit, regardless if the item is sentimental or not.

Needless to say, Mammon isn’t the most respected of his brothers, and they remind him of it every chance they get, specifically with the words “scumbag,” ‘moron,” “idiot,” “money-obsessed moron,” etc. Mammon even suffers for his actions physically, with Lucifer finding little issue in stringing him up and leaving him there to rot for a while.

There’s also the fact that in the first season of the OG game, like most of the brothers, Mammon is kind of an asshole. Your typical Tsundere archetype, his personality is initially brash and not too keen on learning of his forced role as a human attendant, constantly insulting the MC while bemoaning his position all the while, a position he almost fails in upholding more than once when the MC’s life is threatened.

Yet because this is an otome game, Mammon eventually begins to have feelings for the MC as soon as the fourth lesson, and that whole being your “first” thing holds a lot of weight to Mammon, so much so that he’ll bring it up repeatedly. He becomes a bit more clingy, vying for the MC’s attention, to the point where personal space is but a mere myth to this man.

For you see, beyond his salty attitude is a man with a huge heart. Canon Mammon is competent and capable of showing a surprising amount of wisdom, intelligence, strength, and kindness when he puts his mind to it (the man admits himself to being sensitive, after all).

Despite his shortcomings, there’s a reason Lucifer entrusted Mammon with the MC, as out of all of his siblings, he is the only character capable of keeping his “bloodlust” in check. And despite his flakiness at times, Lucifer relies heavily on Mammon to complete certain tasks, to the point where he’s accused of showing favoritism towards the secondborn. Speaking of which, that second-born title also includes his power level, having the ability to clearly fight and defend himself, yet choosing to either run or hide from altercations, if possible. It’s rare for him to get angry or fight back, which is why it’s so scary when he does.

More importantly, Mammon is completely and utterly in love with the MC. This is true for all the brothers, but Mammon is the most consistent, a constant in his character that never changes and is the main drive to his appeal imo. Unlike the other brothers, who seem to have interests and relationships outside of the MC, Mammon’s focus is single-targeted, and it’s one of the many reasons why he’s the most popular character in the game. There are no limitations to his affections. No scary or overly complicated parts to his character. We are his “first,” and that’s a comfortable place to be because regardless of what we do or how we look, Mammon isn’t one to give up and will literally fight, yell, and cry his way into your heart, whether you choose someone else or not.

However, you wouldn’t be able to tell this with Fanon Mammon, a soggy wad of therapy session tissues. He is an absolutely miserable wreck of a man. A traumatized, suicidal-inclined, helpless dude in need of a serious hug. A prone character to hurt/comfort fics, he's the trauma dumpster for the fans who like to project, which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that these traits are sometimes treated as actual aspects of Mammon’s canon character. Fanon Mammon is essentially boiled down to his most pathetic traits, woobifying him. In fics where the brothers are present, such as Lucifer and Asmodeus, expect them to be written OOC to make Mammon appear even worse. In essense, Fanon Mammon not only has his complexity completely taken away, but takes away the complexity of everyone else around him in the process.

I'm not certain why this happens to Mammon more than other characters. Maybe because of his "kick the dog" status in canon, which causes people to sympathize with him more. And if you're someone who can relate to a lot of Mammon’s shortcomings, then that probably adds to his "woobie" nature.

And this isn't to say you can never go beyond canon and write Mammon any other way, yet it's like I've stated before, there's your headcanon and there's canon. You can think what you want, write what you want, yet something doesn't become a fact just because you want it to be/are emotional about it. And you also don't get the right to attack people for it.

Anyway, these are just things I've noticed about his fanon vs canon that I personally don't like, though opinions are always appreciated.

[sundew199]

Angel

Tags: fluff?, no specific p/ns

He loves you. Cannot go a day without thinking of new ways to show his undying devotion to you. To him you were the balm to his weary soul, the calm after the storm and all things good that he himself wished to possess. At times he felt so unworthy of a love like yours, swearing it was meant for someone else, someone good and without a tainted soul that held the weight of his sins. Sins that no matter how many times he washed or prayed away, would cling to him like goo.

But you didn’t see his sins. Didn’t see the brutalities of a brainwashed twelve year old who sought approval from the people that drove him to his choices, you saw him. Just him. You saw the sunset in his golden irises when he’d look at you, the love embedded beneath shining through at a mere glance. He was just Reiner in your eyes and that was it. No honorary Marleyan, no armored titan, no shield of Marley, just Reiner.

There were times he hated that you loved him, because he was so undeserving of it. Your love could be poured into a better man, a man who didn’t waver at his own self deprecation, stood proud for who he was and what he’d achieved in his life. But you chose him didn’t you. And for whatever reason that was, Reiner may never know. He wanted to know deep down, what you saw in him, how you managed to remain by his side after everything he told you, because any sane person would leave. Though that wouldn’t be fair to assume about you, considering you were still here, by his side from the aftermath of it all. Maybe this were another cruel joke, working to get his hopes up only for it to be ripped away, it’d be a fair punishment for him.

You didn’t like the way he spoke about himself, hated how he couldn’t see the good in his heart, and how above all, it outweighed his past. Reiner understood that sentiment and toyed with whether he should work on getting better at how he saw himself or to let it fester. He would’ve if you didn’t cradle the side of his face so softly he felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes, the determination and belief you had in him to heal and recover. You wanted that for him, that’s all you ever wanted for him. Reiner deserved a second chance and to throw it away now were unfair to those who gave up theirs.

He’d never come close to deserving you, but he’d cherish you like one of the world greatest wonders. That’s all he could do, cherish and devote all the love that settle deep inside him tucked away for the sake of a mission years ago, until maybe one day he did deserve you. Because he wanted to feel worthy of your love, wanted to not second guess why he lived and the others didn’t, needed to hold and kiss you and never wonder if it would be for the last time. Reiner couldn’t have gotten as far as he did if it weren’t for you, so he’d be the stupidest man alive to throw it all away due to unhealed trauma. He’d work on that, first on his list that way his mind could roam with just thoughts of you, what all the future had in store later on down the line.

You were the angel with an out stretch hand pulling him from the water, wrapping your heavenly arms of comfort around his weary broken soul, fitting the prices back together one by one. If he were to ever understand why it was him and not anyone else, Reiner may refuse. He didn’t need all the answers, something he was learning as he lived on, even if temptation dangled dangerously on front of him. You were all he needed, the answer to all his questions.

Reiner would work to become a man deserving of your love and affection, a small repentance of his sins and appreciation for all you’d done when you didn’t have to. Because where would he be now if it weren’t for you? No where near the happiness he felt sitting with his arm around you, in a home he built for you, watching the sunset weave throughout the sky in departure for the night.

A/N note: Does this count as fluff? I feel like it does

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: At Arm's Length.

Pairing: Yandere!Capitano x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships.

You’re not completely sure that you’ve ever heard your husband speak.

Which, to be completely fair, isn’t quite as surprising as it should’ve been, considering how long you’ve been married. You corresponded solely through letters for the entirety of your prolonged engagement, and your wedding was a rushed affair – the ceremony brief and the reception nonexistent. There'd been vows, but his had been written as a sentimental (albeit, misplaced) reminder of your bethrothal, and your wedding night had been cut short by a sudden need for his presence in Fontaine. It’d been a relief, in the moment, a gentle mercy to punctuate your floral-adorned death sentence. You'd thanked not just the Tsaritsa, but all the many Archons for their clemency, and resolved that your relationship with Capitano would not be an affectionate one.

Now, you can only worry that he’d considered it a mercy, as well.

It’s a needless anxiety, really. Why should you care whether or not he loves you? You certainly don’t love him, and you’ve always known that Harbingers only marry out of convenience, that you’re more of an asset to him than a proper companion. He needs someone to take care of his household while he’s away, fighting for Snezhnaya in some distant nation, not a true partner, not someone it would affect him at all to leave for months at a time. He doesn't need to love you.

You shouldn’t be as nervous as you are, shouldn’t have to keep your hands balled so tightly around your sheets as you wait for Capitano. He’d returned to your estate earlier that evening, his armor dusted with ash and gore and his men visibly exhausted. You’d been there to receive him, but your sole greeting had come in the form of a hand on your shoulder, a light hum of approval before he left you, once again, to tend to matters that he genuinely cared for. Only minutes later, you’d asked a maid to fetch him for you, but that was hours ago, and you’re starting to think that he simply hadn't deemed it worth his time. Capitano is a lot of things, but you’d never known him to be careless. He couldn’t have forgotten, unless he genuinely cared so little for you that he paid you no mind at all.

You square your shoulders, gritting your teeth in frustration, but no sooner than you’d begun to curse yourself for being so naïve, the door to your chambers slowly creaks open, forming an entrance just wide enough to allow your husband through. Immediately, you do what you can to regain your composure, but if he senses your distress, if he cares about your faltering posture, the dark circles under your eyes, his concern is hidden by his ever-present mask. You can’t remember ever seeing him without the damned thing.

For a long moment, he only stands in front of you, silent and apathetic. You sigh, resigning yourself to a very lengthy, very one-sided conversation. “My lord,” You started, bowing your head slightly. “I… If you have a few spare minutes, I’d like to speak to you.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. Again, you do what you can to bite back your irritation, gesturing towards the remaining space on the foot of your bed. “I'd also like you to sit down, my lord.”

He hesitates, but ultimetly abides you, lowering himself onto the mattress by your side. During his frequent absences, it could be easy to forget how large he is, how imposing he looks in his armor, how effortlessly he’s able to tower over you. You’d always known he was a soldier, a Harbinger, but still. He seems more like a monster, when the two of you are alone together.

You purse your lips, but force yourself to speak. “I’ve been dutiful to you, haven’t I?”

A stilted nod, but little else. Honestly, it’s already more than you expected.

“Have I disappointed you in some way? Failed to satisfy the responsibilities you've left for me?”

He shakes his head, as you had assumed he would.

“I… I just feel like I’ve let you down. You’re preoccupied, and I’m only here to care for your estate. I understand that. I know you don’t love me, but I can’t help but feel that you’ve been… distant, recently.” You pause, letting out a breathy laugh. Hands folded over your lap, your eyes set solidly on the floor, it's hard not to feel a little childish. Like you're playing house with someone who never had an interest in indulging you, let alone playing along. “I mean, I can’t even remember the sound of your voice. That’s not something I’d like to say about my own husband, no matter how superficial our marriage might be.”

He doesn’t react, not immediately. You wait, your patience well-trained to accommodate his reserved nature.

Then, he raises a hand to the bottom of his mask. Your heart skips a beat in your chest, more out of anticipation than anything else, and for a moment, just a moment, you think you might be allowed a glimpse of his face. You want to see his face. You want to be able to turn your husband into something other than a dark, foreboding shadow – present only in his letters, when there's a nation's worth of land between you and him.

But, your heart falls as quickly as it'd started to flutter. There is no face, no features you can assign to your dearly beloved. Instead, a thin line forms across the center of his mask, the metallic surface splitting apart into two jagged, organic pieces; revealing an endless void interrupted only by rows upon rows of pointed, razor-like teeth. All as white as snow, and so, so much sharper than they should’ve been, if he was anything remotely human.

The shock leaves you in a stupor as a long, black, tapered tongue curls out of the nothingness. The flat of it runs over your neck, your cheek, and you don’t have time to shudder before his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his lap with no hint of strain. “Love,” He says, but the word is more purred than spoken, stifled and distorted and twisted into something only barely recognizable. It nearly hurts to listen to. “My love.”

He goes silent, after that. His tongue retreats, his mask (mask? face?) sealing back into its idle state, but he continues to hold you, to trace little patterns into your sides with the pointed claws that you'd once believed belonged to his gloves. You only remain still. It’s all you can do to tell yourself to breathe. It's all you can do to remind yourself that he’s still a soldier, that he’s still a Harbinger, and it would be best not to struggle against him.

It’s all you can do to be thankful that your husband chooses to speak so rarely.

[frudoo]

Birthmark

The thought.

Dark!Gaz.

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, mentions of alcohol, manipulation, brief smut.

MDNI

“How long?”

Maybe it was too good to be true. Wasn’t that always the case? He was almost too sweet, practically worshiping the very ground you walk on. You didn’t miss the signs—the coming home late, the smell of unfamiliar perfume, hickeys he swore that you left on him—but the fucker had a way of easing your pretty little mind, making you think that it was all in your head. He almost had you fooled, but tonight, after a few too many glasses of scotch, his drunken state made him admit to everything.

“Bon’, ah swear, ah ne’er meant tae-” Johnny begins, outstretched hands reaching out to grab your forearms, hot tears streaming down his beet-red face.

“How. Long?” You grit your teeth, shutting your eyes to avoid glaring daggers into the one person you thought would never hurt you.

“Only once, bon’, ah swear it,” his voice trembles, fingertips digging into the flesh of your arms as he pulls you closer.

You already knew about the affair, but the confession that fell from his lips made your heart drop from your stomach to your fucking toes.

“Do you love her?”

“Nae. God, nae. Could ne’er.”

When you finally make eye contact again, you nearly crumble, those cerulean eyes you fell in love with all glossy with tears and full of remorse—but how were you to know that it wasn’t all a ploy? Liars make phenomenal actors. He had you fooled for weeks.

Still, you move to the edge of your chair and cup his pretty face in your hands. All you can do is look down at him for a while, remember all the times he promised that you were the only woman for him, the only one he could ever love, the only one who could make him feel as good as you could. All lies that you were so eager to believe because surely your Johnny would never betray you like this. Ignorant bliss.

“Bon’, please, ah love ye more than anythin’. Lemme make it up t’ye, please,” Johnny begs, leaning into the gentleness of your touch, taking advantage of your love like he always does.

If it means those pitiful tears will stop, you’ll do anything. So you let him lead you up the stairs, let him lay you on the bed, let him eat you out and make you come the way he does best. You spread your legs for him and let him make love to you, let him kiss you with that mouth that fed you all those delicious fibs. The mouth that kissed another woman, that made her writhe in pleasure. The mouth that could turn honey into the sweetest, most addictive mead.

You let Johnny fuck himself stupid, even let him cum inside you for what he doesn’t know is the last time. He peppers your face with sloppy kisses that you can only assume are hollow, full of deceit. He passes out next to you and you watch his chest rise and fall with each deep breath, sleeping so peacefully you’d never guess he’d just admitted to breaking your heart, your trust, his vows. It’s a good thing you don’t have to guess on what you already know to be fact.

More for yourself than for him, you plant one final, soft kiss to his rosy lips, taking comfort in the fact that he’ll never get the satisfaction of knowing that it would be the last. You climb out of bed and slip off your wedding ring, leaving it right in the middle of his nightstand for him to see first thing in the morning. You clean yourself up with Johnny’s discarded shirt and toss it back on the floor, leaving it stained and ruined with the last of your shared fluids, a reminder of everything he threw away.

You pull on a pair of shorts as well as a comfy sweatshirt, then stuff a small bag to the brim with your favorite clothes and shoes. You try to avoid anything sentimental that reminds you of Johnny—the dress he bought you on your second wedding anniversary, the wooden box full of jewelry he would bring back from all the countries he went to. They hold too many fond memories that you’re sure would take you right back to him if you dwell on it long enough. The only way to move on is to leave it all behind.

So you do. You pack up your car and drive the streets aimlessly, fighting back stinging tears to keep your eyes focused on the road. Every song that comes on the radio reminds you of the man that was supposed to be yours and yours alone, so you settle for turning it off altogether and listening to the raindrops plummeting against your windshield. Fitting, isn’t it, for there to be a raging thunderstorm on the worst night of your life? Looming, dark and ugly, like the nasty secret Johnny kept from you.

You debate on finding a hotel to stay at, but that would mean having to spend Johnny’s money and you didn’t want to do that. Fuck, you’re dreading going through with everything—hiring a divorce lawyer and going to court, separating your bank account from his, finding a job and a new place to live—it’s all too much to handle. Too much to even think about right now. This is your worst nightmare, right here in front of you, with sharp claws and glowing red eyes, grabbing you by the scruff of your neck and swallowing you whole.

Part of you wants to turn around and welcome Johnny back into your heart with open arms, but you’re not so sure that any words or acts he can muster up are enough to mend the shattered pieces that become you. Broken can’t fix broken—you know that all too well, learned it when Johnny confided in you about what he does for a living. You should have known this would all end in heartbreak.

That doesn’t stop you from driving down an all-too familiar road, past the evergreens and into a rural heaven that contains your best friend—damn the fact that he’s Johnny’s mate, too. You need comfort from a trusted person, and who better than the one who was the first to let you know about Johnny’s infidelity?

As you knock on the wooden door to Kyle’s house with your bag in hand, the smiling man seems all too happy to invite you in.

Next ->

[partmathpartmagic]

"Give me six months"

This is a chapter from a longer fic that you can find here. It's a letter from Astarion, written over the course of six months immediately following the defeat of the Absolute. The premise is that you two are taking some time apart after the main events of the game so he can figure his shit out a bit. I love his friendship ending because he's so happy and proud of himself, but I wish it were possible to have that and the romance as well, so this is me making that happen.

Darling,

It’s been 3 days since you saved the world. I can hear you objecting to my phrasing, so let me rephrase: it’s been 3 days since I saved the world and you were also there. Better, my dear?

This is very irksome, you know. I thought I’d make it more than 3 days without being so desperate to talk to you that I write a bunch of sentimental words down for all the world to see. And even worse, it would’ve been far less than 3 days if I’d been able to find any parchment in this godsforsaken city (we could have just let it burn, darling, no one would blame us!).

Frankly, I’m rather upset with you. Yes, I’m actually making up my mind right now. You don’t deserve a letter from me, you’re too lovely and too brilliant and too beautiful and you make it impossible to live without you.

I’ve decided to help out the spawn in the underdark. There. That’s all you’re getting from me.

______________

Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I apologize.

That’s something I’m working on doing more of, apologizing. I am getting quite a lot of practice, spending every day with people I seduced for… I’d rather not write his name, actually. But you know. People I seduced in order for him to turn and torture and starve and imprison them for a century or two.

As such, I am becoming an expert at apologizing for things no one could ever really apologize for.

If I was in a better mood I’d make a joke about how I’m spending time with thousands of my exes and you should be jealous. You’ll just have to imagine how hilarious it would be, and then pretend it’s not funny even though you’re smiling, and then roll your eyes at me like you always do. I even miss your exasperation. That’s… horrible. This is horrible.

I know it was my idea to go off and figure things out on my own but I’m beginning to suspect I’m the stupidest elf to ever live.

I can’t tell anymore if I’m being funny when I talk or if I’m just being mean. Is that how other people feel about me, that I’m mean? I think it probably is. Maybe I don’t want to be mean. That doesn’t sound right. I think I’m okay with being mean, I just want to be doing it on purpose.

You’re always so kind, but you have your meaner moments, don’t you? Gods, you’re so terrible with children. The things I’ve seen you say to them. They all think you’re dreadful. That’s something at least.

You see, I find it easier to bear your absence if I pretend your presence isn’t the best feeling in the world and everything you do isn’t perfect. I’m never able to pretend for very long, but I get a good couple minutes each day where I convince myself I’m scandalized by how you talk to children and not completely enchanted by it, and I miss you just slightly less.

_______________

It has been one month since we saved the world. I miss the sun almost as much as I miss you.

My siblings have actually made quite a bit of progress with the spawn. They’re talking about starting a school for the younger ones. It’s very strange. I hope they don’t become good people or we’ll have nothing to talk about anymore.

I had a chat with Sebastian this afternoon, which was also strange. He said, “it must be difficult seeing our faces day and night. Torturing yourself isn’t going to change anything for us. You’ve apologized; you might as well go figure out your next move.”

I think he’s just sick of seeing me and wants me to leave, but he found a kind way to say it.

But he’s not wrong to assume I have no plan after this. I might head above ground tonight and explore the city a bit, see if anything inspires me. I haven’t breathed spore-free air in what feels like years.

I think I could be okay with not having the sun if I had you. Having neither seems… unfair.

I suppose I deserve a bit of unfair.

_______________

2 months. Some very strange things have happened.

Firstly, I did take that walk. I very purposely avoided the part of the city where I heard you had settled, and then of course wound up walking right past a house that apparently belongs to your sister. I thought she was you for a moment and my heart stopped. Metaphorically, anyway.

I don’t love how much it destroyed me looking through a window and seeing someone I thought was you holding a child and kissing a spouse. Which is to say that it completely destroyed me even as it made me happy seeing you apparently happy.

I’m adding this experience to my list of reasons why forming attachments with other people is actually a bad idea and never worth it. I also have a list of reasons why attachments are good and worth it every time, which has only ever consisted of one item, which is your name. The good list wins every time, a fact which has also made its way to the bad list. No one person should have that much power!

If I’m not allowed to ascend, you’re not allowed to make me love you. It’s just as bad. You're drunk with power, darling, and it's time someone called you out on it.

Gods, you’ve completely distracted me from my point. Anyway, after I finally remembered that 2 months would not have been long enough for you to grow and birth and raise a toddler, and after I looked into the window once more and realized your sister does not actually look much like you at all, and also after I looked at the mailbox and saw your second name with a different first name, I pieced things together. Not quickly enough to keep your family from noticing the crazed vampire staring in their window, I’m sorry to say. Do give them my regards.

But after that, I ran into someone I recognized from the palace. One of the butlers, I think, or a general thrall. He was so excited to see me that he stopped me in the middle of the street and started calling me “Master” and babbling about having the carpets cleaned, so I said “strange man, what the hells are you talking about??” And he told me I was the most senior spawn still living and as such… have inherited the estate.

Now, I know this is difficult to believe given my refined manners and, well, my hair, but I’ve never actually owned a palace before. Much less one where I was trapped and tortured for a couple centuries. It’s a complicated situation. Everything is still very much in the air, but I wanted to tell you, and this is how I tell you things now. I will update you once I have an update.

_______________

I adopted a cat. I ran into Halsin on one of his supply runs into the city and he had His Majesty from Last Light with him. Apparently His Majesty had been picking fights with children (and more power to him, I’m sure you’d say), and I remembered his regal little face and volunteered to take him in without a second thought.

We are still… feeling each other out. But I gave him his own room in the estate, which I think he appreciated. The cat, I mean. Halsin doesn’t get a room.

I also do not have a room in the estate, as I am unwilling to set foot inside the building until it has been completely gutted and cleaned and the dungeons walled off permanently. Strangely enough, our old friend Barcus sent me a great team of his people to handle the renovations. Demolitions, as you can imagine, have been smooth, if a bit too enthusiastic. The gnomes have also been very nice about the whole vampire thing and willing to work nights whenever I need to be there to make decisions.

On a related note, I’ve added another item to the long list of crimes Cazador committed: laying carpeting over completely gorgeous vintage wood flooring! Murder and torture is bad, but that’s a whole other level. Thank the gods we got that criminal off the streets.

(Did you notice I wrote his name out? And then made a little joke? I think I’m rather proud of myself for that)

For the first time I’m glad we’re spending this time apart, because truly all I can talk about is tiles and paint samples and upholstery and you’d probably stake me within a couple days of being in my presence and it would be absolutely justified.

I ache for you.

_______________

3 months.

I have been thinking about my lists. I think, perhaps, it’s a lot of pressure to put on someone, making them the sole positive attachment in your life.

I say this because I’ve been spending time with His Majesty to help him acclimate, and a gnome worker commented the other day that I’m the only living creature this cat will tolerate. It made me so sad, thinking of this lovely, affectionate cat who is only ever lovely and affectionate with me. Everyone else’s experience with him will always be negative. I’ll be the only one who’s sad when he dies, and people won’t even be sympathetic to me because they’ll think, well, he wasn’t very nice anyway, good riddance.

It seems like we at least owe it to our loved ones not to leave them alone with their grief when we die.

And no, my love, I did not see the parallels to any vampire with which we are acquainted, at least not until Halsin came by to check on him on his way out of town and I gave him this whole monologue. And then he just sort of stood there looking at me until he very gently hinted that perhaps there are other people who would be willing to love the cat “if he’d just show them his belly instead of his claws.”

At that point I just thought he was hitting on me, but after he explained a little further I finally got what he was trying to say.

Which is how I ended up wine drunk with Halsin last night. We have… a surprising amount of things in common. It was disconcerting.

He also offered me some sort of mysterious substance from his pipe which I politely declined, and it was only after this that he told me a friend of his had smoked it just the night before and it had sent them into a panic attack. So if Halsin ever offers you his pipe, darling, just say no. Given your already nervous constitution, and I say this with love, you’d be absolutely fucked.

Speaking of drunk! You may be wondering how I’ve been keeping myself fed. Some of the Sharess employees have picked up on the increased demand from all these newly-free vampires and have started offering blood drinking as a service, but I’m hesitant to drink from another humanoid. My siblings think I’m being a stick in the mud, but I’ve heard them talking about people they’ve tasted and none of them sound anywhere close to the experience of drinking from you. I feel as if I’ve only ever tasted the most exquisitely aged brandy and I’m being offered tiefling wine as a replacement. I just think it would break my heart.

That said, non-vermin animals have offered a surprising range of flavors. I’ve found I’m partial to owlbears. Something about the risk makes them taste better, I think. Sort of earthy and vegetal? Not bad. In the alcohol metaphor this would be something akin to a local brew. Still a downgrade, but different enough that it doesn’t sting as much.

My good list has 3 names now, by the way: you, Halsin (this was a wine decision, but I’m allowing it for now), and His Majesty.

_______________

4 months? I think?

Listen darling, I’ll just get this out of the way: I’ve had many glasses of brandy. What’s that you say? How many is many? I stopped counting at six, my dear!

You know sometimes I think, absence is absence makes the heart grow fonder. And then I think of you, my blossom, my peach, my absolute tadpole (workshopping that one but i like it), and I think, well fuck. Maybe I’m making it up, maybe she’s not as wonderful as I remember?

And so I thik of all your worst qualities, and I concentrate so hard on them, and my love, my petal, my sweet corn, do you know what happens then? I can’t even think of any

OH wait, that’s not true. That thing when you talk and you have a bubble in your throat that you haven’t swallowed and your voice comes out weird and it makes me want to set myself on fire

Also you’re so hard on yourself, it drives me up an absolute wall. I just want to grab your shoulders and shake you and yell “be nice to my girlfriend”

And then grab other things and shake them…?

I’m far too drunk to be seductive, but just imagine me saying some absolutely filthy things in your ear right now in that voice you like. YOU KNOW THE ONE. Gods, I can’t wait to use it on you again.

I just waaaaant. I want you here so bad all the time.

I want your smell and your touch and your skin and your everything everywhere on me and around me

And… in me? Cheeky, darling. I’m not saying no, but now’s hardly the time

Love and like and cherish and worship and want, a.

_______________

No one has ever felt this ill before and no one ever will again.

I refuse on principle to take back anything I wrote last night, but let’s all agree to forget the corn thing, shall we?

And that cheeky bit at the end–really very unbecoming of you to take advantage of an incapacitated elf like that. Again, I’m not saying no, just. The timing really makes me think less of you, love.

_______________

To be honest, darling, I’m running out of things to say. Six months is a month away and I’m trying so hard not to just watch the clock all day (well, all night).

Has this time been worth it? Nothing is worth this, but if I put aside the heartache, it’s been amazing. I truly never thought I’d be able to become… whoever it is I’ve become.

When the tadpole happened, I saw hope for the first time. I thought I’d finally have control over my life if I had control over the tadpole. If I had control over everything. I honestly never saw another way.

It’s a testament to you that you saw all of this coming from the beginning. You looked at me, this open wound oozing hurt and fear and anger, and you saw a person. You thought I was funny (admit it) and clever, and worth getting to know.

You gave me the space to say no to you, and loved me regardless.

I don’t think I’m nearly as powerful without you, darling. But over these months I’ve accomplished things I’m proud of all on my own, which is fairly unprecedented.

I’m beside myself with excitement to see you again, to give you a tour of this place. You’ll like what I did in the bedroom. And that’s not even a line, I genuinely think you’ll appreciate the color palette! It reminds me of you.

And maybe if you like it we can engage in some mutual appreciation, if you know what I mean.

I don't, but maybe you do. My pickup lines have gone all to shit without you, my muse.

My good list has several names on it now. Yours is still at the top. But you're not the sole thing keeping me afloat anymore. I thought that would make me feel distant from you in some way. I never realized it would give me even more space to appreciate you for who you are instead of what you provide.

Knowing I don’t need you gives me more room to want you, I think.

Anyway, I’m not sure I have another one of these installments in me. Thank you for reading this far, if you have. The version of you who is sitting at your kitchen table reading this (that’s a guess but wouldn’t it be funny if it was right?) has been my companion for all these months, and I cherish her as I cherish every other version of you.

A.

_______________

Sending this today.

I want to be clear, I don’t expect anything. I didn’t ask you to wait around pining for me for all this time, and I wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

So if you’ve moved on, if you’re happier where you are, if getting this letter ruins your day–it’s alright. I will miss you, maybe forever, but I have friends and a new line of work and a handsome son (to be clear I’m referring to His Majesty, I didn’t give birth since the last time I wrote). All of these things will keep me afloat.

However, if your heart and your life still have room for me, and if you think I would improve them with my presence, I will be overjoyed to share all of these things with you.

I want to meet your sister and hear you try to make conversation with her toddler. I want to show you everything I’ve done to update the estate, and I want you to make it feel like home just by being there. I want to hear all of your thoughts on Jaheira and Nine-Fingers and speculate on their love life.

I want it all, and I want it all with you.

See you soon, my love.

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn's Shadow: Chapter 10

Azriel x Eris (Azriel POV)

Summary: A covert meeting between Azriel and Eris to exchange valuable intel leaves Azriel reeling—and questioning everything he has ever felt for the Heir of Autumn. Azriel finds himself inexorably drawn to Eris, unable to resist his captivating allure. With the threat of Koschei and Beron looming ever closer, can their forbidden love endure in the face of such danger?

a/n: I am sticking with the acowar version of events where Lucien did NOT accompany Mr. Archeron to the lake. (nsfw, 18+)

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Full Chapter List

Chapter 10:

Azriel jerked awake at the sound of Rhysand’s voice in his head.

My office. Five minutes.

Azriel groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The room was dark, dawn still an hour or so off. He rolled over and perched on the edge of his bed, cracking his neck and stretching the stiffness from his wings. Lately it felt like he couldn’t get a moment’s peace, always rushing from one disaster to the next, never stopping to catch his breath. Rhys had probably assumed he’d already been awake, but Azriel couldn’t help the flicker of annoyance at being summoned like a dog at all hours of the day. He felt guilty the second the thought crossed his mind. Azriel stood and dragged himself to the bathing room. 

Exhaustion had been riding him heavily this past week. Every time he closed his eyes he was hit with images of Koschei, or Beron, or Eris in mortal danger. He’d barely slept at all, until last night, when he’d been so delirious that he’d winnowed directly into his bedroom and had barely removed his boots before collapsing in a heap on his bed. He was asleep in seconds. It was only a matter of time before exhaustion won out, he supposed. His thoughts swirled sluggishly in his head as he stepped under the stream and let the hot water slide soothingly over his skin.

Azriel found that he couldn’t sleep soundly unless Eris was safe beside him. It was becoming a problem, considering how restricted their time was together. With tensions rising in Autumn, Eris was forced to remain on high alert, and could only slip away a couple times per week. Meanwhile, Azriel was preoccupied with monitoring the intel he received from his spies and shadows, as well as assisting Rhys in whatever he deemed most pressing. Two days ago, it had been research, much to Azriel’s dismay. He was fairly confident that none of the answers they sought lay in books, but he kept the sentiment to himself. 

Rhysand seemed to be holding on by a thread. He was undoubtedly thinking of Nyx, of what it would mean for his son if Koschei’s vision came to fruition. He’d caught his brother pouring over texts on the natural laws of magical bargains—searching for a way out of his own death bargain with Feyre. Azriel had noted the dark circles under his brother’s eyes, the tense set of his shoulders, his pale face. Azriel knew the panicked feeling all too well, so he did what he could to help, though he knew of no loophole in regard to bargains. The magic would demand a price, and he didn’t think Rhys was willing to risk paying it just yet. 

Azriel had joined Rhys and Gwyn as they scoured the priestess's notes on portals and other worlds for any useful scraps of information. As Azriel had shuffled through the papers scattered around them, he’d been reminded of the priestess he’d come across amongst the shelves the last time he’d been there. When he’d asked Rhys, his brother had distractedly insisted he had no idea who Azriel was referring to. Yet just as he’d broached the subject, his shadows had buzzed loudly around his head. See…see…remember, they seemed to say. But Azriel didn’t know what he was supposed to be seeing, or what there was to remember. So he’d brushed them aside in annoyance. It was yet another thing to worry about on top of everything else.

As Azriel washed and dressed for the undoubtedly long day ahead of him, he dispatched a shadow to the manor so he’d know what to expect upon arriving.

Lucien was there. 

What now? Azriel sighed and the shadows swept him across Velaris. 

***

“No warning, no note. All that was left was her singed sheets and a single feather,” Lucien said tightly from where he sat in the armchair across from Rhys. 

Azriel forced himself not to sag in relief. When he’d stepped into the office and beheld the grim expressions on Lucien’s and his brothers’ faces, his mind had instantly conjured up horrific images of Eris lying dead at Beron’s feet, their secret revealed by Koschei at last. He’d nearly been sick on the carpet before anyone had gotten the chance to speak.  

Now, Azriel glanced at Lucien, took in the slight slump of his shoulders and the anxious look on his face. He hadn’t realized the male had become such close friends with the human queen. 

Had Lucien been informed of what they’d seen at the lake? Azriel had done his best to block out the horrible memories, but he couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of what it might be like to be tied to the death-lord, forever cursed to that dark stretch of water. 

“Did you ever learn the cost of Vassa’s temporary freedom?” Rhys asked. Azriel frowned. He’d foolishly never thought to wonder about the details of the bargain Henry Archeron had struck with Koschei.

Lucien sighed and raked a hand through his long hair. “Vassa didn’t talk about it much. I think she was afraid that doing so might draw Koschei’s attention,” Lucien said, voice low. “But she said the price was heavy. ‘A soul for a soul’, I believe were her words.” Rhys’s brows furrowed in thought and Azriel stifled a sigh. Another riddle, another mystery. 

Azriel felt as if they were hurtling towards the brink of a precipitous cliff, yet none of them had the slightest idea how to avoid plummeting over the edge. Koschei’s plans were clearly in motion, and yet they remained clueless in how to thwart him. All the while, Eris’s life hung in the balance. Azriel wanted to hit something. 

“Where’s Jurian?” Cassian asked.

“At the manor. He’s not taking it well,” Lucien admitted with a wince. “He loves her.” They were all silent at that. What could be done? Azriel didn’t have any more room in his heart to worry about anyone besides Eris, though he did feel sympathy for Lucien. He knew the male’s life had not been an easy one. To lose yet another friend…Azriel’s stomach twisted. He hoped the Mother was merciful and would spare Vassa from the destruction Koschei sought to unleash.

“Unfortunately, I have more bad news,” Rhys said. 

He relayed everything Cassian and Azriel had told him of their visit to the lake and of Koschei, and as Lucien listened, his expression darkened, his eyes darting to where Azriel stood by the windows. When Rhys placed the vision in his mind, the color had slowly leached out of his face until his normally golden brown skin was pale and wan. In the silence that followed, all that could be heard was the clicking and whirring of Lucien’s mechanical eye.

Finally, he mastered himself enough to speak. “A vision?” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Vassa never spoke of such power.”

“Perhaps she never knew,” Rhys responded, not ungently. He glanced at Azriel and Cassian. “Did you see any trace of the girls Vassa mentioned? Where they might’ve been kept?” Azriel looked at Cassian and they both shook their heads.

“What does Elain make of it? Does it resemble any of the visions she’s seen?” Lucien asked. Azriel frowned at the question. A quick look at Rhys and Cassian revealed they were likely realizing the same thing—that no one had bothered to mention it to Elain. Yes, she’d been told of their visit and the threat issued by Koschei, but Feyre hadn’t wanted her to worry, so she’d kept the details to a minimum. Lucien scowled as he took in their blank faces. “Elain is a seer,” he said sharply. “An unseasoned one, yes. But you’d be foolish not to get her insight on this.”

“You’re right,” Rhys sighed, sounding somewhat guilty. “Elain so rarely speaks of her powers that at times it’s easy to forget she has them,” he admitted. “I’ll talk to her today. Would you like to join me?” Lucien shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 

“She might prefer that I not.” 

Azriel noted the slight flush of Lucien’s cheeks and the defeated edge to his voice. What would it be like, Azriel wondered, to find your mate, only for them to want nothing to do with you? His thoughts strayed to Eris. Mates were said to be equals—the other half of one’s soul. Was it laughable to think he might be equally matched with someone like Eris? He was blessed that Eris even wanted him at all. But he couldn’t help the tiny bubble of warmth that formed in his chest at the thought of sharing a piece of Eris’s soul. He realized the pathetic turn his thoughts had taken and admonished himself silently. Azriel forced his attention back to the conversation just as Cassian and Lucien stood. 

“I’ll see if Elain is available later today. You are welcome to wait here until then,” Rhys said. Lucien only nodded and made his way to the door. Azriel followed him out. He heard Rhys add, “Cass, a minute?” but he didn’t wait around to hear what their conversation was about.

He found himself alone in the hall with Lucien. They remained quiet as they walked toward the main entryway of the manor, both lost in thought. Instead of veering right towards the foyer, Azriel wandered out onto the large terrace that overlooked the sparkling sea, serene in the early morning light. He leaned his elbows against the stone wall and Lucien joined him a few feet away.

The breeze off the ocean was cool and it swept comfortingly along Azriel’s skin, ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It was moments like this, where he could almost imagine his life was peaceful—that there was no danger, and that Eris might come walking through the terrace doors and wrap his arms around Azriel’s waist. The image dissolved when Lucien broke the silence.

“I take it Eris is aware of all of this.” Azriel opened his eyes and met Lucien’s gaze, his metal eye clicking faintly. Az looked back out over the water.

“He knows.” 

“Don’t underestimate Beron. Any weakness he senses in Eris will be used as a weapon against him,” Lucien warned. “Don’t let it be you.” Azriel turned to face him fully.

“What makes you think I mean anything to Eris?” 

Lucien gave him a pointed look, and then sighed when Azriel said nothing.

“Be careful,” Lucien said warily. “Eris has suffered far too much.” The words gave Azriel pause. Eris had lamented the state of his relationship with his youngest brother. Though he didn’t speak of Lucien often, Azriel knew the rift between them was a constant source of pain for Eris. Maybe Lucien wasn’t as oblivious to Eris’s true nature as he thought.

“I’m sorry about Vassa,” Azriel offered. He’d only spoken to her a handful of times, and never about anything personal, but he respected the role she played in the war against Hybern. And she'd tried her best to help them with Koschei. Lucien frowned, but nodded his head once in acknowledgment. 

They both looked back out over the shimmering water, falling silent again. Azriel let his thoughts wander back to Eris, as they liked to do. He missed him desperately, despite having seen him mere days ago. In truth, he missed him every second they were apart. He wondered what Eris was doing at that moment—if he was missing Azriel just as fiercely. 

The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore and the distant cries of seagulls drifted over them on the salty ocean breeze. As Azriel watched the city awaken with the rising sun, he wondered if they’d be able to save it—if Velaris might be spared from Koschei’s wrath. Though Azriel often felt adrift, like he might never find where he truly belonged, he loved this place and the people in it.

The sound of Rhys’s and Cassian’s quiet conversation stirred him from his swirling thoughts. He tucked his wings in tight and glanced over his shoulder as they approached. Cassian sprawled out on a chaise with a yawn, while Rhys took up a spot against the wall beside Azriel. He looked utterly drained. Rhys opened his mouth to speak—

A soft gasp from behind had them all turning around to the terrace doors, now thrown open, where Elain stepped into the light with wide, frightened eyes.

“Elain—?” Rhys started, but Lucien held out a hand to silence him as he studied his mate, his metal eye whirring so fast it was a golden blur.

Elain's brown eyes glazed over as she stared into the distance, her voice taking on an eerie, otherworldly tone. “A warning for the son,” she murmured. “Beware a chain soaked in blood. Shadows flee when leaves fall.” Her gaze shifted upwards, swirling like mist. “Heed the past or his song shall cease.” Her voice softened, almost inaudible, as she continued. “Cast the vessel adrift and darkness will disperse.”

Elain swayed as she finished speaking and then Lucien was there, a steadying hand on her lower back as his eyes trailed worriedly over her pale face. “Elain?” 

Azriel remained rooted to the spot, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. His shadows buzzed around him, urging him to listen, to understand. He tried to make sense of the words, but he could hardly think over the roaring in his head. A warning for the son. Whatever their meaning, the words were meant for Eris. Of that much Azriel was sure. 

He turned his panicked eyes to Rhys, desperate for some sort of explanation, but his brother looked just as shaken Azriel he felt. Gods, would it never end? He was so sick of the vision-speak. Elain’s eyelids fluttered and she gripped Lucien’s arm with white knuckles. 

“What can I get you, Elain?” Lucien’s voice was soft as he supported her weight. She looked at him intently, and then her eyes strayed to Azriel. She tilted her head and blinked at him, the motion birdlike. 

“Be careful,” she said ominously, repeating Lucien’s words from several minutes ago.

Elain shook her head, as if to brush off the lingering effects of her power. Finally free from whatever murky realm she’d been trapped in, she allowed Lucien to guide her back inside for a glass of water. Azriel watched her go, unease settling over him so oppressively he found it difficult to breathe.

“What the hell does that mean?” Cassian asked, bemused. Azriel just shook his head, at a loss for words. Rhysand dragged a hand through his hair distractedly, eyes narrowed as he pondered the cryptic message. 

“Okay.” Rhys blew out a breath. “We all need to sit down and figure this out. Elain has these visions for a reason, as Mor likes to remind me. Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered them, and followed Elain and Lucien into the manor. 

Cassian stood next to him, gave him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

“You alright?” he asked.

Azriel was so tired of being afraid—of feeling like he was a breath away from making a fatal mistake that would destroy everything he held dear.

Azriel rubbed his hands over his face, dragged them through his hair, all while his shadows whispered around him, pestering him to open his eyes, to see. They’d been particularly unhelpful as of late, crowding his already loud head with nonsensical mutterings. 

See…look…be careful…

The whispering increased and Azriel growled in frustration. See what? he asked them. What does it mean? But the shadows didn’t respond. 

“Az?” Cassian asked him with raised brows. 

Azriel thought of Eris, of Elain’s warning that promised blood. He was terrified.

“I’m fine.”

***

It was dusk the following day by the time Rhys managed to wrangle everybody for an impromptu meeting in the councilroom of the Moonstone Palace. He’d impressed upon each of them how urgent the matter was, that it would soon impact all of them, as well as the very fate of their world. That had certainly gotten their attention quickly.

Azriel sent word to Eris with one of his shadows—a whispered account of what had transpired with Lucien, and then Elain. Azriel had kept it brief, but made sure to stress that Eris not take any risks to attend the meeting. Eris had accepted the invitation minutes later.

Azriel was the first to arrive, claiming a chair in the center of the long table, large enough to seat more than 20 guests. He studied the intricate designs carved into the smooth marble—constellations and planets, all swirled together in a large map of a solar system. 

The scuff of a shoe drew his attention and his breath caught in his chest as Eris strolled in through the large entryway. The sleek lines of his muscular, yet lean, frame were accentuated by the well-tailored jacket he wore, the fabric a glistening black interspersed with swirling gold embroidery. His red hair was perfectly styled, half of it pulled back to show off the sharp angles of his face. His pale skin was near glowing against the dark material, and his amber eyes were bright as they met Azriel’s hazel ones. Azriel stared at Eris in awe, utterly transfixed by the sheer beauty of him. 

Azriel stood and moved to approach him, but just as he took a step, Elain, Rhys and Feyre trailed in behind him. Eris took the seat across from Azriel and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. He reminded himself it would not be appropriate to lean across the table and kiss him on the mouth.

Azriel raised his brows at Rhys when he noticed a smiling Nyx in Feyre’s arms. It was a significant show of trust to bring him here before Eris, who had up until recently been considered an enemy. 

The look Rhys gave Eris was one of pure threat, a warning that one wrong word against Nyx would be met with a swift death. Eris bowed his head in submission, which seemed to satisfy his High Lord.

Azriel smiled widely as Feyre rounded the table, Nyx’s tiny arms stretched out towards his uncle. “Sometimes I think he likes you more than he does me,” Feyre said with a laugh, and placed the squirming baby in Azriel’s arms. 

Azriel reclaimed his seat, propping the boy up in his lap. Nyx was a blend of his parents, his eyes a lovely blue-gray, his hair the same inky black as his father’s. He was the most beautiful baby Azriel had ever seen, and his heart swelled with love as he held him against his chest. 

He looked up to find Eris staring at him wide-eyed, somewhat dazed, his lips parted slightly. Azriel tilted his head in question, but Eris only snapped his mouth shut and swallowed roughly. Azriel desperately wished, not for the first time, that he had daemati abilities so he might learn what Eris was thinking.

Lucien entered next and tentatively took the seat beside Elain, who gave him a small smile. Lucien’s entire body seemed to brighten at that smile, as if that small bit of encouragement had something inside him glowing faintly. Azriel wondered if anyone else noticed it—the faint glow to his golden brown skin. Or perhaps he was imagining it. The Vanserra brothers did seem to have a natural light about them. He was distracted from his thoughts as Nesta, Cassian and Mor sauntered in after Lucien, bickering amongst themselves.

Mor’s rich brown eyes found Azriel and she smiled brightly at him, but then her gaze slid to Eris seated at the table and the warm expression on her face was replaced with icy disdain. Before she could claim the seat beside Azriel, Nesta slid into it instead, giving Mor a cool smile. Cassian rolled his eyes as he sat next to Nesta, and Rhys arched a brow at the silent power struggle that seemed to unfold.

Where's Amren? Azriel cast the thought out to Rhys.

Indisposed. He didn't elaborate further.

When they were all seated, Rhys finally spoke.

“You’re all aware of what happened when Cass and Az went to the continent. Yesterday, Vassa disappeared, presumably summoned back to the lake by Koschei,” Rhys sighed heavily. “And on top of all of that, Elain had a vision. Any ideas you might have about what it means are welcome.” He placed a sheet of paper in front of him and peered down at it.

Elain shifted in her seat as Rhys recited the words she had spoken aloud. When he was finished, no one spoke. Azriel looked at Eris and their eyes met. He knew he wore the same fearful expression on his own face. Azriel gently passed Nyx back to Feyre, too anxious to hold him.

“‘A warning for the son.’ Meaning Eris, I presume?” Nesta asked.

“Presumably, yes,” said Rhys. He turned to Eris with an arched brow. “Any ideas?”

Eris rubbed a hand over his jaw absently, brows furrowed in concentration. “Not off the top of my head. Though I am quite confident nothing good can be drawn from mention of a blood soaked chain,” he said dryly. Did anyone else notice the edge of fear in his voice?

“‘Shadows flee when leaves fall’.” Feyre turned to Azriel. “It could be a warning about your powers. You mentioned they fled the first time you went to the lake.”

“Only that first time. When we went back they behaved normally,” Azriel replied. And what did that have to do with leaves? It was already well into winter. Azriel ground his teeth in frustration. As spymaster and a shadowsinger, he should be able to figure this out.

“What about the past are we supposed to heed?” Cassian asked the room.

“You thought his curse was somehow tied to Autumn,” Azriel said to Eris, who nodded.

“I do, but I’m still not sure how. Koschei has been trapped at that lake presumably for over 15,000 years. Not much has changed in Autumn in that time, if you can believe it. The Autumn scholars, nor I, turned up anything on the history of his curse. If it’s in a book somewhere, we haven’t found it yet.” It didn’t surprise Azriel. Gwyn and Rhys hadn’t found any clear answers either, though they hadn’t given up yet.

“And what about ‘his song shall cease’?” Feyre wondered. “Whose song? Could it be referring to Azriel being a shadowsinger?” No one had an answer for her. Azriel irritably wondered at the usefulness of such a power if no one was able to make any sense of it.

“Well, the last part is surely about Koschei, no? Cast some vessel adrift and darkness will disperse? Koschei being the darkness,” Mor offered. That much made sense to Azriel, but they didn’t know enough about Koschei to determine what was meant by it the ‘vessel’.

They went in circles for two hours, analyzing each word and Elain’s mannerisms as she delivered them. And yet all they could determine was that Koschei would somehow set himself free, but not the actual means of how he would do it.

“Did you see the same destruction that Koschei showed Azriel?” Eris addressed Elain directly. Her cheeks reddened slightly as everyone focused their attention on her and she nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind her pointed ear. 

  “I admit I have some difficulty recalling the images after I’ve spoken them. Perhaps with more practice…” she trailed off, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help. It is a similar experience to recalling a dream upon waking. The images slip away so quickly, and soon I wonder if I ever really saw them at all...” Azriel pondered this. It was the first time he’d heard her speak of her seer powers. He supposed it was a form of balance—that one gifted with the power of sight might be incapable of remembering the visions they beheld. Had she not found them on the terrace, would the vision have been spoken into the air, doomed to be forgotten? “I’m sorry,” she said again, wringing her hands. “The visions I have are more fragmented, I think, than what Azriel was shown by Koschei. Less cohesive.”  

“Don’t apologize. You’ve given us more insight than we could’ve hoped to have otherwise,” Lucien said firmly. Elain flushed a deeper shade of red and looked down at her hands.

“Do you remember anything else? Any faces? Specific people?” Eris pressed, sounding frustrated. Azriel noted the hint of desperation in his voice and his stomach twisted anxiously. Lucien threw his brother a cold look, as if to say back off. Mor and Cassian were glaring at him as well.

“No. Nothing else,” Elain said in a small voice. 

“And what have you done to help get us out of this mess?” Mor asked accusingly. “You’ve spent your time holed up in Autumn. If I remember correctly, you offered to kill Beron before the last war with Hybern. What’s stopping you now?” 

The room went dead silent and Azriel forced himself to hold in his low snarl. It was easy to point fingers at Eris when the fallout had little effect on her. If Eris attempted to kill his father and failed, what did it matter to Mor? She might even prefer that outcome. Eris raised his chin, met her cold gaze.

“I can assure you, as soon as the opportunity presents itself, I intend to,” Eris said tightly. His voice was even but Azriel could practically feel the weight upon his shoulders as if it were his own burden. He desperately wished to reach out to him, grasp his hands where they were fisted on the table.  

“Yeah? And when might that be?” Cassian asked dryly. Nesta gave him a sharp look, which he ignored. Eris dropped all pretenses of civility as he focused on Cassian, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he likely fought to hold in the scathing insult he wanted to hurl at him. Azriel cut in before he could voice it.

“He’s a High Lord. It’s not as easy as waltzing into court to slit his throat,” he snapped.  Cassian merely shrugged and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms against his chest.

“While we’re on the topic of Beron,” Rhys cut in smoothly, “Has he given you any reason to suspect he’s aware of our alliance?” Eris’s gaze lingered on Cassian for a moment, a look of disgust on his face, before he finally turned to Rhys where he sat at the head of the table.

“No. Though he does suspect there are traitors in his court. He’s had more than one lord executed in the past week on charges of treason.” Lucien’s face darkened at his brother’s words, like he suspected there was more to their deaths than Eris was letting on. Azriel’s heart thudded painfully at what he’d been forced to do to those males—how much it had horrified him. He wanted to beg Eris to abandon Autumn and save himself before it was too late, but he knew he’d never listen.

“I understand it’s not as easy some might suggest,” Feyre said carefully, “but it sounds like your window of opportunity is closing.”

“As touched as I am to know you worry about me, Feyre, I have it under control,” Eris drawled. Feyre didn’t smile. Azriel felt her attention slide to him. He held no delusions that his family actually cared for Eris’s well-being, but he knew they likely worried about what it might do to Azriel if his schemes with Beron did not go as planned.

Eliminate Koschei’s sole ally and we might avoid this mess altogether, Rhys said into Azriel’s mind. Perhaps you can convince him to make a move. Azriel tensed at the suggestion. Under no circumstances would he encourage Eris to go up against Beron, no matter how much it might help them.

“Why can’t you kill him?” Nesta asked Rhys. “Surely as the most powerful High Lord in history it would take little effort?” She arched a well-groomed brow. Feyre gave her eldest sister a reproachful look. Azriel looked to Rhys. It might cause them a headache with some of the other Courts, but Nesta wasn’t wrong. It would be easy for Rhys. 

“It could be considered an act of war against all of the Courts,” Rhys answered pointedly. As if they’d discussed this before. 

“But are they not our allies? Would any of them truly care to see Beron killed?” Nesta insisted. “Dealing with the other High Lords seems preferable to facing Koschei.”

“Beron’s death is not mine to claim,” Rhys said firmly. At that, Nesta kept quiet, her eyes darting to Eris. Azriel’s stomach sank. 

The conversation lulled as they contemplated all that they knew. Azriel couldn’t take his eyes off Eris. He didn’t need to understand Elain’s vision to know that Eris was in grave danger. They all were. But the thought of any harm coming to the beautiful, brave male across from him made Azriel want to tear the world apart before Koschei ever got the chance.

***

After hours of bickering and debating Elain’s words, Rhys finally called it quits and told everyone to go home. Nyx had slept through most of the meeting but was now fussing in Feyre’s arms, and he could tell his brother wanted to be alone with his mate and son.

Azriel stood quickly, hoping to catch Eris before he could leave for Autumn, but then Mor sidled up beside him and placed a hand on his arm.

“Can we talk?” All traces of her cool disdain were gone now that Eris had left. Azriel forced his frustration down—plastered a smile on his face, despite the disappointment that settled in his stomach like a rock.    

“Yeah, of course.” He followed Mor as she strolled to the balcony doors that overlooked the endless snow-capped mountains of the Night Court. The magic of the palace kept the jasmine-scented breeze warm as it washed over them, even as drifts of snow swirled in the air like mist. 

“I miss you, Az. I never see you anymore,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. “I don’t like how we left things the last time we spoke.” Azriel forced himself not to grimace. He really didn’t want to talk about this, and he didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he offered, hoping she’d drop it. 

“Why did you?” she asked cautiously. 

Azriel suppressed a groan and his heart rate kicked up. He should just tell her and be done with it. He couldn’t avoid her forever, and though they were at odds right now, she was one of his closest and oldest friends. Surely he owed her an explanation. But his heart rebelled at the idea of telling her about Eris. He didn’t want to hear her judgment—couldn’t bear to listen to her say another bad word about him. He sighed and turned to face her. 

Mor’s face was so open and trusting that Azriel let himself take it in for one more minute before he undoubtedly wiped the expression off her face, perhaps permanently. He took a deep breath and blew it out.

“I…don’t know how to tell you this,” he admitted. “I only ask that you hear me out.” She nodded, her expression solemn. “I have been spending a lot of time with Eris. Sharing intel, monitoring the situation with Koschei and Beron.” Her eyes shuttered at the mere mention of Eris’s name. Azriel pushed on, wanting to get it out before she bolted. “Eris is not the male I’ve always thought him to be. He’s…good.” Mor’s eyes flared in shock and Azriel continued quickly. “There are things you don’t know about him, about that night. Secrets that are not mine to share. I will never dismiss your feelings about what happened,” she looked like she was about to be sick, “but I feel…something for him. I wanted you to know because I don’t want to lie to you. And I don’t want to hurt you.” He kept his expression open—let her see the truth of his words. She stared at him, her eyes wide and face pale. A full minute of painful silence passed before she spoke.

“How could you?” She whispered the words as tears welled in her eyes. She backed away a step and shook her head. “Eris?” Azriel’s stomach sank as the tears started falling. “You have feelings for Eris?” The words caught in her throat and her face crumpled.

“Mor, I’m sorry—” he said miserably, but she just shook her head and winnowed away. He remained on the balcony after she left. Was he being unfair? Had he committed some great sin in choosing Eris? For letting himself be happy?

It had gone about as well as he’d expected it to, he supposed. At least she knew now. But the disappointment ate away at him as he stared out at the gray-stoned mountains. Would he be forced to choose between Eris and his family? His chest tightened and his throat felt thick at the thought. There was no question of what Azriel’s choice would be. He only hoped he wouldn’t be forced to make it, for he knew it would fracture their court of dreams apart.

***

Azriel flapped his wings broadly as he soared over the sloping hills on the outskirts of Velaris. He’d chosen to fly back from the Moonstone Palace, needing time to clear his head. Soaring through the skies was the only time he felt any sense of peace—second only to the time he spent with Eris. But the male had already returned home, so he’d have to make do. 

Azriel loved the feel of the wind in his wings, the freedom it offered him. Though he rejected any ties to his Illyrian heritage, he couldn’t deny the song of the wind as it thrummed in his blood. It was a wild, beautiful symphony that spoke to his soul in a way nothing else could. 

As the lights of the city came into view, Azriel flew higher, circling around by the sea. He floated between the twinkling stars above him and their reflection off the dark water below and felt as if he were one with the sky. He dipped and looped through the air for some time before finally landing on the roof of his apartment, exhilarated from the flight. 

He would never grow tired of it. 

***

The moment Azriel stepped into his apartment his shadows settled. A second later, he realized he was not alone. Eris was asleep on his bed. 

His shadows pulsed around Eris slowly, rising and falling in time with his deep breaths. Azriel watched, mesmerized, as they seemed to move as one. They’d never behaved like this before. 

The moonlight lit up Eris’s pale face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. Azriel wondered if he ever truly slept peacefully in Autumn. If he had somewhere he could go to get away from it all when living in the Forest House became too much. 

Azriel kicked off his shoes and removed his jacket before laying down beside Eris. He tugged Eris’s body against his and melted into his warmth, his nose tucked into his silky hair. He always smelled delicious, like fall leaves and spice and apple cider. Eris stirred and sighed contentedly. He turned in Azriel’s arms and pressed his face into the crook of his neck.

“I thought you went home,” Azriel said quietly, stroking a scarred hand across his muscled back.

“I did,” he mumbled drowsily into Azriel’s skin. Az’s heart swelled, so much he thought it might burst. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The words were a soft murmur. 

Azriel let himself enjoy the peaceful silence—he got so little of it these days. The remaining tightness in his chest eased and he wished he could stay like this forever. He savored the feeling of Eris tucked safely against his chest. He knew they should discuss Koschei. Elain’s vision. Beron. All of it, really, but neither seemed able to bring themselves to shatter the quiet calm. He continued rubbing soothing circles along Eris’s back and longed for the day when he could do this whenever he wished 

Eris placed a soft kiss against his throat and slid a hand up Azriel’s chest, letting it rest on his neck. He trailed his lips along Azriel’s sharp jaw and his blood heated instantly. He rolled them so he hovered above Eris on his forearms, met the male’s sleepy gaze.

Azriel leaned down and kissed him deeply, savoring the taste of him. He settled between his legs and felt the already hard length of him pressed against his stomach. Their kisses were slow, and each sweep of their tongues kindled the fire simmering beneath Azriel’s skin. He let himself get lost in Eris until their clothes found the floor and there was nothing between them.

“Azriel,” his name was a whispered plea from his lips. “I want you.” Azriel kissed his neck, dragged his teeth over the smooth skin of his collarbone as he reached down and fisted Eris’s cock.

“You have me.” 

Their lips met again and Azriel groaned against his mouth. Eris sat up, not breaking the kiss, and turned and pushed Azriel back against the headboard. Eris straddled his legs and wrapped a hand tightly around Azriel’s length as he dragged it over the tip. 

Azriel’s hands fell to his hips and he stroked his thumbs over the soft skin. He trailed a hand along Eris’s spine until his fingers found the split of his backside. He lightly brushed them over the slit and trailed them down until they found the sensitive skin there. Eris groaned at the featherlight touch and Azriel pulled him closer with the arm now wrapped around his waist.

“Oil,” he breathed against his lips, and Azriel pulled away to reach to the bedside table where a small vial of oil now sat. Eris sucked at the skin of his neck as Azriel coated his fingers liberally. His hands trembled as he pulled Eris against him, kissed him like he was desperate for air. His heart fluttered nervously in his chest. 

Eris pulled back to look at him, sensing his hesitation. Azriel met his gaze with wide eyes. His cheeks flushed when Eris took his hand and guided it behind him. “Touch me.” The words sent a tremor of pleasure down Azriel’s spine and his cock became painfully stiff.

He slid a finger along his backside, pressed it against his core before pushing it inside slowly. Eris dropped his forehead against Azriel’s with a soft groan. And then their lips met again, achingly slow, as Azriel eased him open. His shadows swirled around them and twined their way up Eris’s arms, whispering against his skin lovingly. 

Azriel added another finger and watched with reverence as Eris let his head fall back in pleasure. He was the most beautiful male he’d ever seen. He knew he was gone for him, and he bit his tongue to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth. 

Azriel dragged an oil-slicked hand up his own cock and lined himself up against Eris. He moaned into Eris’s neck as he slowly sank down onto him, seating himself in Azriel’s lap.

“Eris,” he said his name like a prayer as he pulled his face down for a searing kiss. They moved together, slow and unhurried, until they were both trembling with pleasure, until there was nothing in the world but the two of them. Azriel’s heart burned brighter with each touch, until he was sure it would shine through the shadows and lighten up the darkness. 

Azriel and Eris tumbled over the edge together, each held tightly in the other’s arms.

***

Azriel rested his head back against the pillows. Eris lay beside him, one head on his shoulder as he twined their fingers together.

After they’d cleaned themselves up, Eris had put on the pair of sweatpants Azriel had offered him, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of the Heir of the Autumn Court dressed so casually. Eris seemed equally bemused that Azriel owned such unsophisticated clothing, and said as much with a haughty sniff. Even so, the sight of Eris wearing his clothes stirred something low in his gut.

Azriel’s thoughts slowly drifted back to the meeting at the palace, and his subsequent conversation with Mor, and his mood darkened. Eris sensed the change in him immediately.

“What is it?” Eris asked.

“I told Mor,” Azriel said with a sigh. Eris tensed beside him and then propped himself up on an elbow to look down at him. He scanned Azriel’s drawn face, the shadows in his eyes, and grimaced.

“Went that well, did it?” Eris asked dryly. Azriel groaned and pinched his brow between his fingers, massaging away the ache. “Give it time. She associates me with one of the worst moments of her life. I’m not sure that’s something she’ll ever get past,” he said, voice low. Azriel’s temper flared. What happened to Mor was not Eris’s fault and he was sick of him shouldering all of the blame for it.

“I hate that they believe the worst of you. I hate that I believed it for so long.” He’d wasted so much time and energy hating the male beside him. What might their life have been like, if he hadn’t been so blinded by rage? He looked into Eris’s amber eyes. “I’m sorry, Eris.” 

“Don’t be. I played my part well.” Eris brushed a thumb over Azriel’s lips and smiled sadly. 

Azriel thought back to how Nesta had reacted upon learning about him and Eris. She hadn’t judged him, nor had Rhys. Feyre had been civil—polite, even—the last time they spoke. Perhaps he was being unfair. But Cassian… he wasn’t sure what his brother thought of it—or how much he was even aware of at this point.

“Why do you hate Cassian so much?” Azriel asked. 

Eris snorted softly. “What’s to like?” 

Azriel waited. Eris glanced at him, his eyes wary as he scanned Azriel’s face, as if gauging how he might react to the truth. Eris sighed and flopped back onto the pillows, gaze fixed on the ceiling as he rested his corded arms behind his head. Azriel admired his profile, the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his straight nose. If Eris didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t push. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke.

“When I found out I was to be married to Morrigan I was still young, and still very naive in regard to the reality of being Beron’s heir. I learned quickly, but for a short time I foolishly allowed myself to imagine what it might be like to have an ally. An equal—someone who might have my back, and could help me navigate my father’s scheming court. I was young and unseasoned—and terrified most of the time.” Azriel stared at him, hung on his every word. “My relationship with my brothers has always been complicated. Some of them are worse than others, yes…though the worst of them are now dead.” He grimaced as he said it, a flicker of pain flitting across his face. Azriel felt a pang in his chest at all Eris had endured. “Even still, I tried to protect them. It was my duty, as the eldest.” He swallowed roughly before continuing. “None of us were spared from Beron’s cruelty. He doled it out equally and often. Jasper and Orson survived it in the only way they knew how—they became cold and unfeeling. Vicious, at times. But they weren’t always that way. It was our father’s treatment that warped them into cruel males. They could be horrible. Violent. But I loved them all the same. It got them killed in the end.” His eyes were distant and haunted, lost in the memory. “My brothers could never truly be my allies. I couldn’t trust them fully—not with Beron pitting us against each other. But Mor, my wife, would’ve been my equal, at least in the way that mattered to me. At the time, that was all I wanted. A friend.” His mouth tightened in displeasure, his high cheekbones flushing slightly, as if desiring friendship was something to be ashamed of. He cleared his throat. “I quickly learned she wanted nothing to do with me, that her only wish was to be free of the engagement. I didn’t blame her—I still don’t. I vowed to her that I’d never touch her and instead I offered her friendship. Though thinking back, I can see now how silly that offer must have seemed to her. A life trapped in Autumn, with me as her only companion. Needless to say, she didn’t want it.” Eris sighed and closed his eyes. “Shortly after that conversation I found out that she’d slept with Cassian. She’d made her intentions clear, and I respected her wishes. I told Keir I was no longer interested, and I broke off the engagement in no uncertain terms. You know what happened next.” 

Eris opened his eyes again, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. His voice was even and low, but his pulse fluttered rapidly in his neck. Azriel wanted to roar at the unfairness of it all. That Eris had known cruelty from such a young age. He hated that it was something they had in common.

“And Cassian?” Eris’s eyes burned like twin flames.

“Cassian has everything he could ever want and still manages to feel sorry for himself,” he said scornfully. “He has a family he can trust, a safe place to call home. He’s mated to a powerful, brave female, one who is far too good for him I might add, and he still somehow sees himself as the victim of some great injustice—still thinks of himself as the underdog.” Eris’s voice was like ice. “Cassian is general of the Night Court’s armies. He’s had the job of delivering news of soldiers’ deaths, and yet I doubt it ever crossed his mind that I might be responsible for the Autumn soldiers he killed,” Eris hissed. “That I was the one who had to inform the families of those males that their sons and brothers and fathers and mates are gone forever. I couldn’t even tell them why.” Azriel’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t for one second considered the families of those males—or that Eris would be the one to report their deaths. “He calls me a coward. But what dangers does he face, hiding in Velaris behind his High Lord’s power? I risk my life, every day, to keep Rhysand’s secrets. To protect my mother and my remaining brothers. To lessen the stain of Beron’s rule in Autumn. I wonder how powerful Cassian might feel if he were forced to live in Illyria, or the Hewn City, for the rest of his life.” Even though the words were not directed at him, Azriel felt his face flush with shame. “I’ve never met someone so willfully blind to how good his lot is in life. It’s pathetic,” Eris said coolly. “So for Mor to choose him, to choose what was done to her, over shackling herself to me? Fine. That was her right. But to be blamed for it, when I played no part in what was done to her? To be made out as a monster, equal in measure to Keir, by the very male who brought the hardship upon Mor in the first place?” Eris clenched his jaw and the temperature in the room spiked. “He’s an ungrateful, selfish prick.” 

Azriel swallowed roughly and studied Eris’s cold face. Mother spare him, but…he understood. He really did. Gods. They were all incredibly lucky, each and every one of them. Azriel didn’t know what to say. He was guilty of a lot of the same things Cassian had done. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re right. I—Gods, Eris. I’m sorry.” Eris didn’t look at him, but he reached down and grabbed Azriel’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t blame you,” Eris said. Azriel laid back on his side so he could watch Eris while he gazed up at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Azriel thought about all Eris had said. He knew in his heart that Cassian had hated killing those soldiers. Eris was wrong to think it didn’t affect him. Just because Azriel was a bastard and hadn’t thought of those families didn’t mean Cassian hadn’t either. He couldn’t be sure, though, so he didn’t defend him. Eris was justified in his anger.

Azriel sighed and closed his eyes. It was all so complicated. He hated himself for the part he played in all of it, and vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to make up for it—for the centuries of judgment levied against Eris.

Eris finally dragged his gaze from the ceiling and looked at Azriel. He rolled over onto his side so they were facing each other and reached out to brush aside the dark waves that had fallen across Azriel’s forehead. He smiled faintly.

“Do you have to go back?” Azriel asked softly.

“Yes.” But Eris made no move to get up.

“Should we talk about Elain’s vision?” 

“Not tonight.”

So they didn’t. Azriel and Eris remained like that, legs and hands intertwined, content in their silence, until the late hour sent Eris from the safety of Azriel’s apartment. 

He took the warmth and Azriel’s heart with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Full Chapter List

Tag List: @unanswered-stars @futurehunt @christeareads @jules-writes-stories

[neonscandal]

So I found this on bird app :

"i only like ge/go when it’s doomed and they have no longterm future

same with go/ge. they’re about the same to me but i think gojo bottomed more and was a total pillow princess about it in their teens. as adults they probably switched equally. i can see gojo developing his experience more with topping as an adult

either way they’re better as exes. gojo deserves more from a partner than someone who would leave him to start a cult "

Can I ask your thoughts, please?

Hello, hello. Considering, canonically, they are very doomed, I suppose OP found a solid pairing? I'm starting to understand the idea of doomed toxic yaoi a lot more because who says that with their whole chest? I don't feel like I'm on my A game today but let's see if I can adequately convey my thoughts.

I think it's kinda funny, the sentiment that "Gojo deserves more from a partner than someone who would leave him to start a cult,". As if Gojo didn't play some part in his motivation for defection, as if to say this defection, too, did not reek of affection. Don't get me wrong, Geto's hard right was also a great deal of ego. But, foundationally, his departure was sparked by an inability to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gojo, power wise.

Toji got the drop on Gojo which sent Geto on the offensive. After being reassured he was fine, Gojo encouraged him to press forward with the mission. Just short of extending protection to their charge to follow her own wishes, Toji violently extinguishes the life of Riko Amanai before his eyes. An opportunity that was only made possible by besting Gojo, killing him even. Geto loses his composure with this realization and is summarily and disrespectfully embarrassed and defeated. Left alive with the knowledge that he wasn't deemed enough of a threat to kill. This is on the tail end of all of Gojo's reassurances that he was fine, that they could even take on Tengen because he had Geto to rely on. But this series of events, this cocoon of hubris, challenges Geto's ability to protect anyone at all. From this he determines the best way to circumvent premature losses like Gojo, Riko and Haibara are simply to eradicate the population they're forced to put themselves on the line for.

Armies were roused to reclaim Helen of Troy and return her divine beauty back to Sparta, causing the Trojan War. Six people died, including the eponymous lovers Romeo and Juliet, due to a series of compounding events for a romance that lasted 3 days. Orpheus braved the Underworld at the chance to retrieve Eurydice. Geto betrayed himself and everything he'd stood for previously for a chance to create a world where Gojo wouldn't have to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He walked away from Gojo knowing the path he walked was twisted and, in his mind, did so irrevocably even though I know Gojo would have followed him if asked. So why didn't he ask?

The man who had been the moral compass for The Strongest Sorcerer did not abuse that influence. Even knowing he was doomed to fail in his endeavor. Even recognizing that with Gojo's power, it'd be possible. But he never asked, never chose to lead him astray. So, yes, they're tragic but does the copium not encourage us to seek out AU's where they are free of the burden of their fates and are just happy?

RE: everything else, maybe I'm an anomaly but I don't really care about people or characters' positions in relationships so I don't know that I'm someone you want chiming in on that. Like, I get people assume that positions present different archetypes that they choose to align characters with but... that pragmatism ignores a lot of nuance. I also inherently know that people use different names for ships based on this but I don't nor do I see them as having different relationship dynamics, per se, in referring to them as gego vs goge. I just look at their canonical dynamic and tend to use the more popular ship name.

Even if I agree that I could see Gojo as a pillow princess, it's less to do with the "physicality" of it and more to do with his personality. He is princess just as much as Geto is babygirl and the girls who get it, get it.

[roxannepolice]

I guess brainrot over the idea of an ineffable husbands style tensimm kiss won't let me sleep so.

I think, leaving aside the general collective unconscious and David Tennant in a telepathic mode of transport, the main reason the dynamic hit as so similar is this kind of. Absolute versus relational morality? I mean, this is what's on the deepest level, because the most apparent aspect is the idea that one of these semi immortal entities believes the other can be kind of restored to the state of goodness? And not just this person specifically, I think Aziraphale in general and the Doctor mainly as Twelve tbh just have this worldview where good is somehow definite and in a way natural for the universe? Oh yes, Twelve will be making speeches about whether he's a good man but the very asking of such a question implies "good man" is something definite, something that one can be. And oh yes there may be villains and monsters but you know if we all just sat down and talked then sure everything could be figured out. And this is more obvious than ever in his attitude towards Missy, where y'know. She just never heard the music. Whatever that metaphor means. Just as Aziraphale assumes Crowley can just be restored to the angelic status, because sure it was just a misunderstanding right he means he's not actually evil right? In a sense, pre-time angelicness and childhood are parallel in that they both assume a mind that hasn't developed individuality yet and I guess this is why Moffat is obsessed with throwing children at the audience 24/7.

And I find it fascinating that where everyone sees Aziraphale is wrong (or, indeed just needs to figure out Heaven is evil), Twelve's clockwork orange vault is generally hailed as reaching out to the truth behind the Master that Missy got closer to than any regeneration we've seen. For some reason, because sure as hell not because of anything that happened in EOT. And that's writing for you: if it's intelligent enough you'll look at something fundamentally similar and see completely different things.

Now, Crowley and the Master have more relational relational ethics - and relational is not the same as relative. And sure as hell don't think the universe or any individual will "naturally" veer towards good. In fact, they're both pretty cynical about, at least human, nature. Difference is Crowley needs to get drunk from Spanish inquisition, while the Master thoroughly enjoys letting future humans go murder their ancestors for fun. I mean, Missy even calls the Doctor out for his absolute and sentimental idea of good, except that's framed as her being in the wrong. And then there's the whole "Paradise. You've destroyed paradise! - They were lazy. I made them hungry" exchange between War and Saxon Masters in Masterful. Serpent in Eden, anyone?

And I think that this is why tensimm give off those vibes that they were closer to understanding each other than ever before. Obviously, the moral divide is still there, as it has to be, but I think Ten, especially in EOT, is more aware of how easily one can slip into a vengeful god, and all this to SAVE someone, than ever before. So while the moral divide is arguably widest it's ever been, the perceptual differences between the Doctor and the Master are almost gone in those episodes. And I suppose the metaphor of the Doctor hearing the drums is pretty pertinent here.

Now, before there's any accusation of moral nihilism on my part - no, there isn't. I specifically wrote of moral relationality not relativism. An action or attitude can be good or evil, the thing is that every individual exists in a net of their relations to others that they can't get out of through spontaneous epiphany. And at the same time the idea of absolute good is necessary, precisely because the general momentum is towards... the opposite. At the same time, there is nothing vile that hasn't been done in the name of higher good. Again, dialectics.

Which is why I say the Master (the Simm!Master, reduced as he was) fell where he stood no less that the Doctor in season 10. Like, this absolutely wasn't the intended point and I still say the mutual suicide was peak contrivance, but. work's intent. And all of this goes back to platonists vs. sophists, you know.

So anyway, it's still Ten that desperately grabs Saxon's lapels and kisses him in hopes of making him stay where they can be happy together.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Stephen Strange...and a special Blue Morpho butterfly

(Excerpt from my fic,'Friday in the Park with Stephen'; takes place pre-Infinity War. Posting it now simply because it makes me happy to do so.)

...Stephen missed Hope's call again late Sunday morning, growing a bit frustrated that they were left to play phone tag, but within the hour he’d had to assume the full mantle of Master of the Mystic Arts and join several others in the Basque countryside of Spain, to beat back an incursion fire-breathing Wormes; he’d ended up staying there two days longer as the Sorcerers searched for and finally sealed their point of entry into Earth’s dimension.  Stephen returned from that foray slightly singed, and in need of a hot shower and a cold beer or two.

He found a large manila envelope waiting on the desk in the study he had commandeered as his own. It was marked in one corner ‘Please Do NOT Bend’, addressed simply ‘Stephen Strange’, and had to have been hand delivered, for there was no stamp or postmark—and in place of a return address was the inked image of a small but vibrantly blue butterfly, leaving him without a doubt whom had left it for him.  Intrigued, Stephen carefully slit beneath the sealed flap and pulled out two pieces of 11 x 14 cardstock that had a piece of sketch paper sandwiched between them.  

He thought that it must be the portrait Hope had done of him, as they sat on the grass in Washington Square Park, and he smiled broadly despite his exhaustion, recalling the pleasant way they had whiled away the day, of their evening stroll to Hope’s place in Brooklyn, of the starlight kisses they had shared—and most especially of how reverently she had held his hand against her cheek, gingerly kissing his scarred flesh, and of the image that had flashed through his mind of her with her hair undone, looking very like she was ripe for his taking.  

Stephen let out a slow breath, and with hands that tremored from his old injury, removed the sketch from its protective cover.

"Whoa,” was all he managed, thunderstruck by a new image which Hope has so faithfully rendered.  The paper itself was similar to that in her sketch pad, but  even to his untrained eye, of higher quality.  She had titled the piece The Nature of Beauty--and had depicted a beauty he had honestly not believed was there. Her Artist’s eye was truly keen, for she had captured his every minutia from memory alone.  

The back of his left hand was displayed as though on its side, with his right hand draped across that wrist.  She had added both his bracelets (fashioned of bead and leather, gifted to him by the elders of an Indi village after he had vanquished a Blight Demon that had laid waste to nearly half their fields) and his watch; he recalled her curiosity at him wearing a broken timepiece, and how she had only nodded in understanding when he replied it held sentimental value beyond any question of time, respecting his privacy enough not to press for more. Hope had thoroughly filled in the details, even down to the cracks on the watch face. His fingers were relaxed, though his right index finger was held just slightly bent—and upon it sat the Blue Morpho, it’s wings and body so meticulously portrayed that Stephen could almost see it flutter slightly.  

She had drawn the piece in blacks and greys, with the subtlest hints of color at the his beaded bracelet and his watchband--though the butterfly held the echo of it’s true color, in sky blue chalk (so like the color of the sky that afternoon) which she had treated with a some kind of fixative to keep it from smudging.  He found the sketch reminiscent of DaVinci’s detailed, realistic style, in his multitude of studies of the human form—the perfection of the human form which he had ever worshipped. Lastly, Hope had placed the date in the lower, righthand corner, and her initials bordered on the sketch itself.

But his favorite detail—one he never would have guessed he would find pleasing—was her depiction of the scars upon his hands. Hope had not stinted in depicting the weals that marked them, but she had given them an unexpected softness that left him with a soft appreciation in the center of his chest.  Stephen decided on the spot that he would have it framed right away, to hang above the small desk in his quarters; it would be a gentle reminder of that old axiom ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder ’—and of an extraordinary soul whom fate had somehow sent in his direction on a sunny, spring afternoon. Hope had taped a note loosely on the reverse of the sketch, which he removed with care. It read:

Dear Stephen,

I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I have enjoyed creating it. This is the original, of course--but I have kept a scan of it for my portfolio. At the least, perhaps it will remind you that beauty is well beyond skin deep, and that others often see what we think of as our flaws in a kinder light than we see ourselves. You may not know this, but in many cultures blue butterflies symbolize joy, beauty, and good fortune--most appropriate when I think how lucky it was that our paths came to cross that day. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of trying my best to capture the unique beauty of your hands...scars and all.

Sincerely,

Hope

PS   I promised patience, and I swear I am a woman of my word.  But please do keep trying, Stephen—as I’m certain that our paths are meant to cross again. xx

Energized by her astonishing gift, Stephen didn’t hesitate.  He grabbed his cell from the shelf where it sat charging, sending a silent request unto the universe ‘please—let her pick up in person this time’.  And perhaps because his prayer was fervent—perhaps too, because he’d earned himself some good karma—Hope picked up on the third ring.  “Stephen,” she exclaimed brightly, “I just knew it would be you this time!”

“I just got back in town, I’m looking at your gorgeous sketch, and I’m thinking we have to get together this afternoon.”  Before something calls me away again. “You game?"

“Absolutely,” she averred, “And what do you have in mind?”  The note of mischief in her voice caused his pulse to speed its pace.

“There’s this great little pub on East 4th Street, The Four-Faced Liar. Some of the best burgers in the city…”

“Got it…”  She sounded as eager as he felt, “Hey, that’s about halfway between our places.”

“Yup.”  Stephen was already planning his route—well, where he could discretely portal to, giving him adequate time to shower and get dressed first, “Let’s say an hour, I’ll meet you there?”

“It’s a date, then?"

“You bet’cha it’s a date,” he promised, “And Hope?”

“Yes, Stephen?”  He could swear he felt her smile across the miles between them.

“Wear some comfy shoes, okay?  There’s no telling what adventures we might get up to today.”

The sigh she gave at that sounded as full of possibilities as his heart was hoping for.  Of course, only time would tell—and as a master of time (in his unique way) he knew that time, in this case, was surely on his side.

Hope & Stephen ~ probably my most popular, most widely read, pairing...

Thank you from the bottom of my ❤️ for creating this @fanartka❣️It's a huge and indescribable thrill to see them together outside of my imagination!!😍💙❤️🦋

[ohwhataniight]

The Good that won't Come Out - a trans!Sherlock fic - Part 1

So I started this WIP and have absolutely no patience about sharing it after it is completed. Please forgive my English, it is not my first language. For @gaylilsherlock who suggested the wound dressing trope. To be continued.

___________________________

"Girls, behave. Please."

I didn't think much of the way I'd just referred to a sulking Sherlock and an exasperated Lestrade, both of whom were leaning dangerously over the table in the Scotland Yard office, looking ready to punch each other in the face any minute now. Sherlock was being his usual self, showing off deductions that were only possible for me to follow, given that I live with him and, throughout the past couple of years, have become able to decode his tumultuous trains of thought. I assumed that the patience of my friend and colleague had run out and that he needed some quiet time in order to think this baffling case through, given that he raised the lapels of his coat and announced that he was heading home.

Anyway, I have a date tonight, so I don't really mind letting the case of the poisoned fashion designer go. I am more than fine with the turn of events, actually. I shoot Greg an apologetic look when Sherlock isn't looking and start buttoning my own jacket. I turn to Sherlock. “I won't be back till late. Go home, get some Thai, don't do anything reckless without me.”

He doesn't grace me with an answer to that, of course. “Give Vicky my warmest regards,” he says sarcastically instead, without really meeting my gaze. I decide to ignore his moods – I know better than provoking him when he's way too deep in a case he can't solve yet. I watch him turn around and leave the room with the tail of his impossibly long coat swishing dramatically behind him. I sigh, and follow suit to head to my date, for which I am already late.

*

It would have been fine if it only happened once, but apparently this is how John speaks, and for some reason it took my by surprise. Again. I should have seen this coming - this is how he really sees me, isn’t it? At least subconsciously - even subconsciously is bad enough. Why doesn’t he ever observe? I blame myself for letting my guard down. Of course, Captain John Watson, the epitome of traditional British masculinity and unchecked heterosexism would resort to such terms of endearment. And now here I am, recalling the words of my dearest brother: “You have let yourself be conquered by sentiment once again, Sherlock. You are entrusting a well-intentioned but vastly ignorant man with secrets you have been hiding ever so industriously throughout your life. I am observing you in sheer terror as you succumb to your miscalculations. How are you planning to proceed after John Watson discovers that you have so... diligently concealed the truth from him, after he reacts?”

Concealed. Truth. I snort. John knows the truth. He knows what he needs to know, he knows as much as he can stomach.

“He’ll have to know, at some point, being your doctor and all.”

“Oh shut up,” I hiss at mind palace-Mycroft, brushing away his rigid figure from my head with a wave of my hand. “John cannot know. He will never see me the same way again if he finds out.”

The night is chilly, my breath materializes before me in the form of smoke: dense, and woefully lacking of tar. I walk into the first corner shop and buy a pack, only to notice that my hands are shaking as I try to light the first cigarette, standing on the side of the pavement, shifting my weight from one foot to another. Pathetic. Look at you. Mycroft is right.

No. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep guessing, and hiding, and pretending it’s all fine.

He accepts and admires the man he thinks you are. Just one misstep and you blow up an entire life you’ve built for yourself, a life you’ve fought so hard for. John learns, and everything goes

fucking

boom.

I have been letting someone in so dangerously close to the core of my being, and yet I still have to live life hanging from the threads of how he sees me, how he reads me, like a pitifully open book yet still stumbling between the lines, faltering when I become too visible, immuring me behind performances and words.

John Watson is failing you.

And how could he not?

(freak)

I shake my head, exasperated. I take in a deep drag of smoke and watch it crystallize in slow motion. The lights of the city that normally surround me with clarity now become blurry and melt around me, pool on my feet like fireflies in a swamp. Smoking doesn’t help. Nothing is helping. My ribs are constricting around what feels like a hole in my chest, pulling me down with the familiar weight that used to press around me like Symplegades before.

What if John Watson had met me before? Maybe then he could have returned my feelings. Maybe he could have loved me if I weren’t who I am.

After all, John Watson is not, will never be gay. And I will never be what he likes.

These thoughts make breathing a strenuous activity. I wish I could ever only inhale nicotine. Not oxygen, especially when it becomes so sparse, not his hot, sweet breath that confiscates mine every time he turns his head as he’s leaning over me to stare at the computer screen, not the odd whiff of salty sweat, not his light musk of earth that is damp that is sturdy -

And then, suddenly, bliss: a distraction. A man in a suede jacket who is up to no good, judging from the long fingernail on his left pinky and the obviously borrowed briefcase that contains information of life and death on his ex wife. I don’t need to intervene, I’m not Clark freaking Kent (see, John? I have some mundane references) but I need something to keep my mind and body occupied other than these dreaded musings on truth and identity and John Watson’s scent, ever present in my nostrils. So I follow him. And he notices. And he quickens his step. And I chase him. In an alley. Good, this is good. Keep that adrenaline pumping. He climbs over some railings. I follow suit. My heart is racing with the rapture of something remotely interesting, finally. My physical deftness has never betrayed me before, until it does. I feel the sharp stab of metal on my ribcage as the railing scratches my side, ripping my shirt underneath my coat, and I feel the warmth of blood spiling from a long scratch on my skin that climbs up to my chest like a vine of poison ivy.

(well, this is unfortunate)

[acciotherapists]

Little Sparrow Chapter 7

Loki x Reader Mafia AU

When Tony Stark's little sister wakes up deep in enemy territory she assumes her life is over. She'll be killed or worse: used as a bargaining chip against her estranged brother. What happens when the mafia leader, Loki Laufeyson, offers her a deal she can't refuse? No sentiment. Only revenge. What happens when the truth is revealed? Will she betray her only family or betray the man she loves to hate? Little Sparrow is an enemies to lover's fic riddled with betrayal and spice!

“Why are you letting me go?” I asked the young boy standing in front of me.

“You don’t deserve this,” he replied, tossing the chains aside as he helped me stand. “Come with me.” He held out his hand and I took it, letting him lead me out of the compound.

He led us to a house through some woods behind the compound, promising me we’d be safe there.

“My father doesn’t know about this place. Thor bought it for me when dad sometimes got really drunk and we needed somewhere to hide.”

I didn’t know what to say but thankfully he didn’t seem to mind. He tucked me in the small bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. He reached for the lamp on the nightstand but I stopped him.

“Can you leave the lights on.”

He smiled, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Of course, little one.”

I jolted awake, breathing heavily as I took in the surrounding room and the throbbing pain in my head.

“Hey, darling,” Loki said softly, gently guiding back to the bed. “Lay back down. It’s alright.” He pressed his lips to my hair as he pulled the covers up to my chin. “Just rest. It’s alright.”

“W-where’s Odin?”

“Gone, darling. He won’t hurt you. I’m so sorry.” Something wet dripped onto my cheek and I looked up, finding tears streaming down his cheeks. I carefully wiped them as my mind clouded with memories.

“My name’s Loki.”

“Y/n.”

My eyes widened.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Y/n. When they ask how you escape you just tell them you ran away, alright?”

“Why can’t I tell the truth?”

“You just can’t. If my father finds out the Avengers know I helped you… it makes us look weak.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Loki was looking at me, waiting for me to say something but my throat felt dry and no words were coming out as I sat back up.

“Darling, what is it? Should I get the healer?”

I shook my head. “Does your father know?” I hissed. “Does everyone know except me?”

“Darling… what are you talking about?”

“It was me… wasn’t it?”

He said nothing.

“Wasn’t it?!” I yelled, pushing him away from me. “Is that what this is? You feel sorry for me? Like I’m that little girl again? Well, I’m not!”

“No! That’s not it! I knew you didn’t remember and I… I wanted to find out why.”

“Why does it matter to you? Why do you care?” Tears filled my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He dragged a hand across his face, inhaling deeply. “I wanted you to remember on your own.”

“That only answers one question, Laufeyson,” I hissed. “Why make this deal with me? Why save me in the first place?”

“Because you didn’t deserve what Odin had planned for you… and I made the deal with you because I wanted to see if what I felt was real… or if it was just because I saw you as someone I could protect.”

“And?”

He finally turned to face me.

“I don’t know anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This was just supposed to be a mutually beneficial deal.”

“And what is it now?”

He sighed. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

“I feel nothing,” I lied. “All this time I thought I was going crazy. Everything about this place seemed familiar but I thought I was losing it. All this time you’ve been hiding who you really are. Why not just tell me when you found me?”

“I wanted you to remember on your own.”

I scoffed. “Funny that it took getting slapped by your father for me to remember.”

He sat on the bed next to me. “I never wanted that to happen.” He moved his hand to my cheek. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

I removed his hand. “Yeah, well I did,” I spat.

My heart clenched as I looked up at him, finding tears in his eyes, and the guilt slowly started to seep in.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“Darling, no.” He shook his head, lifting his hand, but he stopped, his hand hanging in midair. “May I?”

I nodded and he returned his hand to my cheek, gently wiping away my tears. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

My eyes widened as it finally occurred to me. “The little girl you said you saved…”

He nodded.

“You took a beating for me.”

“Darling, I would take any beating for you.”

“Don’t say that.”

He smiled softly, bringing his lips to my forehead. “I mean it,” he murmured. “What Odin did was nothing compared to the pain I would’ve felt if he’d hurt you… the pain I felt when I saw you lying on the ground after he hit you.” He pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry I let that happen. I failed you, darling.” 

I shook my head, pushing the blankets off my legs and sitting up on my knees. I wrapped my arms around his neck and I felt his hands move around my waist.

“Darling… as amazing as this feels… you need to rest.”

“Then lay with me.”

He pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against mine. “You’re not still angry with me?”

“Oh, I’m seething,” I smirked. “But I find that the best cure for anger is cuddles.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

He climbed into the bed next to me, being careful not to hurt me as he pulled the blankets over us and I buried my face against his chest.

It wasn’t long before I began to fall asleep, my eyes growing heavy as I listened to the sound of his breathing.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he murmured, kissing my forehead as sleep finally claimed me.

*****

Taglist: @honeyrydernot @evelyn-kingsley

[arlh0e]

If the lord don’t forgive me

“My baby never fret none, about what my hands and my body done”

Pairing: Astarion x g!n Tav

Summary: Astarion feels awful about his past and the things he had to do while he was under Cazadors control and starts to believe that his past actions make him unworthy of love from anyone, but especially them.

Rating: Mature (No smut)

Warnings: discussions of sex, discussions of trauma, Discussions of sexual abuse, angst, talk of blood, vampirism and a bit of fluff at the end.

Heavily influenced by that one line in Work Song by Hoizer

Astarion couldn’t even begin to comprehend your reaction to him opening up about his past.

He assumed you would finally see him for what he was. A monster. Even if he had been forced to do everything he had done for Cazador, there was still no denying that he had done those things. He had lead all of those people to their deaths.

He wondered how you could still bear to look at him, let alone care for him with the knowledge of how he had spent the last two centuries of his existence.

He was revolting.

A truly unlovable being with little hope of ever being truly loved by anyone. The only thing he believed that he was good for was providing you with sexual gratification and even that he had ruined by talking about how sex made him feel.

He was truly worthless to you now. Nothing but a vampire with a pretty exterior and a soul which not only did not entirely belong to him, but was also cold and black. The vile thing could still stand to go on living and continuing to do the things he had been forced to do for so long, even when he no longer had to. And he did them to you.

He could not begin to comprehend how you had been okay with what he had done to you in the slightest. What he had done to you was the worst thing he had ever done because it was of his own volitions. No one was there telling him he had to, or threatening to starve him if he didnt use his body to get what he wanted from you. No. No one else was involved in his decision to manipulate your feelings, to make you love him so that he would be protected and then leave you stranded or perhaps kill you (though he couldnt bear the thought now) but him.

He was truly the most despicable being he had ever come across.

To do those things to just anyone is bad enough but to do them to you, you who made his whole world turn and his dead heart beat, you who made him want to live again instead of just existing from day to day, you who had become the center of his universe, his love, his heart, the very air he breathed, the pain he felt at the thought of his actions was unbearable.

The thought began to cross his mind that it was possible that your feelings were not actually your own.

It would only make sense to him that you didnt feel the way you did about him because you wanted to, or because you had chosen to, but that he had made you.

He had manipulated you into falling for him and now you were so brainwashed that you couldn’t see that he was bad for you. That he had been trying to hurt you.

He looked down at your figure, sleeping next to him. You had asked him not to leave your tent after feeding on you that night, a habit that you had both made lately. He would sneak into your tent after he others fell asleep and you’d be waiting there for him, beautiful and war and perfect. He loved the way that the blood tended to pool in your cheeks as you layed down and offered your neck to him,night after night just so that he would be stronger. After he was done drinking from you, you would ask him to stay. You would always come up with an excuse as to why.

“I heard. A noise outside earlier, I just dont want to be alone in case anything happens.”

“It’s cold and I gave Karlach my extra blanket” A sentiment that he never understood and that he knew you put no thought into seeing as how he was dead cold.

He knew that you were only looking for a cuddle and you wanted him to stay for that reason and nothing else. He would have found it cute if not for the glaringly obvious fact that you did not love him.

As he looked down at you, he couldn’t bring himself to wrap his arms around you. He had layed in your bed roll with you on his chest, just until you fell asleep, at which point, he carefully moved your head onto one of the pillows in the room and made sure you were covered properly with your blanket. He couldn’t bear to hold you and watch you sleep. Not when he knew how you would think about him after he revealed tat your felings for him were nothing but the result of his manipulation.

He would not let himself partake in one last night with you close to him. Even if he knew that he would have to break your heart and his own when you awoke, even though he knew that this was his very last chance to be that close to you, he would not grant himself the indulgence. He did not deserve to be in the same tent as your softly sleeping body, let alone to be by your side holding you as you sleep.

As the sun began to rise and he knew the time was nearing for you to wake, he became more and more sure of what he had to do.

He was a parasite, more deadly that the ones that had burrowed their way into your skulls, and he needed to be removed before he could cause any more damage to you.

He watched as you peacefully stirred, waking from your peaceful sleep.

For a moment, before you opened your eyes, you laid in confusion, expecting your lover to be laying by your side, so when you opened you eyes and sat up to find Astarion sitting, curled into a sitting fetal position on the opposite side of your tent, huddled into a corner, wide, round eyes pooling with tear that threatened to spill and a look of sheer terror on his face, you immediately shot out for you bed roll and to his side to comfort him.

The moment you reached him, your hands entry cupped his face. “What’s happened my love? What’s wrong?”

As the sound of. Your words, his first tears spilled onto his face and after that came a flood. His forehead. Collapsed onto his knees, pushing your hands from his face as he sobbed. He was entirely inconsolable and what he was saying could not be understood except for what you thought was a small “I’m sorry” before he further collapsed into himself.

His entire body shook as he cried, tremors running up and down his spine s you tried to calm him.

“Sweet boy, what are you sorry for? You’ve done nothing wrong my love.” There was a gentle pause as he looked up at you with tear stained eyes and calmed himself enough to be able to talk.

“You only think I’ve done nothing wrong because I made you feel this way.” He spoke softly with a shakey voice. As he let his legs slide down away from. His face. His hands fell into his lap limply and he just tired down at himself.

“Made me feel what Astarion?” You sat down next to him and attempted to take one of his hands in yours. He snatched it way and wore tears fell.

“Darling, I’m so sorry I made you feel this way.” He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve manipulated you.” He looked up at your face, searching fo any sort of anger, any sign that you would make this easy for him.

He wanted you to yell, tell him that he was awful and that you never wanted to see him again. But instead, his eyes were met with your face holding nothing but concern and confusion. “Manipulated me? Love, if this is about how you felt when we first met, none of it matters now.”

“But it does.” His head hell back against the wall of your tent, another sob racking through his body. “Don’t you understand that none of what you feel for me is real? You only think you love me because I planted the idea in your head and made you believe it.”

You begin to realize the gravity behind how he’s feeling. He believe that you do not love him. That he’s causing you harm by continuing to let you believe you’re in love with him.

“Astarion, no.” You carefully move so that you’re sitting on your knees in front of him. You pull his hands from his face and replace them with yours, gently placed on his cheeks as you lift his face so his eyes meet yours. “I love you, Astarion. More than you will ever know. And it’’s not because you made me, it’s because I want to love you.”

His gaze softens at your word, but his tears don’t stop. “How are you to now that its not just because I manipulated you. Made you think you want to be with me, Darling I’m no good for you.”

You sigh and press your lips against his just for a moment. When you pull your lips from his, you face is a mere centimeters away from his. “Astarion, I can break up with you whenever I want. I can leave whenever I want. I don’t not feel trapped by you.” You take a breath and press your forehead against his. “I love you on purpose. I care for you on purpose. I chose you on purpose and I still choose you every day on purpose because I want to. And nothing is going to change that.”

[muddyorbsblr]

relinquish the crown: crimson threads

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: Before the main story; 1st part is weeks after 'outfits & portraits'; 2nd part is during 'no formalities needed'

Summary: Your grandmother Queen Frigga explains to you that fated souls and crimson threads are not quite the work of fiction you assumed they were

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: themes of incest (he's adopted but still); probably an inaccurate depiction of the 'red string' theory; slight mentions of death if you squint [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: this whole chapter is in Frigga's POV

The sun was nearing its highest point, casting a brilliant wash of light over Queen Frigga's workroom  as she read the latest correspondence from her son Loki that arrived earlier this morning over breakfast. The words written on the parchment brought a smile to her face, knowing that soon her family would be complete once more.

I believe it is almost safe to say that my assignment to gather the consensus on Odin's rule is nearing completion. I will be returning to Asgard soon. At most in a few decades.

His wording when referring to Asgard was truthfully to be expected, but it still smarted at the queen's heart that he still did not refer to the realm as his home. Instead he referred to it in such an impersonal manner, as if the place held no sentimental value to him.

It did occur to her that perhaps the place he would call 'home' would be wherever he would begin to build one with the person he would eventually decide to marry, but that line of thinking left the queen awash with melancholia as well. Never once in his letters to her did he mention meeting anyone that he could see a future with. He never mentioned meeting anyone at all.

Then again, perhaps he truly was thinking of his future in mind and this was simply a conscious decision to ensure he did not leave anyone behind on the chance that he lost during his inevitable duel with Thor to determine Odin's heir. The mere thought of the barbaric tradition left a bitter taste in Frigga's mouth, guilt flooding her system when she was quickly reminded of the reason why her husband had agreed to taking on this tradition in the first place.

So that they could marry.

The sound of a soft knock at the doors to her workroom brought the queen out of her reverie, a smile quickly finding its way to her face as you walked in, stretching her arms out to embrace you as you approached. "Granddaughter, how wonderful to see you've returned from your trip to Midgard. I trust all your properties are in order?"

"Everything is at it should be, Grandmother. The structures are flourishing, the tenants are living comfortably, employees seem to all be perfectly content. I should have a good bit of money converted to gold coins here in a few months," you answered with an exhilaration in your tone. You cleared your throat before you spoke again, "Actually, Grandmother, I'd come to visit you to ask something as a favor to Narda. About…crimson threads."

Frigga's ears perked up at the term. You'd never expressed curiosity with the subject of fated souls before; however, she'd always been curious about your bond in particular. Since you were born, she glimpsed your thread occasionally since you were a few decades old just to see if yours had any smatterings of crimson in them, the indicator that although a bond had not been formed between two souls yet, they had already encountered each other in passing.

But yours always remained the same: gray with a ring of blue surrounding it.

An indicator that you'd never encountered your fated, and that the soul you were tethered to was not in the same realm at that moment.

It did make sense, though, that your curiosity was not for your own thread, but for that of your friend's. In your centuries-long existence, a certainty that any soul could see was that you were willing to go through insurmountable lengths for your friends and the ones you loved most dear. "Ask away, dear Y/N." She motioned around the workroom to invite you to sit wherever you wished.

You picked the seat fashioned similar to a throne in Midgard, with a high back and an emerald velvet quilted cushion, as you always did when you visited her in this room. The same seat that Loki always picked when he used to visit, back when he still mainly resided in Asgard.

"Narda said she met with a seer in Vanaheim who told her that her thread was crimson. I wished not to disparage her by voicing my conviction that this seer was most likely telling her what she wished to hear so that she in turn would pay this seer an absurd amount of coin for her services, especially since I myself am convinced that crimson threads and fated souls are a mere fiction. But it did spark a curiosity in me that had me promising her that if the threads were real, I would ask you if hers truly was crimson. And now I'm here. So please do tell me, Grandmother…are they real?"

You whispered the question in a tone filled with anticipated awe that reminded her much of your father when he was in his youth and she would tell him grand stories about what he would expect to see when he began to travel the realms one day.

The queen nodded her answer at you, earning her a look of wondrous curiosity sparkling in your eyes. "They are quite real, Granddaughter. However most do not turn crimson. Even throughout the course of their lives. Only the truly fortunate ones have a thread that glows crimson, showing that the bond shared between the two souls is unbreakable. Others have a plain crimson…and the rest…only have spots of crimson."

"Spots? Well what do the spots mean?"

"It means that throughout their lives, they have encountered the soul they were fated to. Perhaps crossed paths, even possibly shared a conversation. But for some hindrance or other, the bond between them never had the chance to form, let alone strengthen. They did not stay in the other's life long enough for that chance to form so their threads remained gray with the rare spot of crimson. One for every encounter."

"Are there other colors?" you queried, concern lacing your voice, and perhaps a touch of fear. "I'm recalling past conversations, some merely overheard. What…what do the black threads mean?"

Frigga walked over to you to take your hands in hers, giving you a reassuring squeeze, silently telling you that you had nothing to fear. "Dear child, black threads mean that the fated soul has passed without ever having been granted the chance to form their bond. White means they passed with the bond fully formed." The worry became so evident on your face as a vein began to pulsate by your temple. "Some threads may have a ring of blue surrounding it," she continued. "That means your fated soul is within another realm."

"And what is Narda's color?"

A smile began to grace the queen's features as she recalled seeing her lady in waiting's thread a mere few years ago. "Her thread is crimson, Granddaughter. And it leads to someone else we are both quite familiar with." Your eyes lit up as you awaited the name. "Fandral."

You let out a loud squeal and completely forgot your composure as you sat back into the chair and began to clap your hands in glee. "I knew it! I knew it would always be them in the end!" You took a breath to recompose yourself, sitting with your back straight once more. "May I ask what my thread's color is?"

She noted how your voice wavered as you asked your question, the fear evident in your voice most likely coming from the off chance that she would tell you that your thread was black. The queen cast a quick spell over you, waving a hand in front of your heart to see if it had changed since the last time she checked.

"Grandmother, your eyes are growing wide," you stated in alarm. "It's black, isn't it?"

Your restless tone quickly snapped Frigga out of her own gleeful thoughts, quick to reassure you. "It's not black, darling Granddaughter. Your thread is gray, with a ring of blue."

"My fated is in another realm? How disheartening…" you trailed off, a pout forming on your lips and reminding the queen even more of your father Thor.

"There is also a spot of crimson. And if my eyes are not deceiving me, there seems to be a faint glow to it as well." A look of astoundment colored your features as the corners of your mouth began to pull back in a slight smile. "Dear child, if you are ever fortunate enough to meet your fated soul again, and you have the fortuity to build a life together, your bond may very well be something matched only by the myths that children's bedtime stories are made of."

Your eyes began to dart around the room, as if looking for a distraction, ultimately landing on the parchment placed face up on the desk that housed her supplies and equipment for various potions. You tilted your head toward the letter. "Pristine penmanship. Royalty? From another realm? Are we to expect visitors soon?"

"Not quite, my dear. Royalty, yes. Very much so. Your father's brother. Seems his near millennia-long mission is soon to reach its conclusion." The queen's brows furrowed as she recalled Loki's own thread. "Perhaps you could speak with him about his case with his thread as well. Before he left Asgard I checked one final time and I couldn't find one. Seemed it didn't exist."

"Well perhaps the thread did not exist yet because the soul itself did not yet exist," you surmised, your words murmured as if you were simply thinking aloud. "That would be quite the glaring gap in age. At least a millennia and a half? Midgardians raise quite the ruckus over gaps in the single digits, imagine their uproar when it's four," you chuckled.

Your jesting words set off a worry with the queen. What if perhaps you were accurate in your lighthearted wonderings and Loki's fated truly was someone who was yet to be born? Or Norns help her, perhaps only in their youth at this moment? Potentially centuries away from being fully grown?

Knowing him, he'd be beside himself in mortification. Unwilling to even entertain the thought of forming the bond even centuries after the poor soul had become a woman or man grown.

A few decades later

The sound of palace guards hurriedly stomping down the corridor outside of her workroom immediately had Frigga on her feet, marching out of the room to see what the cause of the commotion was.

She put her hand up to stop one of the approaching soldiers. "What has you all in a rush to the gates?"

"The Princess Y/N, your Majesty," he answered quickly, his words rushed and frantic. "In pursuit of an assailant."

Those words got her to start marching toward the gates of the palace along with the rest of them, wondering what had you moving with such an urgency that you decided to lead the pursuit instead of overseeing that the guards fulfilled the task. When they reached you, you'd already crossed the threshold of the gates, two guards flanking the assailant, the vaguely familiar nobleman on his knees as you held a blade that was not your own to his throat.

"What is happening here?" she called out as she assessed the scene before her. A faint chill washed over her as you looked over to her. "Y/N, my darling grandchild, what has caused a rage I've only seen before in my son's eyes to burn in yours?"

It had been centuries since she'd seen echoes of Loki in your character, and it had been fleeting glimpses that echoed his lighthearted, mischievous nature. Not his rage. Norns have mercy on Asgard had he been around during your youth; he would have undoubtedly taught you to harness it, to hone it and wield it like a weapon.

"An attempt was made on the life of the prince," you explained, the livid tone in your words an eerie echo of your mother…and perhaps Odin as well. "He launched his blade into the dining hall and almost hit his target had I not--"

"You bleed, Granddaughter," the queen gasped, eyeing the glaring crimson spot just above your chest that painted to her a clear picture of the remainder of your statement. Had I not stepped in the blade's trajectory. A rage of her own began to simmer as she looked at the apprehended assailant, who looked upon you with unbridled fear in his eyes. "This man made an attempt on your father's life?"

"No. He didn't," you stated, lowering the blade you held and turning your gaze to the balcony, her eyes widening when she saw the crimson coloring your skin morph into your soul's thread. A glowing crimson thread. "He made an attempt on Loki's."

Frigga brought her gaze to the balcony to look at her son, the glowing crimson leading to his own thread that hadn't existed before. And before he turned his gaze to greet her, she caught a glimpse of how he gazed upon you that had a pit quickly forming in her stomach. A look of fondness that was tinged with a desire he was fighting to contain.

It seemed you'd been correct in your notion from decades ago. Loki's thread did not exist for over a millennia, even until before he left for his near-millennia long mission across the Nine Realms…

Because you did not exist yet.

A/N: I mean of course Frigga always knew 🥴✌️ I finally have my planned companion pieces finished…only thing is I want to write something now where dear little Princess Y/N finds out about her crimson thread but that's for another time 👀

For now…it's time to start Season 1B! (and also some more requests from the 500 follower celebration batch…and also some stories that a good few besties know about bc i pitched the ideas on Discord) 😳

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