#but then to hear he’s a ‘lord’ now?

[pellucid-constellations]

If You Cared to Ask

Azriel hasn't been listening. You got hurt. Sometimes, an argument can't be boiled down to just one instance.

“You never listen! I have tried over and over to get you to understand but it’s like you don’t even care.”

Azriel’s brow twitched in irritation, the only tell on his otherwise passive face. “That is not true. We have sat down and discussed this at length, y/n. I listen.” 

You laughed, an incredulous pressure weighing down your shoulders. “Okay, fine. You listen, but you never hear me, Azriel! I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall most of the time.” 

“I can reiterate every word you’ve ever said to me. I hear you and I listen to you.” 

Anger twisted through your gut at his nonchalance. You clenched and unclenched your fists and tried to ignore the heat slowly encroaching upon your ability to remain composed. Although, compared to Azriel, you were not even close to the picture of calm. 

“Tell me why it bothers me then,” you seethed through clenched teeth. “Reiterate it for me, Shadowsinger.” 

Azriel’s jaw shifted as he clasped his hands together in his lap, the faelight in the kitchen clashing harshly with the planes of his face. He leaned back in his chair and let out a tortured sigh that almost sent you reeling. 

“You seem to believe,” Azriel began, his voice a low drawl. “That I am blatantly avoiding you—that I am choosing to serve my high lord in place of spending time with you. Both of which, I am not doing. I simply have a duty to this court, y/n. You know that.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Azriel,” you rolled your eyes. “Making this about duty and honor. Making me seem like I’m the crazy one for being angry when you promised me—” 

“You know there is little I can do about promises,” Azriel snapped, a hint of anger finally showing through in the darkness of his eyes. “You knew when we were mated that I have responsibilities that go beyond our relationship.” 

You pushed back from your seat at the table and set to pacing in the kitchen, fighting the urge to tug at the roots of your hair. “Yes, obviously, Azriel, but this was so important to me. I needed you there and this isn’t the first time I’ve been abandoned without even a word.” 

“Abandoned,” Azriel scoffed. “I would hardly call not showing up to your clinic at the camps one day abandoning you. Rhys needed me to—” 

“I needed you!” you shouted, your hands pressed to the countertops and your gaze frantic as you stared at Azriel’s unmoving figure. “I needed you, Azriel. I had every eye on me in that camp and when Devlon’s men had me yanked from the clinic for what I was doing I needed you to—” 

“He did what?” 

“Oh, don’t act like you care now.” You waved off the staunch posture he had adopted and rolled your eyes for a second time at the piercing hatred that had taken over his expression. “Don’t you dare act like you have the right.” 

“You are my mate, y/n. If anyone put their hands on you—” 

“Well, they did. Bruised up my arms and everything. But you were so busy with your duty to your high lord that you couldn’t give a shit until after I was thrown into the mud surrounded by the women I was supposed to be helping up there.” 

Azriel’s hands turned white as he clenched them in his lap. His lashes fluttered and his brow furrowed and he looked utterly lost at the situation—unable to formulate any kind of response to what could be considered his failure. 

“I thought you were simply setting up the back rooms. I didn’t know you were starting the practice or speaking to the camp,” he croaked, eyes downcast and searching the floor. 

“Except I told you I was. I told you two weeks ago and then again right before I left.” 

“I—I can’t remember you saying that.” 

“Of course you can’t. Because if it isn’t Rhys giving you orders or Cassian leading training you’re absent. You stand right in front of me and you’re not even here.”

Azriel finally looked up from the ground and met your eyes with the same torture his sigh made you privy to earlier. But this time it was rooted in something else—this time, he seemed to finally grasp the weight behind your words. 

But you were utterly sick of trying to get him to this point. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he expressed, pain in the furrow of his brow. “I hadn’t realized—with Rhys just returning to Velaris I’ve been so caught up in—” 

“I’m sorry too,” you cut him off. 

Azriel froze. “What?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek and felt the dread begin to rise. You knew you were going to hate this part, but you hadn’t expected Azriel to apologize. He hadn’t apologized for anything in months. You’d been alone in this relationship and he chose the day you’d packed your bags to show remorse.

“I can’t do this, Azriel. Not right now.” 

“Can’t do what?” 

The silence in the kitchen was oppressive. Azriel had leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and you were on the other side of the kitchen counter, protected by a barrier you knew you should have put up weeks ago. Your eyes never left his. 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

Azriel breathed in sharply, his eyes widening. “No,” he stressed, heaving up from the chair. “No, y/n, don’t—what do you mean you can’t do this? Explain it to me.” 

Your mate attempted to round the counter and reach for you, but you weren’t going to accept the affection…not when you had been begging for it for months. Not when he was only ready to give it to you now.

You backpeddled until you reached the hall. Azriel didn’t follow, afraid you would take off. 

“I’ve been telling you this was a problem for months now. I thought it was just an adjustment period—I knew that having Rhys back would change things at first and I was okay with that. Your brother returned from hell and you needed to be there to support him. To support your family. 

“But I’m your family, too. And you forgot that. I can’t—I can’t be relying on someone like that right now. I’m doing too much at the camps for you to… forget about me so easily. I can’t keep building you up in my mind just to be disappointed and hurt.” 

Azriel's jaw quivered. 

“Emotionally and physically. I would’ve asked someone else to come to the clinic with me yesterday, but I chose you. And you forgot about me.” 

Azirel looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach, his shoulders caving in with his anguished breath out. You pressed your lips together as you watched him, all of your anger morphing into a twisted sort of guilt that didn’t sit right in your gut. 

“Please,” Azriel whispered. His hands shook at his side. “Please, I’m so sorry, my love. I never wanted—Please, don’t leave me.” 

“You don’t get to have both, Azriel.” Your voice was as weak as his. “You don’t get to have me and treat me like I’m something you deal with on the side. I matter more than— 

Azriel shook his head and broke through your words. “You matter more than anything. I’ve been a fool. I know I’m an ass. Please, let me fix this, my love. Please don’t leave.” 

You clenched your fists so hard your nails embedded into your palms. 

“I need time to be alone.” 

Azriel was quick to nod. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll leave and—” 

“No, I need… more time than that. I have some things packed. I’ll be back, but… I need to leave. I can’t think clearly around you.” 

A choked cry left Azriel’s throat and the sound burned at your waterline. “Where?” 

You only shook your head. 

“Tell me where. Please. How am I supposed to know you’re safe?” 

“How were you supposed to know before?” 

[moyazaika]

tbh jaded lawyer darling trying to save yan crime kingpin from getting his ass thrown into prison for life — yet again.

he’s lingering at the court’s steps, entertaining the news reporters with a dazzling smile, the entire world waiting with bated breath to see whether this is the day his billion dollar criminal empire comes crumbling down—

“the whole world knows you did it!”

“are you ashamed of yourself?”

“do you really think you’ll walk away a free man after today?”

that gets his attention.

“darling, don’t ‘ya worry about me,” he turns to the journalist, and tilts his head to the side, pulling out his lollipop from between those lips, curled in a sly grin. “i ain’t gotta worry ‘bout no fuckin’ laws when i got the world’s best damn lawyer on my side.”

a young man, then. thick glasses and braces on his teeth. far too thin and lanky, for all his balls of steel as he speaks up. “are you implying that your lawyer is an accessory to your crimes? a corrupt lawyer for a guilty man on his way to the gallows?”

he hears you approach before he can think to respond. the familiar, expensive echo of the dress shoes he’d bought you the first time you’d won a case, before you’re there where he thinks you belong; right by his side.

“alleged crimes,” you correct, and your kingpin turns to greet you with a million dollar smile. “now, my client will not be taking any more questions. kindly, fuck off.”

cameras flash instantly and countless more mics are shoved into his pretty face, still mesmerised by you, even when you grab him by the back of his collar (unironed, you notice with absolute dismay) and pull him inside, away from prying eyes.

“you’re being tried for sixteen drug and weapons counts,” you hiss, digging your newly manicured nails into his skin, as you pull the lollipop he’s sucking on right out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop’ and toss it to the side, seething. “when will you fucking get serious!”

he only dumbly stares back at you with a slack jaw, and stars in his eyes. his voice dips an octave lower, deep in his throat when he speaks. “oh, i could get very serious if you wanted to give me a kiss. or, y’know, maybe you could act as a replacement to that sweet lollipop of mine ‘ya just—oh, fuck!”

when you stride into the courtroom later, in your neat, pressed suit and slicked back hair, nobody dares ask why the infamous ‘alleged’ crime lord is following after you with a bruise blossoming on cheeks that flush a deep, deep scarlet.

-

the judge announces the jury's verdict, and you don’t even look up from the documents you’re perusing when he’s found ‘not guilty’ in a court of law, yet again—

“jesus fuckin’ christ, i knew you were gonna save me!” your kingpin jumps up from where he’s sitting besides you, pressing his face into your shoulder as he breathes you in with an elated, shuddering breath. “can’t even imagine which ditch i’d be rottin’ in without ‘ya, sweet pea.”

“excuse me, sir.” you pry his hands off you with a detached air of reservation you reserve for when the two of you are in public, but the way your knuckles are white when you gather the countless files and papers of yours scattered on your desk tell him everything he needs to know about how pissed you are. “hands off.”

he knows he’s in for it when the two of you get home, and yet, he looks forward to the sight.

it’s always more… exciting than it should be; when you’ve got him shoved right up against a well, going off about how ‘irresponsible’ and ‘immature’ he is, nails leaving his skin bleeding from how deep you sink them into his body, too caught up in your own irritation to notice or, honestly, care.

and maybe, he thinks, as he follows you out, tonight he’ll go pay a visit to someone after you’re done with him.

a man’s got needs, y’know?

he’s high off the rush of his latest win when he walks up the porch steps hours later. it's really only the latest achievement in a long line he attributes solely to you and your efforts.

he’ll make sure to repay you one day, with all you’ve done for him. he’ll take such good care of you; let you do whatever you wanted to him, as a token of his appreciation for ho hard you've worked to keep him on the streets he rules and out of the prisons he knows he belongs in.

in fact, his efforts start right here and right now; on the steps of a nice, suburban house, that belongs to the journalist with thick glasses and braces and a wiry frame. the white picket fence and 'keep off the grass' sign do little to deter the man outside. then again, the poor bastard could have had gates of iron, and he still would have found a way to creep inside.

he never knew being a journalist paid so well. shit, maybe he should’ve gone down this path instead of, y’know, running a criminal empire. this bastard's got balls of steel, for what he had the nerve to say about you. but it’s okay! hey! he’s here to take care of it for you!

you don’t ever need to find out what he’s done in your name. ♡

he’s very adamant about this, choosing to see the job to completion all alone, slinking away from your critical, watchful gaze—only once he’s made sure you’re knocked out by watching you sleep, crouched by your bedside, for a few hours—to make sure the problem’s all taken care of.

the kingpin rings the doorbell, and patiently waits for the door to open with his scarred hands held behind his back. there’s a glock in his left back pocket, and a silencer in the right. a swiss army knife curled in his fingers, because he’s always been creative.

yeah, can you believe that? his teachers used to tell him he would make a great artist one day. and he is, he likes to think. only that his canvases are a little less traditional, and not in the banksy way. you know how it is! life imitates art... or some hippie shit like that.

there's no rules in art for what you can paint with, right? or what surfaces you can carve up into pretty shapes...

and so, when the lock clicks open, and the handle turns, it’s exactly like he said; a man’s got needs!

so sue him! really, so what if his needs mean his heavy hands are clamping over the journalist’s mouth, twisted into a silent scream—

so what if he knocks the smaller man back, a fist flying to his face, those wide eyes and all, slack jaw stupidly hanging open in disbelief—

so what if he shoves him inside and kicks the door behind them shut?

your kingpin knows what comes with the life he chose, and sullying his name is one thing—but nobody gets to drag your name through the dirt and live.

he makes sure of that, personally.

-

“where did you go last night?” you ask, not taking your eyes off the weekly newspaper in your hands. there, on the front page, a greyscale photo of you and your headache of a client, descending the court’s steps after the verdict. “and why didn’t you ask for my permission before you left?”

the headline, in big, bold letters, splashed above the picture; INTERNATIONAL OUTRAGE AS INFAMOUS DRUG LORD EVADES LAW YET AGAIN. SHADY LAWYER TO BLAME?

“just takin’ out the trash, lovely. don’t you worry ‘yer pretty little mind about it.” as he says that, he abandons his own breakfast, suddenly snatching the paper out of your hands and ripping it up, but not before noting the name of the article’s author, tucking it away for later.

shreds of the weekly paper you hadn't even gotten to read yet fall to the floor, fluttering this way and that. you close your eyes and smile. “haha. funny. well, my ‘pretty little mind’ is telling me to throw the coffee in my hands all over you.”

“tryna mark me up?” he purrs, “if you really wanna wake me up, can i suggest somethin’ else ‘ya could throw at me? or on me, really. but—”

“i’m going to kill you in your sleep, one of these days.” you deadpan, turning back to your food. he’s like a little kid, and you’re not about to indulge him by giving him the attention he so desperately wants from you.

“'yer serious??" he grins, hands flying to his face in elation, a curious blush colouring his skin a deep pink. “you mean you actually wanna step into my bedroom— at night— of 'yer own damn will?“

you take another sip of your coffee, fingers trembling around the cup. don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what—

“damn... guess i should start sleeping naked, then.”

[seventeenpins]

new rules

pairing: ex!Worst!Logan Howlett x f!reader word count: 2.7k summary: You've been broken up for long enough. It shouldn't be this hard to stay away. content/warnings: smut, angst, Logan's a disaster alcoholic, suicidal ideation, unhealthy relationships, big dick a/n: I didn't expect the Logan bug to bite me, but here I am, horny for this old man, writing a songfic in the year of our lord two thousand twenty four. Dua Lipa's "New Rules" came on shuffle and I needed to make it about our big boy. Thank you to the loml @ozarkthedog for being the best human alive and also for hyping me up, reading it thru, and telling me "it made me actually want to try to fix him" 😅

You’re in your pajamas, toothbrush in hand and moisturizer shining on your face, when the screen of your phone lights up. You wince when you see the contact name.

DO NOT PICK UP

You watch as it rings out, and you exhale when the comfort of the black screen returns.

And then it lights up again.

Just ignore it. Just ignore it.

As you’re spitting your toothpaste into the sink, the screen lights up again, DO NOT PICK UP flashing across.

It’s a bad idea. It’s always a bad idea. 

But as it lights up a fourth time, you hit accept. As you bring the phone to your ear, you already know what you’re going to say; you need to stop calling like this; have you been drinking?; this isn’t going to happen again–

And then you hear his voice. It’s just a single word, and comes out more as a croak than anything else.

“Hi, baby-”

Just like the first time. The third. The five hundredth. It makes you fucking melt, makes your body heat and your stomach flip.

“Hi Logan.”

—

“It’s been too long, sweetheart-” 

“Yeah, well-” you sigh. You know how this always goes. “I told you not to call.”

“But you answered.” 

Even over the line he sounds smug. You wish you could punch him, god, if only. But you knew from past experience that his adamantium bones and entirely unfair regenerative powers would leave him perfectly unblemished, while you nursed a broken hand.

“Sooo-,” you venture, “Is there something you need?”

It was better to play clueless, you reasoned; You weren’t gonna jump the gun. You would make him spell it out.

"Just you, hon,” his voice is low and dangerous and you think you might really hate him this time.

“You know it’s nearly midnight, don’t you? Are you ever gonna call me when you’re sober?”

You hear a noncommittal grunt on the other end.

“What do you want, Logan?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Can I come over? I’ve just been missing you. Been a rough day.”

“No.”

“Please, baby? I need you. Please?”

You close your eyes and exhale. Ten calls ago, you might have tried to hide the frustration, but you’re well beyond that now.

It’s always a bad idea. Always makes you remember the bits of him you miss desperately. Your nights together. How you still fucking love him.

“Can take care of you, princess-“ he pleads.

“I hate when you call me that. And no, you can’t. You can’t even take care of yourself, Howlett.”

He huffs a laugh. “Been doin’ alright a couple hundred years. Keepin’ myself alive.”

You don’t want to say the question neither of you will acknowledge.

Is this really living?

“Fine. You can come over.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

“Motherfucker-! Have you been on your way this whole time, Lo?”

With a snort, he ends the call.

He’s on you before you can even get the door closed behind you. His hands are cradling your head as he kisses you deeply. You were right; he tastes like cheap whiskey. And cigarettes, you realize. Fucking cigarettes. And then you remember– he’s all but abandoned his cigars, as though the pain of losing a vice was part of his penance. 

With an awkward foot you try to hook the bridge of your foot along the edge of the door, pull at it, but instead of closing it you just overbalance, tumbling further into him.

He catches you as if it was nothing, as if he were so innately steady he’d always be there to break your fall.

When he has you back on your feet, he gets right back to it, tearing at your clothing and his, pulling your top over your head, fumbling with the drawstring of your bottoms. He cups your breasts, pinching and teasing, and walks you backwards till the backs of your knees hit the foot of your bed and you tumble. 

Logan tumbles with you, his hold on you never ceasing, and now you can feel how hard he is against you.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

You’ve missed this. Fuck you’ve missed this. What kind of self-destructive dumbass judgment were you letting rule you? 

You need to gain some control back.

“Condom,” you tell him. 

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m not joking, Logan. Should still be in the top drawer.”

He exhales with a chuckle, but pulls his beater over his head and lets you get an eyeful of his toned chest before leaning over and sliding the drawer open.

Then, he rummages around, pulling back with a shit-eating grin. 

In his hand is a roll of condoms, classic fit.

“You got a little boyfriend?” he asks, and you feel your face heat.

“Shut the fuck up, Logan.”

“Now I’m not seeing the Magnum’s in here. You sure you still have them? Or are you so busy fucking dumbass boys with little pricks that you can’t even bother to pick up the phone?”

“The condoms are just in case– better to be prepared– and besides it’s none of your fucking business if I’m sleeping with anyone else!”

“You know I can’t get STIs, right?”

You do know. You remember that first conversation years ago. You grit your teeth.

“And if you’re so worried,” he continues, “I’ll buy you Plan B.”

“Move,” you tell him, and he scoots back so you can look in the drawer yourself. Much to your chagrin, he’s right. Not a single gold packet in sight.

You groan, and he laughs.

You should tell him no. Should tell him that if he wants to fuck you, he needs to go out and get some. Because it’s not even the risk of any sort of transmission, or even the risk of pregnancy that gives you pause. It’s the intimacy. The way you can hardly bear it when you can feel him dripping out of you. The love you still have for him, even after everything. 

The way you know he still needs you, too. More than you need him. But after everything he’s done, everything he’s been through, everything he’s lost– you can’t bear to be another thing he loses, not fully.

But now he’s straddling you, scooting you backwards towards the head of the bed. His cock presses heavy against your thigh, and you’re so overwhelmed by the way he’s pressing kisses along your jaw and nibbling behind your ear, you barely notice as he lifts your hips to pull your panties down. His nails scrape down your back and the angry scratches start to bloom with heat. 

You don’t realize you’re both fully naked until you feel the heat from him press against you, the slick of his weeping cockhead dragging a trail just below your navel, down down down-

He strokes himself twice and lines himself up, pressing against your opening. You wait for the feeling, for the way he always slams inside you, but he surprises you. Presses the tip in and rocks himself gently, easing you open.

After a moment (and hardly a single inch) he pulls out and sits up.

For a gut-wrenching second, you think he’s changed his mind, and how fucking dare him? He’s not the one who gets to back out of this. Fuck.

But then his cock is replaced with his hand, and he pumps himself with his left, while pressing inside of you with his right, scissoring his fingers open, pulling whine and moan and gasp out of you, coaxing you along with his filthy mouth the whole way.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, letting out a groan when you squirm against him, “You’re tight as the first time I fucked you. Clearly no one’s been takin’ care of this pussy, huh?”

Two fingers become three, and you’re overwhelmed with sensation, pleasure taking over any rational thought.

“That’s it, honey, open up for me. Such a shame no one’s been fuckin’ you right. Would make you feel good every damn day if you’d let me.”

He rubs against your clit in unyielding circles and pulls you right to the edge. You feel yourself dripping, thighs trembling, and tears rolling down your face, but just as you’re about to cum he stops. He guides your arms upwards and pins you down by the wrists with one rough hand and leans over, caging you against the bed. In a second beat, he knocks your legs wide, baring you fully, and he presses himself in. You’re beyond slick and the glide is exquisite. The feeling of his bare cock pressing into you makes you shudder with arousal. The wiry hairs at the base of his cock grind against you, making you shake. 

He fucks you deep and slow. The drag is exquisite. He pulls almost the whole way out, before rocking back in again, his foreskin adding to the delicious glide. With every thrust he’s burying himself so deeply you’d swear you could feel him in your belly.

“You’re openin’ up so nice, takin’ it so good,” he growls, and you feel a thrill of pleasure bloom through your body at the praise. “Been missin’ this. Miss how soft you feel around me. Have you been missin’ your old man, too?”

You don’t even register he’s asked a question till his palm is swatting your jaw. It’s not painful, it doesn’t even sting. And it does exactly what he’d hoped; it refocuses you on him.

“Wha- What?” you ask, coming back to him, whilst feeling your peak build and build and build-

“Have you been missin’ your old man, princess? 

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“Use your words.”

“Yes-”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes I’ve been missing you. Stop looking at me like that, Lo. C’mon now, fuck me like you mean it.”

You can’t deal with him being sincere right now. You need it rough and you need it mean.

It takes him a moment to pull himself away but then he does, obliging as if he can read your thoughts. He pulls out, leans back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and makes you moan as he folds you in half. He’s pressing so much deeper now than he had only a moment ago. Any gentleness that had been there disappears immediately.

He’s panting, letting out heavy grunts as he slams into you and sweat drips down his temple. 

As he fucks you, he drives into you cruelly but you match each thrust. Every time he knocks you back, you press against him harder and heavier. Make sure it hurts, for both of you.

He’s never been a selfish lover and makes you scream on his cock, cumming three times in rapid succession, each peak that little bit higher. Each peak is a little bit harder. 

You’re boneless and spent. When he cums inside you, his claws shoot out, angrily splintering existing notches on your headboard. Blood trickles down between his knuckles. One drop lands on your lips, the perfect kiss from this mess of a man. Another drop lands on your new linen pillowcase.

At least you got those tide pens. 

You want to tell him off about the headboard–the splintered edges are ugly and ragged. But the fact you hadn’t gotten a new headboard is kind of on you. It may as well be an invitation.

You add a note to your shopping list. Plan B.

—-

You wake up alone in a dark room. The first thing you see is your bedside alarm clock, red blinking numbers telling you it’s 3:12 AM. Then, you hear a rustling in your living room.

You step out to investigate, bleary-eyed, to find Logan silhouetted in front of your liquor cabinet, bottle of amber liquid in hand. He raises the bottle and takes a swig.

Back to this-

"Go home, Logan.” You tell him, and he startles at your voice.

"Baby- I been havin’ bad dreams-” 

You cut him off. "I’ll call you a cab. You’re not staying here, trying to drink yourself to death on my sofa-”

"Sweetheart,” he cuts in, “You know it never sticks-“ 

He says it with a grin like it means nothing, and it’s mean. Makes your stomach flip.

This is the closest either of you had ever gotten to the depths of it all. You’d both been pretending for so long.

You leave the room.

A minute later, you’re back, and Logan has emptied the bottle.

"Get dressed.” You toss his shirt at him. It smacks him in the face and falls unceremoniously to the floor. “Cab’s on its way. You owe me for the whiskey.”

He nods. His movement is loose, and you can see the booze is finally affecting him. More than just making him gutsy, it’s making him sloppy. Every movement is sluggish as he redresses.

"You wanna know why?” He asks, and it comes out slurred.

You ignore him. “I’ll walk you down. Get home safe, okay?”

He nods again. Looks like he’s trying to put on a show to prove just how sincere he is.

You kick his shoes towards him, and help him with his jacket when he struggles.

A horn honks outside, and you both look to the window. When you turn your head back, though, he’s only inches away from you, whiskey-breath across your cheek, and a wearier frown than he’s ever let you see before.

"When I drink I don’t dream-,“ he tells you, “Claws don’t come out.”

Then he kisses you on the cheek, turns on his heel with an unsteady sway, and leaves your home.

You struggle for hours to fall back asleep, the bed suddenly much too big.

You ignore his calls for a week. They come through later and later. Nine PM, ten. Midnight. Two.

And then one night you get a text. 

He’s rarely one for texting, so to see the notification makes your heart speed up and your stomach flip.

DO NOT PICK UP - Attachment: 1 Video

With a single, hesitant tap, you open it.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something dramatic, maybe? Something miserable? You hope to god he’s not figured out some way to make himself an adamantium bullet. It’s a fear that’s bounced around in your head for a while now, but you’d never ask just in case he hasn’t thought of it yet himself.

Whatever it is, though, it has to be something that will make your heart ache and your head spin and–

It’s anticlimactic. Kind of.

It’s just a video of him, phone angled to show him in his steamed-up mirror.

There are dark shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes, but besides that, he looks as perfect as ever. You can’t see below his hips, but you know Logan and you know he’s fully naked. His body hair is slick, his skin glowing from being freshly showered.

This fucking asshole knows exactly how to get you.

You hit play. 

At first, you can barely tell it’s a video. And then you see the way his arm is moving. He’s holding his phone with one hand, his other casually stroking himself just below the frame of the video.

“You gonna stop ignoring me?” he asks, his voice a throaty purr. “Quit playing games. Get your ass over here and let me take care of you.”

AND, you realize with a twinge, you text with him so rarely, you never turned off read receipts.

Three dots appear and you know that he knows you’ve seen it. 

A moment later, the text comes through.

“Ready for you, princess.”

God, if only it would take more than that.

As if overtaken by a horny ghost, you’re already slipping your panties off and putting on your favorite skirt. 

You’re at his house an hour later. 

You let him guide you. Taste you. Fuck you. Fight with you. 

You let him devour you, and let yourself fall in with him, in with the guilt and the anger and the hate and self-pity.

And fuck, it’s the love, too. It never went away.

[sistertotheknowitall]

DCxDP Prompt

Because I couldn’t get Congratulations! It’s Triplets! By @rboooks out of my head.

—

Jason wouldn’t say he regret it. Sure it wasn’t what he planned nor was it what he would have wanted, but he didn’t regret it. They didn’t mean to become parents, it was a one night stand. He wondered if this was how Roy felt when Jade had Lian. Like the world had been flipped on its head. Like everything he thought he knew now seemed wrong.

Lian would like his daughter. From what Jason could tell he thought they’d be fast friends.

Christ. His daughter.

He watched as she ran through the front door, her mom following behind. She was talking a mile a minute, her hands flying around her face. Her mom threw her head back, laughing. God he wished he could hear it. Hear what all his daughter had to say. He wanted to be a real dad to her not just a father. Someone she could talk to and trust. However, as Jason continued to watch from the roof across the street, he knew that he could never get that close. This was as far as he could reach.

A crime lord, who was legally dead and had a kill count. He wasn’t cut out to be a dad. The two examples he had wouldn’t exactly be considered great role models.

Her mother had named her Ellie, short for Daniella after her late uncle Daniel or “Danny.” She was feisty and a little brash, his daughter. Jason would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some pride in knowing some of that was him. Although he could see the same stubbornness in Jazmine.

He thinks that’s what drew him to her. Standing in a bar on a side of town she definitely shouldn’t have been in, she had held her own against two men trying to drag her out. Jason went to step in when she had pulled a police grade taser out and had both men on their knees in pain before he moved two steps. He didn’t introduce himself that night (she was a little preoccupied with the police). However, he got the chance to a few months later and one thing led to another and they had slept together. He left with barely a goodbye and they never saw each other again. Jason was too preoccupied with his plans for Bruce and the clown to spend time thinking about one night.

As for her, he knew she was a student at Gotham U and figured she had also spent little time thinking about that night.

Imagine his surprise when he stumbled upon her again but with a child. His child.

He didn’t know how to really feel about it, about her, Ellie.

As much as he hates to admit it he spent the first week getting drunk and despairing at being a deadbeat. He eventually calmed down and reasoned that it wasn’t his fault nor Jazmine’s. He had given her a fake first name and they hadn’t exchanged last names. Even if she did want to tell him she was pregnant she had no way of finding him.

And he never thought he needed to be looking for them.

—-

Jazz could feel them being watched and did her best to act normal. She never gave away that she was aware of him. She didn’t want to frighten Ellie and she was still unsure of how to handle the situation. It has been weeks and he never once seemed interested in harming them. Yet.

He just watched. Not all the time- not every day, but at least once a week she could feel him staring from a roof, a window, the mouth of an ally. He followed them at night and watched for a bit after they returned home. In a way it felt like he was protecting them, but in what sense did this hulking figure have a right to guard them? It also begged the question; what was he protecting them from?

Jazz was near positive that she had never interacted with the mask figure nor any other that roamed Gotham. She did her best to avoid them, all of them.

It could be he was fixated on her as a single mother to a reckless little girl. If that was so, then she was going to have to be more cautious. She didn’t want to even give him a chance to think he could approach Ellie. Stalkers were never a good thing but she knew the GCPD would never take it seriously.

All he was doing was watching.

Jazz knew her daughter was smart beyond her five years of life, but she was still just a child. So while Jazz was certain that Ellie had no idea about their predicament, she knew Ellie could feel something was off. The young girl had started to look around more on their walks home, her head swiveling, looking for something she couldn’t explain. Jazz hated it. Her daughter should be skipping as she told Jazz about her day in pre-school, not gripping her mother’s pant leg, silent as she looked for the source of her unease.

For the life of her, Jazz did not know what the man could possibly want and while it pissed her off to no end it also frightened her. Of course it frightened her. She was a single mother in Gotham City with a stalker. Maybe she should summon Danny or send Ellie to her grandparents for a bit while she takes care of this.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

The Dark Lord

Summary: The reader gets caught stealing from the infamous Dark Lord Winchester. Instead of killing her though, he offers her a job for some reason...

Pairing: Dark Lord!Dean x employee!reader

Word Count: 2,500ish

Warnings: language, briefly mentioned torture/killing

A/N: Think of this as a slightly magical AU set in the present day. I might pick this up again if there seems to be interest in more!...

________

“I don’t care what the hell you do to me, I’m not-” You cut yourself off when a blonde woman in her thirties and sky high heels held out a cup of hot coffee. “Is that…espresso?”

“It’s a roasted blend from Guatemala, boss is big on it lately. He’s so boring and never let’s me give him anything but straight black but I like to serve all our guests something nice.” She set the cup in your hand, an artisanal drawing of a W set in the center. “It has notes of hazelnut and caramel.”

“Thank you?” you said, her eyes lighting up. “Is this…poisoned?” 

Her face fell so fast you felt awful for the way tears prickled her eyes. “Everyone always asks that. It’s just nice coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, taking a sip and smiling. “It’s lovely.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, turning to leave the dark room you were sat in.

“It really is good coffee.” She perked up a little, nodding once. “It’s just…I couldn’t help but ask.”

You held up your chained hands, the woman giving a sad smile. “Dark Lord Winchester is really the sweetest man I’ve ever met. I have no idea why everyone that he has come in his office thinks he’s going to kill them.”

“He kills people all the time…over nothing…” you said. She laughed and your stomach dropped.

“Oh no, Lord Winchester doesn’t do that! I’ve never seen him kill a soul that didn’t deserve it. Well, maybe a few but I seriously doubt he’ll kill you! He doesn’t tend to kill women as often, just a little torture. I’m sure you’ll be fine!” You withered into your seat when she left.

At least you had good coffee before your demise.

You jumped when the door crashed open, hot coffee spilling over yourself. It dripped down your shirt and soaked into your jeans, your skin stinging when a blur passed your periphery. You swallowed thickly as a man in a black bomber jacket, dark gray t shirt and black jeans walked in front of you.  He crossed his muscular arms as he leaned back against the desk, peering down at you.

He looked like he wanted to kill you. Or fuck you. Or both.

“Hi, Dark Lord Winchester,” you squeaked out. He bent at his hips, leaning down, watching you slump down even further. “Oh fuck, just kill me now.”

“Not yet,” he hummed, straightening with a hard set jaw. He looked down his nose at you, making you feel like an ant under his mighty six foot one muscular frame. “My security caught you stealing from one of my warehouses. I’m told it was a prescription drug.”

“Yes, Lord Winchester,” you said quietly. You looked at your wet clothes, waiting for him to drag you down to his dungeon and rip you apart.

Instead a cell phone was tossed in your lap. You scrunched up your face and gazed up at him, Lord Winchester still staring you down. 

“Uh, is this my last call or something?” you asked. He breathed deeply, looking over your head. 

“Two options. Option one. I will kill you for stealing from me.”

“I’d like to hear option two,” you said quickly, Lord Winchester glaring at you.

“Option two. You work for me. I need an assistant and perhaps I’ll find you valuable enough to keep you alive long term.”

“Option two,” you said, nodding your head. He stood up straight and hummed. 

“I thought so. You’re dismissed,” he said. You glanced down at your cuffs, Lord Winchester ignoring you. He walked around behind his desk and sat, glancing at his computer. “Do not make me ask again.”

You scurried out of the chair, grasping the empty mug in one hand, cellphone in the other. 

“Y/L/N.” You froze, back to him. Fuck, he’d changed his mind. He was just toying with you. He was going to- “Get up to speed this afternoon. I expect you here to start eight am sharp.”

“Yes, Lord Winchester.” Quickly you left, pulling the door shut behind you. You let out a sigh, your overly friendly coffee bearing companion rushing around the corner with a smile. “I told you he wouldn’t kill you! Boss made me promise not to tell. I’m Donna by the way. Deputy Head of Security. I volunteered to be your new hire buddy!”

You blinked slowly at the blonde, tilting your head, her eyes drifting downward in alarm. “Oh no, you’ve burned yourself! Let’s get you out of those cuffs, to the infirmary and into a fresh change of clothes. Lord Winchester wants to go through all of your HR paperwork today and a brief tour before sending you home.”

“I uh,” you put a hand against your head, shaking it out. “Why did he give me a job and not kill me?”

“He must like you. Normally he kills people or tortures them or makes them pay him back with hefty interest. Oh!” She pulled out a thin envelope from her back pocket, handing it to you. “This is your offer letter. It’s not really an offer, more of you have to accept or you die sort of thing but he wanted to make sure you got this.”

You felt like you were in a strange dream as you tore it open, slowly walking by Donna’s side down a hallway. “So Michael is our staff doctor. He’ll check your arms-”

You nearly fell when you’d read the salary on the offer letter. Donna caught your waist, alarm written all over her face. “Oh my god. I’m calling for-”

You shoved the paper in her face, taping the bolded line. “Is this a joke? He’s paying me this much?”

Donna laughed, urging you to walk forward again. 

“Six figures? Six figures?!” you screeched, Donna shaking her head. “What-”

“Working for Lord Winchester is lucrative but…there’s an expectation of discretion. I mean, he is the Dark Lord of the land. It’s not the sort of job you want to slack off at.” 

“Wonderful.”

It was late, well into the evening, when you’d finished with your tour. You were in the lobby of Lord Winchester’s fortress, rubbing your eyes. Michael had given you a pair of scrubs to change into while your stained clothes were sent to the launder. Thankfully he’d deemed your skin only irritated from the hot coffee, not burned. Most of the day had been in HR, Donna sitting in to help guide you through your options.

Options like free healthcare. A pension. On-site housing. As his assistant, or “Personal Executive to The Dark Lord” as your title in the payroll system stated, you were expected to live in the fortress and move in this weekend. All covered and utilities paid for by the company. 

A chef that cooked all your meals, if you were so inclined. Shuttle services to and from school in town with a tutor available after school to help with homework. A grand library for kids to study in and for the adults to further their own educational studies if they chose. There was even an inter-company softball league that got quite competitive. 

Dark Lord Winchester on paper was the best fucking boss in the world.

A throat cleared behind you, making you jump and drop the stack of papers in your hands. You spun around, Dark Lord Winchester standing there.

“Sorry, sir,” you said, kneeling down, attempting to pick up the papers as quickly as possible. To your surprise, he dropped to one knee, leaning his body and grabbing a folder that had your company credit card inside. He held it out to you, deep green eyes watching you as you hesitated to take it.

“If you’re going to work for me, you can’t be scared shitless all the time.” You snatched the folder, his eyes raising briefly before he stood tall. He held out a hand, your own eyes wide. “This is where you put your hand in mine and I help you stand up.”

You swallowed, doing as told, his strong arm effortlessly pulling you up.

“Look at that. You touched me and didn’t turn to dust,” he chuckled. You only stared, Lord Winchester looking over your head. “Let me make something clear to you. I treat my employees extremely well. In return, I expect their best work and their loyalty. If you show up to work and do a good job, there is no reason to fear me.”

“How do I know I’m doing a good job?” you whispered. He looked down to you, pursing his lips.

“You’re the damn Executive Assistant to The Dark Lord. You ask a question, you do it with confidence. Ask correctly and I’ll answer.”

“How will I know I’m doing my job well?” you said, holding his gaze this time. 

“Any woman that would risk stealing from the Dark Lord, knowing very well what I do to thieves, to get medicine for their kid brother? That is the kind of woman that I know will do spectacular in this job.” 

You parted your lips, Dark Lord Winchester glancing at them before looking away. “How do you-”

“I know lots of things.” He checked the dark rolex on his wrist, frowning. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home myself. Wait on the front steps.”

You watched him go down a different hallway, your head going a million miles an hour.

What the fuck was happening?

You stepped outside and five minutes later, an older black Impala, very nicely taken care of, pulled up, Dark Lord Winchester behind the wheel. You slid in the passenger seat, a wonderful aroma in the air. He drove you home in silence save for the soft rock music playing through the speakers.

Your face burned when he drove that beautiful car through your less than glamorous neighborhood and as soon as he pulled to a stop in front of your very small rental, you were getting out. 

“Y/L/N,” he chided. You stopped halfway, Lord Winchester reaching into the backseat and pulling over the back a large white bag. “For you and your brother. Dinner and his medication for a few months. Michael will be able to refill it when it’s up and can schedule a physical with him to check if his treatment needs to alter. Please apologize to your brother from me. He’s likely frightened being alone judging by the way every light is on inside.”

You shook your head, your lip tugging up. He narrowed his eyes as your smirk grew. “What is that look for?”

“Dark Lord Winchester my ass. You’re a good person, aren’t you?” He scoffed. “Nah, I’m starting to see this for what it is. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re nice deep down.”

“I’m not nice,” he growled. You took the bag from his hand, softening your smile. “Do not think I’m kind.”

“Oh, of course not,” you said, holding up the bag. You got out, closing the door behind you. But you bent down, leaning into the open window. “Thank you. He…his asthma’s been getting worse lately. This will really help us. All of it will help.”

He was quiet, looking out at the dark road. “A car will pick you up at 7:30. Movers will come by Saturday morning to pack up your things.”

“Goodnight, Lord Winchester,” you said, stepping back.

“It’s Dean,” he said, revving the engine, making your heart race. He took off, your chest still thumping when you went inside. 

“Kyle! I’m home with dinner!” You called. Kyle came rushing out of the hallway, a blanket pulled over his head. “I’m so sorry I’m late, buddy. Did you get scared?”

“No,” said the twelve year old, doing an awful job of hiding his relief. “What’s for dinner?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you find out for us?” You handed him the bag, Kyle rushing back to the kitchen with it. “How was school?”

“Fine.” He said nothing more as you entered, pleasantly surprised to find a balanced dinner of chicken, vegetables and some sweet potatoes inside. “Is this take out?”

“No. I uh, got a new job today,” you said, opening the box that had his medicine inside. “Hey. Got you a refill.”

“What’s your new job?” he asked, taking a plate from you and scooting into his spot at the small two seater table.

“I uh…work for Dark Lord Winchester. We’re, uh, moving on Saturday to live at the fortress. You’ll have your own room and there’s some other kids that live there too for you to play with. He uh, actually wanted me to tell you how sorry he was for keeping me late tonight.”

“Really? Cool.” You rolled your eyes. “Does he actually wear a skull mask and a black cloak?”

“No,” you laughed. “He looks very normal. Maybe you’ll get to meet him someday.”

“Cool,” he said again, frowning when you pointed at his untouched vegetables. “Y/N-“

“Eat them or Dark Lord Winchester won’t be happy…” you chided, Kyle shrinking down into his seat, reluctantly taking a bite, a flash of surprise on his face.

“These are way better than when you make them!” He started to scarf down the brussels sprouts as you sighed.

“I’m not dead and you’re eating veggies for once. I’ll take that as a win for today.”

The Next Morning

“Good morning, Lord Winchester,” you said as you rose from your desk outside his office on the far end of the second floor, dressed in skinny jeans, a bright yellow sleeveless blouse and an oversized blazer. Dean looked you up and down, his eyebrows raising. “HR said the dress code-“

“If I wanted everyone to wear suits, I’d have everyone wear them. Your outfit is fine. You’re probably not going to wear heels with the running around you’ll do,” he said, entering his office, waving for you to follow after. His legs looked long in the dark denim that clung to his thighs. He wore a white long sleeve Henley shirt with a navy button up over top, sleeves rolled up his forearms. “If you would stop staring at me could we get started?”

Your face flushed as you sat in the chair opposite his desk, Dean sitting with a groan and greedily sucking down a cup of coffee. 

“So your job is to make my life easier,” he said, opening his laptop, frowning at it. “I get a lot of…requests from my department heads. I need you to be a buffer between me and them for the day to day. I also need you to handle pop ups and act as a sounding board for myself.”

“HR went over the expectations with me,” you said, Dean grunting as he drank more coffee again. 

“Great. I need you to start with brainstorming ideas for how to rescue my brother from Crowley. We’ll meet after lunch to discuss.”

“King of The Dark Lands Crowley?” Dean hummed. “Isn’t he…”

“A demon? Oh yeah,” he said, giving you a barely there smile. “Shouldn’t be a problem for a little thief like you.”

________

A/N: Interested in more? Let me know with a comment!

[syndrossi]

And now for a continuation of what I'm calling the Rescue AU aka "what if Ser Thoren successfully extracted the boys from the Gates of the Moon?" Part 1 and premise can be found here. It ended pretty abruptly, and so we pick up pretty abruptly! This one has a more proper "end" to it, though it's not finished.

x~x~x

“May we go to the market on River Row?” Rhaegar asked. He seemed to pick up on Daemon’s surprise at the request, adding, “Laenor mentioned it before. He said they have all manner of wares from within the realm, and even from across the Narrow Sea.”

“We may,” Daemon said, warmed by the pleased smile he received in response. “Do you seek anything in particular?”

He had presented them with gifts for three of their name days thus far, but that still left five. And some of his other planned gifts would not be ready for months. Any insight into what his children enjoyed was sorely welcome. They spent so little time at play, too serious about their studies.

“Princess Rhaenyra said that your name day is in less than three moons,” Rhaegar said, smile turning stern. “So you must not look if we choose something for you.”

Daemon had not celebrated his name day in nearly a decade, other than alone with Caraxes and one of the few barrels of good wine that made it on occasion to the Stepstones by way of Driftmark. His last true celebration had been a pleasant supper with Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra, followed by a drunken night of debauchery in Flea Bottom that had earned his brother’s disapproval in the morning upon hearing of it.

It had been only two moons after Viserys had quietly taken him aside and “suggested” that he take Lord Beesbury as an advisor in his yet-new position of master of coin. Daemon had known the true source of the suggestion: Otto Hightower. Daemon had been only three moons in the office and still learning its scope; bringing in the former master of coin to all but do his job for him had been clearly intended to undermine him by implying he could not manage on his own.

That was the one office Daemon had resigned from before his brother could directly dismiss him, as he made a habit of. That had been before he’d realized just how short his leash would be for any office while Otto Hightower whispered in his ear simultaneously of Daemon’s immaturity and ambition.

A hand squeezed his, jolting him from his thoughts. “Father?” It was Rhaegar’s voice, gentle with concern, rather than stilted as it could sometimes be when addressing him.

Daemon smoothed wisps of light hair from his son’s forehead, then rested his hands on either cheek, heart a jumbled mess between the sentiment and the barest trace of wariness that lurked in his eyes whenever Daemon behaved in a way he did not expect. He kissed his brow, vowing that one day Rhaegar would come to expect only love at the hands of family, rather than the cold indifference—or worse—he had suffered under the Royce household.

“You can give me no greater gift than your company that day,” he said, transferring a hand to Jon’s cheek as well.

Jon gave a solemn nod. “But if I wrap Rhaegar to leave outside your door, who will wrap me?”

Daemon nearly choked on his laugh, the humor entirely unexpected. His eldest was quite sneaky in that regard, though both had a similarly clever wit. He feared for whoever might earn their wrath once they reached adolescence.

“Would you like a small purse apiece for the market, then?” he asked. “So that you are spared solving such a riddle?”

“There is no need,” Rhaegar said, revealing a bulging purse beneath his jacket. “Uncle Viserys gave us an allowance for it.”

“That was very generous of him,” Daemon said, smiling to mask a sudden flood of resentment at the reminder that nothing that he had to offer them was his own. It was all through Viserys and the royal treasury. He had no holding of his own to build an income, nor would he.

Curious stares followed them through the streets, news of the strange circumstances of his sons’ birth having traveled beyond the court. Laenor had informed him with great enthusiasm that a troupe of mummers were at work on a new play with a working title of “The Hidden Princes and the Witch of Runestone.”

If his sons were uneasy with the attention, they did not show it, more fascinated by the sights and sounds of the city. I should have taken them out sooner, Daemon thought fondly. There was a minstrel at one corner, playing the lute outside of a tavern to lure travelers in, and Rhaegar’s head tilted a moment, listening, before his eyes brightened. He hurried over, Daemon and Jon a few steps behind, and joined the minstrel in his song, his higher pitch shifting into an effortless harmony.

The minstrel looked startled by the sudden accompaniment, and even perhaps dismayed to find himself outperformed by a small child, but his eyes took in Daemon as he approached, and the princely attire his sons were wearing—as well as the growing crowd, drawn by the unusual spectacle as well as the sweetness of the song—and the man seemed to then accept the situation as one of good fortune.

Daemon smiled as he watched Rhaegar, enjoying his son’s obvious joy at an excuse to sing. The song was familiar to him, one of a wandering hedge knight in search of a maiden he had spied bathing in the moonlight and fallen in love with, but rendered nearly haunting with the addition of Rhaegar’s voice, which made it into a duet of man and maiden.

At the final verse, the minstrel made as though to bow, only for Rhaegar to continue on alone for another four, and the tale went from one of happy reunion to bittersweet loss as the maiden revealed the true reason she had evaded the hedge knight’s pursuit: the waters had told her that when she found love at last, they would have but a year before death claimed them.

There were very few dry eyes in the crowd at the song’s conclusion, and there was a light ache in his own throat, but the ending seemed to upset Jon in particular, so Daemon wrapped him up in his arms. “It is only a song.”

“If he had not gone after her, they both would have lived,” Jon said into his abdomen.

“Perhaps so,” Daemon murmured, stroking fingers through his hair as he pondered why the song had touched him so. Elys and Corwyn had died two years after the twins’ birth, and his sons had thought them their parents most of their lives. Rhea’s death was still fresh for them as well, he supposed. “But the life of a hedge knight is not without peril. Perhaps he would have found death another way.”

Jon frowned, not liking that response, and Daemon sighed, releasing him. “Come, let us collect your brother from his admirers.”

The minstrel was splitting his attention between collecting the shower of coin that had fallen at the song’s conclusion and interrogating his son on where he had heard the additional verses.

“From a harpist who wandered through the Gates of the Moon,” Rhaegar said, beginning to look uncomfortable.

Daemon quickly moved into the man’s view, fixing him with a look that halted further questioning.

“My prince,” the minstrel said, bowing with a flourish. “What an honor to have the privilege of sharing a song with your son.”

“Indeed,” Daemon said, beckoning Rhaegar back to his side. “I suggest you content yourself with your good fortune.”

“I am sorry,” Rhaegar said once they were away from the gathered crowd, flicking anxious glances in Daemon’s direction. “I did not mean to—”

“Nonsense,” Daemon said firmly. “You may sing whenever you like. You upstaged that minstrel and he knew it.”

Rhaegar moved to walk at Jon’s side, whispering something quiet to him—another apology, perhaps? Jon shrugged, the motion stiff, but he summoned a small smile in response. Fortunately, the distraction of River Row seemed to take their minds off the matter. The street stank of fish, and was awash in colorful stalls loudly peddling their goods.

They were not even at the market square yet, and he had to corral them back within reach several times with stern warnings of pickpockets and unsavory characters who grew in number as Aegon’s Hill grew more distant.

The chaos was nigh unmanageable by the time they reached the market. They still drew glances, Daemon’s hair and attire—and Dark Sister at his side—making his identity plain. But the people in the market were here for one of two purposes: to sell or be sold to. They kept their gawking to sideways glances for the most part, aside from one very bold hand that curiously reached for his hair before being swatted aside.

The strong scent of cooked meat and vegetables from the side of the market that served tempting dishes that could be held in one’s hand to eat while walking covered up the worst of the encroaching smell of raw fish and nearby sewage. There were sweeter fares as well, including a stall that spun sugar into elaborate shapes to cool and be sold.

The peddlers’ calls grew particularly loud whenever they were noticed, to the point where Jon was beginning to look overwhelmed. Daemon was not without his own tension. Every voice that carried an accent from the Free Cities, and especially the occasional spoken Valyrian, transported him back to the crush and throng of the Stepstones.

They eventually reached a portion of the market that was less frantic, where he was no longer touching four different bodies at once, and Daemon slowly relaxed. The boys went from stall to stall with Daemon looking on a few steps back, moving with them. Occasionally they would lean in for hushed discussion, dark hair against light, then turn to him in unison with appraising eyes before resuming their conversation.

Daemon had no idea what they would decide upon for gifts, but he was greatly looking forward to finding out what they had deemed worthy. They had found something at the present stall, which seemed to be an assortment of leather goods ranging from cow’s hide to more exotic sources.

Jon looked back toward him. “Turn around,” he ordered. “She has to finish making it and then wrapping it.”

Daemon gamely turned away. “Tell me when it is safe to look.”

He contented himself with scanning the rest of the current extension of the market, occasionally meeting the quickly averted gaze of an onlooker startled to be caught. That was nothing he wasn’t accustomed to when walking about openly, though years ago in Flea Bottom, the denizens had come to view his frequent presence among them as something to be expected. When he truly wished to walk about without fuss, he went cloaked and hooded.

A startled cry rang out back toward the portion of the market they had just left, and Daemon glanced that way to see that one of the food stalls had caught flame. He could make out the shouts for water, and a few nearby peddlers flapped with cloth at the fire, seeking to smother it. It seemed to only inflame it somehow, the fire almost dancing from one stall to another, which then caught.

Daemon recognized in the louder murmurs of the crowd the sound of unease yielding to panic, his own alarm growing with it. Panic was unpredictable, and the crowd would seek whatever outlet they thought offered safety, willing to trample whoever got in their way.

He turned back to the stall, ready to sweep his children up and leave before the chaos reached them, only to find the stall empty and his sons nowhere in view. His mind blanked with incomprehension for a moment, breath catching in his throat, and he closed the distance to the stall in an instant, looking around wildly. His sons were nowhere to be seen, but there was a woman’s body in rapidly pooling blood slumped at the other side of the stall.

No. Daemon’s hand closed around Dark Sister’s hilt, an icy fear flooding his veins. He took a deep breath to call for them, only to freeze at the sudden prick of something sharp and metal against his back.

“Quiet,” a voice said behind him, soft and unaccented. “Do you wish to see your sons?”

“Where are they?” Daemon asked, holding perfectly still. He might be quick enough to move before the man behind him sunk his blade in, but he did not know if there were more. There must be, to have taken his sons away. “What do you want?”

“If you do as I say, I shall take you to them. Fight, and you will never see them again.” The man waited, as though to see if he intended to put up a struggle. “Remove your hand from your blade.”

Daemon stared forward, paralyzed by indecision. He could mean to kill me anyway. This may be intended to buy time so that they may take the boys further out of reach.

But what could he—or they—even want? If it was ransom they sought, then the more captives, the better. If it was revenge, they would have killed his sons, and Daemon after.

“That dragon blood of yours is worth a great deal,” the voice said with a hint of impatience. “But only balanced against the trouble you might cause. Remove your hand.”

Ransom, then. Daemon clutched that hope to his chest and released his grip on Dark Sister. His hand was grabbed and twisted behind his back, firmly but not painfully so, and he was guided between stalls, out of view. Then, something smooth and rounded was pressed into his hand.

“Drink this.”

The shouts in the market square had grown louder, and the wind was beginning to blow smoke in their direction. Daemon had spotted the occasional gold cloak earlier, but there were none to be seen now, the men likely moving to seek control of the fire or the crowd. There were far more pressing things for the people milling about the market to pay attention to than a prince tucked just out of view, a blade to his back.

“What is it?” Daemon asked, though he could guess. If it was not poison, then it was something intended to dull the senses and render him easy to move without struggle.

“Drink,” the man repeated. “Or I spill that royal blood onto the cobblestone, which would be a shameful waste.”

Daemon brought the bottle into view, its milky glass obscuring its contents save for a faintly darker line where the liquid within sloshed. A tiny cork served as a stopper.

I cannot see them again if I am sliced open in River Row.

Ransom could be paid. Daemon knew that Viserys would not hesitate on his behalf or his sons’, whatever objections Otto might raise.

He brought the cork to his teeth, and pulled it loose, then tipped the liquid back. He held it in his mouth for a few seconds, debating whether he could feign swallowing, but a hand closed over his lips and pinched his nostrils shut until he swallowed, at which point it moved to grip his right arm again. The man made no move to lead him anywhere, seeming content to wait for the potion to take its effect.

“You have not hurt them?” Daemon asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“They are not harmed,” the man said with a hint of amusement. “Though I cannot say the same for some of the others. I did warn them about Jon.”

A dizziness rolled over Daemon, followed by a heaviness that came in waves that settled deeper each time. At last he was prodded forward, and it took all his concentration to put one foot ahead of the other. Then another. Then—

[kpislby]

ℳ𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐶𝑜𝓃𝒻ℯ𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 ♡︎ 𝘭𝘩𝘴

SYNOPSIS! - heeseung come through your window late at night

CONTENT! - fem!reader // fluff, crack // warnings : cursing, if your lovephobic ZONT read this 😖// heeseung is 15 // ᴡᴄ.2539

en- confessions, all versions here ⬇️

heeseung | jongseong | jaeyun | sunghoon | sunoo | jungwon | riki

it was 2 a.m., and you were fast asleep, cozy under your blankets, enjoying a peaceful night. dreaming about something you probably won't remember in the morning. suddenly, you heard a loud thud against your window, jarring you awake. your heart raced as you sat up, blinking in the darkness, trying to make sense of the noise.

for a moment, you stayed still, hoping it was just your imagination. but then, another sound—more like a groan—came from the window.

you jumped out of bed, grabbing your phone as you crept toward the noise. you were just about to call someone when you heard a voice.

“ugh, this is harder than it looks in the movies”

....more under cut

you paused. that voice was familiar. cautiously, you pulled back the curtain, and there, clinging onto the window frame for dear life, was none other than your bestfriend; lee heeseung.

“heeseung?” you hissed in shock. “what are you doing?”

heeseung’s foot slipped, and he crashed through the window, tumbling onto your bedroom floor in a mess of limbs as he threw his backpack. your lamp hit the floor with a loud crash, and heeseung groaned in pain.

he lays there, tangled in your curtains, staring up at you with a sheepish grin. “hey… surprise?”

you crossed your arms, trying to keep a straight face. “heeseung, you fucking dumbass! what on earth are you doing climbing through my window in the middle of the night?”

heeseung slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “i, uh…  i was bored soo.. i decided to come over" he shrugs

you blinked at him, stunned. “you seriously thought this was a good idea?”

heeseung winced, looking guilty. “well… it seemed cool in my head.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “heeseung, you could’ve gotten hurt! you’re lucky my parents didn’t hear that crash.”

heeseung's eyes widen, the thought of your parents flew over his head,. “yeah, i didn’t think that part through. it's okay though.. they won't wake up" 

he reached his hands up so you can pull him too his feet. when he gets up, he gets closer to you. he gently smiles, looking into your eyes.

you raised an eyebrow. “ my mom’s a light sleeper, and my dad—well, yeah no my dad won't wake up.."

heeseung chuckled, "either way, i don't think he would care. your dad lovessss me"

you gave him a 'weirded out' look, "woah there buddy, don't get toooo ahead of yourself now", you gently pat his shoulder and sit down on your bed.

after a couple seconds of heeseung staring at you, you raise your eyebrow, "did you come here to hang out or to just stare at me? i know I'm cute and all but damn, climbing up to my room just to stare at me is next level." you tease.

he chuckles at your antics and sits next to you, your legs brushing against each other. "so.. what do you wanna do?" he looks over at you.

you deadpan at him, "what do i wanna do? i wanna sleep, but some fuggly looking gremlin decided to ruin it." you cross your arms, puffing your cheeks, mimicking an angry look.

he gasps dramatically, flicking your forehead and resting a hand on his chest. "me?! lee heeseung? fuggly? girl you wishhh you could have all.. this" he says as he runs his hands down his torso, raising his eyebrows up and down.

you raise your eyebrows, "whatever floats your boat i guess." you shrug and sigh, shaking your head disappointedly.

heeseung kicks you off the bed, "this is my bed now," you dramatically fall on the ground. "ohh you wanna play now? you'll regret this lee heeseung."

heeseung sarcastically gasps, "shiver me timbers, so scary! ahh don't hurt me lord yn". you get on your knees, slowly crawling creepily towards the bed. you stand up and pick up a pillow. "watch out!" you whisper yell as you slap him in the head with the pillow.

heeseung falls down on the bed, gasping, "oh hellll no, this means war." he says as he gets up and picks you up. he drops you down on the bed, pretending to punch you. you make grunting noises, moving your head to wherever he "punches" you.

when he stops, you pretend to wipe the imaginary "blood" off. you push heeseung back on the bed, climbing on top of him. "well..well.. well, look who we have here. sir heeseung… any last words to say?". heeseung grunts, "t-tell my family i love them… and fuck you!"

"sorry, your not my type." you say as you pretend to choke him. he makes dramatic noises as he "dies". once he's "dead" you sit up, putting both fist in the air.

heeseung chuckles, and pushes you off, "okay, so now that you won… what should we do now?"

you side eye him, "bitch, your supposed to be dead…" heeseung rolls his eyes, "damn, if you hate me, just say that" he says as he pretends to wipe tears off his face.

you gasp dramatically, "noooo, baby heeseung" you softly hug him, pecking his head. "i wove you my wittle pwincess" you say in a baby voice.

"oh hell nooo, okay im done with this shit, im a grown ass man," you raise your eyebrows. "dude.. you're 15? you can barely wipe your ass correctly." heeseung's eyes widen in fake surprise, "really?! oh my gawwd, can you check for me?"

"girl byeeeeeee, im not trying to get scared right now, still got my whole life ahead of me."

"damn… sigh, guess you ain't the realest one… thought you was my twin." you side eye him, "bitch? do i look like a man to you?!" heeseung shrugs, "a little". heeseung points to the top of your lip, "got a little mustache"

you slap his arm softly, "at least i can grow one," heeseung throws a plushie at you, "i'm working on ittttt"

you giggle softly, "okay okay… wanna watch a movie? we can watch it on my laptop." heeseung nods enthusiastically, "yessss! let's watch despicable me!"

you get off the bed to go get your laptop, heeseungs eyes following your movements.

you come back and lay on your tummy, turning on your laptop and playing 'despicable me'. heeseung lays next to you and opens his backpack, whipping out a big bag of chips. "damnnn big back activities i see… can i have some?" heeseung waves his fignger at you in a 'no' motion. "buy your own, damn, bitches be mooching off of me. do i look like a fridge to you?"

you nod, "yup, you even built like one." heeseung quickly shoots his head over to your directions, shaking his head, "it be your own homies some times… body shaming is nawwwt allowed.. only body positivity."

you groan, "fine, you got a fat ass… now give me someeee" you whine, reaching your hands out in a begging motion. you look up at him, pouting. heeseung softly sighs, "fineeeee" he gives you a single chip and you look at him dumbfounded, "moreeeeeee! i have to feed my kids at home." heeseung softly chuckles and reaches his hand back in the bag, giving you more. "okay, now play the damn movie!"

you smile, "yay! okay okay" you press play. when gru shows up, you gasp and look at heeseung. "heeseung! it's your twin!" he looks at you, raising his eyebrows up and down, biting his lip. "damn, if thats my twin, i look soooo good."

you side eye him. "bitch pleaseee, he built like a box with legs," heeseung softly laughs.

when bob–the minion– appears on the screen, heeseung gasps, "yn look! its you! my little minion" he says as he ruffles your hair. you look at him, offended.

–

half way through the movie, heeseung looks over his shoulder. you're asleep. he softly smiles, pecking your head. "you're so cute" he whispers, "i love you,"

but what he didn't know was that, you weren't actually asleep. your eyes widen, but you quickly close your eyes as he moves a strand of hair from your face, "i want to confess so bad, but im scared… scared you'll reject me."

your heart beats rapidly. you've had feelings for heeseung since as long as you can remember.

you turned around, looking at him with soft eyes. you gently place you hands on his face as his eyes widen. "i-i umm" he stutters. you giggle, "you're soo stupid" you say in a loving voice. "my stupid bestfriend.. that for some reason… i have feelings for" you squish his cheeks.

heeseungs face heats up and you giggle. he blinks, his breath hitching as your words sink in. "w-wait, you... you feel the same?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours, unsure if he heard you right.

you nod, your heart thudding in your chest. "yeah, dummy," you tease with a small smile, though your nerves are bubbling beneath the surface. "i've liked you for a long time... I just never thought you'd feel the same."

his hands move to gently cover yours, which are still cradling his face. his thumb softly grazes your knuckles as he leans into your touch, his eyes glimmering with a mix of relief and disbelief. "i like you so much… not even like, i love you… damn, BRO why are you so confusing? its like sometimes i thought you liked me back, but than sometimes it felt platonic. sigh.. girls are sooo confusing"

"okay okay, chill dude. i was just scared that you didn't like me back, thought it was gonna fuck up our friendship." you bite your lip, a habit you picked up when you get nervous. "me too" heeseung responded, "i thought you were gonna reject me"

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you both. "i guess we're both scared of the same thing, huh?"

heeseung chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a sound so familiar yet different now. "yeah... but I'm not scared anymore," he whispers before slowly leaning in, his gaze flicking to your lips, giving you a chance to pull away.

but you don't. Instead, you close the space between you, sealing the confession with a tender kiss. it's soft, slow, and filled with all the unspoken words that had been building between you for years.

when you finally pull away, you both sit there in the quiet, staring at each other, breathless and overwhelmed.

"I love you," heeseung says again, this time with full confidence, his voice steady.

your heart swells as you smile up at him. "I love you too... you big idiot."

heeseung speaks up after a couple seconds of silence, "i wanted to tell you that for so long… i actually came here just to tell you that, but then i chickened out"

you softly smile. “so, you risked your life climbing up to my room just to tell me you liked me?”

heeseung let out an awkward laugh. “yeah… pretty much.”

you couldn’t stop the giggles that bubbled up inside you. “you’re insane. but… it’s sweet.”

heeseung softly pecked your hand that was still on his face, laughing softly. “worth it.”

you giggled, "you know… you could have just asked me tomorrow right? you know, like a normal person?"

“where’s the fun in that?” heeseung smirked, his eyes twinkling.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “you’re impossible.”

“but you like me anyway,” heeseung said with a teasing grin.

“yeah, i guess i do,” you admitted, feeling your face heat up.

he gently tugged you toward your bed, and the two of you sat down on the edge. after a moment of comfortable silence, you lay down, pulling the covers over both of you. heeseung lay beside you, his arm resting lightly over your waist.

you snuggled closer to him, feeling your heart race as his warmth enveloped you. for a few minutes, neither of you spoke. the only sounds in the room were your soft breathing and the faint creaks of the house as it settled for the night.

“hey, y/n?” heeseung whispered after a while.

“yeah?” you whispered back, your eyes heavy with sleep.

"are we.. a thing now?" he asked. you look over at him, grining. you nod your head, biting your lip. "mhm"

heeseung smiled, hugging you closer. "also… sorry i came so late, i just couldn't sleep, and i kept on thinking about you."

you smiled, your eyes fluttering closed. “it’s okay. it’s very… you. and it was kinda funny but kinda cute.”

heeseung let out a quiet laugh. “yeah? you like 'em like that? …weirdo” he laughed softly as you gently slapped his chest. "only you,"

he smiled, pecking your lips. "good,"

you didn’t respond, feeling sleep pulling you under. but before you drifted off completely, you felt heeseung press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“goodnight, y/n,” he whispered.

you mumbled something in response, too sleepy to form real words, and slowly, the world faded away.

-

the next morning, you were woken up by the sound of someone knocking on your door. your eyes shot open, and you immediately realized that heeseung was still lying beside you, fast asleep. panic surged through you.

“y/n, are you up?” your mom’s voice called from the other side of the door.

you bolted upright, shaking heeseung awake. “heeseung! wake up! my mom’s coming!”

heeseung groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes. “huh? what time is it?”

“there’s no time! you need to hide!” you whispered frantically, pushing him off the bed.

heeseung stumbled, still half-asleep. “what? why?”

“my mom’s at the door, you idiot!” you hissed, shoving him toward your closet. “just hide in there!”

heeseung’s eyes widened in realization, and he scrambled into the closet just as the door opened. your mom poked her head in, smiling at you.

“good morning, honey. you’re up early,” she said cheerfully.

you forced a smile, trying not to look suspicious. “yeah, couldn’t sleep.”

your mom glanced around your room, her eyes lingering on the mess near the window. “what happened here?”

you laughed nervously. “oh, just knocked over my lamp in the middle of the night. no big deal.”

your mom raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “okay, well, breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.”

“thanks, mom. i’ll be down in a minute,” you said, your heart pounding in your chest.

as soon as she left, you rushed over to the closet and opened the door. heeseung tumbled out, looking a bit disheveled but relieved.

“that was close,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“you think?” you whispered back, smacking his arm. “now get out of here before my dad wakes up.”

heeseung chuckled, rubbing his arm. “okay, okay, i’m going.”

he made his way to the window, pausing to give you one last kiss on your lips, “last night was fun. let’s do it again sometime.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled. “not a chance.”

heeseung winked and climbed out the window, much more carefully this time. as he disappeared from sight, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

despite the chaos, it was a night you’d never forget.

kpi’s notes 📝- heeseung is sooooo bestfriend coded! ahh i hope you guys like it 💗💗

perm taglist : @orimuraa @seodgaf

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Distraction (Annatar/Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Annatar blinds you to the invasion of Eregion by giving you a taste of what you desire

Warnings: reader is manhandled and kissed on the lips and neck while under heavy mind control, having false feelings put into her head, basically no romance in sight, just Sauron being his dark creepy self

Sighing deeply, you strike out yet another flawed design for one of the Nine Rings of Men. It’s too similar to one Lord Celebrimbor has already rejected, but your mind seems to have been drained of all original thought after days on end of tireless labour.

At the very least, you have retired to your own study, away from Lord Celebrimbor’s sour mood. He has grown strange of late, distant at best and ill-tempered at worst. You doubt you would have been able to go on toiling as you do if it weren’t for the Lord of Gifts to lift your spirits with his words of encouragement, kind gaze and—on occasion—his soothing touch. He has a way of cradling your hand in his with such gentleness and warmth that it feels like a balm on your calloused skin, making any amount of strenuous work well worth the sacrifice.

You cannot deny, however much you would like to, that you have begun to harbor some measure of infatuation towards him. You try to put it out of your mind most of the time, but you must admit how much it motivates you in your work—the desire to fulfil his desire, as well as the fear that you might disappoint him.

Now, unfortunately, you feel the latter is a more likely possibility. You hate how utterly uninspired you feel, even though it’s to be expected in your state of exhaustion. You groan, leaning on the desk as you rest your head in your hands when a sound distracts you from your own frustration.

It’s coming from outside, you realize, from within the city. A distant clamour, muffled voices, and a distinct, harsh sound that has you standing from your seat, turning towards the door and—

—and finding yourself nose to nose with Annatar.

“My Lord!” you exclaim, hand flying to your suddenly rampant heart as you stumble backwards, bumping into your worktable. “Forgive me, I—I had not heard you come in.”

“Did you not?” he asks, quite puzzled. “I called your name. I was beginning to fear I had somehow offended you when we last spoke, since you seemed so intent on ignoring me.”

“Oh, no, of course not! I did not mean to—” You shake your head, stumbling on your words. Your cheeks feel as hot as the forge itself. How lost must you have been in your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed his presence? “I was quite absorbed in the work, I think,” you admit apologetically. You mean to ask him what he needed of you, but then the same noise from before catches your ear, and you remember why you stood in the first place. “Is that the siege alarm?”

Annatar regards you with a slight furrow in his brow.

“You are tired,” he says softly. “Your senses deceive you.”

That may be true, to an extent. You had failed to hear him earlier, after all. But unless your senses have taken full leave of you, you are certain what you’re hearing is true.

“No, I can hear it,” you insist. “Can’t you?”

You don’t wait for his answer as you walk past him—or at least, you mean to. With a step to the side, he is in your way, causing you to halt in your tracks and blink up at him in surprise instead.

“All is well in the city. Your concern lies here.”

He’s smiling as he says it. The same gentle lift of the lips that you’ve come to consider a sweet reward for your efforts in making the Rings, helping you get through the long days. Now, however, it sends a shiver down your spine. And, for the first time, it is not the pleasant kind.

“Still,” you say carefully, “I am tired, as you said. I wish to go outside—for a moment’s respite, if nothing else.”

You try to step past him. This time, it’s his hand around your wrist that stops you.

“Rest, if you must,” he says, leaning ever so slightly closer, “but do so here. Then, focus on your work, as you are meant to.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, yet the order in it is unmistakeable. And his grip on your wrist is rigid, nothing like the calming touch you’ve known from him so far. You’ve displeased him, that much is clear, and the thought churns in your stomach—but for some reason, your urge to get out demands to be obeyed.

“I shall return to my work,” you press on, “once I come back inside.”

Again, you mean to walk away. You mean to put distance between you, to pull your hand from his.

He won’t let you. The moment you take your first step, his grip tightens and he pulls you back, bringing your hand between your chests and keeping you trapped against your worktable.

“My Lord, please!” you say in disbelief, frantically searching his eyes for any trace of the warmth that was once there. “You are frightening me.”

“You need not be frightened,” he says, a sharp edge to his tone, “so long as you do as I tell you.”

“I—” You stare at him, dumbfounded. You don’t know what’s come over him, but you want no part of it. “Release me at once.”

You try to wrench your hand away from his, but all that does is worsen the pain in your wrist as he keeps it in his iron grip. And yet he looks so eerily calm as he does so, as his other hand suddenly cups your cheek.

“Shh,” he cooes softly, “none of that.” Your heart trembles in your chest, painfully confused as he seems to contemplate you. “I thought you’d have let me in by now,” he muses. “But perhaps I should have done this sooner.”

“Done what—?”

His lips meet yours.

It stops. All of it. The confusion, the alarms—those outside as well as those within you. A wave of calm sweeps through the very core of your being, removing in its wake all traces of distress and leaving nothing but sweet surrender. A sound escapes your throat, something like a yelp that turns into a sigh, and...

How is this happening? What came before? You can’t remember, and you don’t care to. All you know is you have imagined this before, desired it deep within your heart, and that desire is being fulfilled. There’s an ache in your wrist, but the pain is dull and you pay it no mind as he tastes your mouth languidly. Your hands come to rest on his chest, his pulling you to him by the waist. And just as you melt into him, weak with desire, he parts his lips from yours.

“Forgive me,” he says softly as your dazed gaze meets his. “Did you mean to go somewhere?”

Your brow furrows as you try to muster enough coherent thought to speak.

“I... I believe I was coming to find you,” you find yourself murmuring. You don’t quite remember, but the words come as naturally to you as the act of breathing. And they feel true, once you’ve spoken them.

The tiniest smile blooms at the corner of his lips.

“I see,” he says, satisfied. “What did you need from me?”

“I... I needed...”

The answer eludes you. You only know what you need now, and the craving is so great you cannot put it into words.

Sure enough, he knows. His eyes hold a teasing glint, almost mean, as he leans down, pressing his lips to a tender spot beneath your ear before whispering into it, “This, perhaps?” His mouth travels lower still, kissing your neck as you tremble in his arms. “Or this?”

“Annatar,” you breathe out, uncaring of his title. Surely, you are beyond formalities now.

“Yes?” he says, awfully innocent, pulling away to look you in the eye once more. “Name your desire, and you shall have it.”

Your skin sizzles where he has touched it, and the hunger in his eyes leaves you breathless, and you are beyond merely voicing what you desire as you press your lips to his once more. He returns your kiss, matching your greed and swallowing your moan, and you think you might become reduced to ashes if he were to let you go.

It’s painful when he pulls away once more. You find yourself chasing his lips, craning your neck for just one more taste, but he cups your cheek to hold you still.

“Easy,” he says softly, yet the sole word feels like a command. You do settle down, though your heart is still rampant in your chest. He seems pleased by it, and that is enough to hold you still. “Now, I’m afraid there is an urgent matter I must discuss with Lord Celebrimbor. But I shall return to you, and...” he trails off, fixing you with a gaze full of promise which stokes the fire in your belly. “Remain here. Speak to no one. Wait for me. Will you do as I tell you?”

The words hold a strange echo. You can’t place it. You only know what the right answer is.

“Yes,” you agree quietly. And mean it.

“Good.” Annatar smiles, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “That pleases me greatly.”

The praise continues to warm your heart long after he is gone. You’re painfully aware, somehow, that you could never live without that feeling, or without him, again.

So you do as he told you.

[http-paprika]

IVY AND IRON THORNS

CHAPTER III

a medieval au / sir simon riley x lady reader / 2.4k / warnings descriptions of death, christian religious imagery / taglist open

called to have an audience with the lord of the castle, you leave questioning the life you've known

because this story has been on hiatus so long, please if you are tagged in the taglist, don't hesitate to ask to be removed if this doesn't interest you anymore. I apologize for the delay, you know how life is. also, I promise there'll be more simon in the next chapter!

masterlist / chapter IV

Perched on the cold, stone windowsill, you rest your head against the thick glass. You gaze outside into the bailey below, bustling in the early morning with activity, You spot the knight, though he’s brandished his armor today for simple clothes, the black mask still obscuring his face. But despite the intimidation you feel watching Sir Riley, the children follow him around in awe, clinging onto his legs and arms. There’s no hesitation when he scoops up a little girl and puts her up on his shoulder, and though you cannot hear it, you’re certain she’s giggling. A small smile crosses your face momentarily, witnessing a man of such stature being so soft with children causes warmth to spread through your chest. Briefly. 

A firm knock on the door of your chambers distracts you from the scene, causing you to fill with panic again. Remembering what Sir Riley had told you the night before, you were to have an audience with the lord of the castle. Your heart rattles in its cage of ribs, lungs expanding painfully with each breath as you cross the floor, your steps echo off the walls and each breath sounds louder in your ears. Any attempt to calm yourself falters as you unbolt the door and push open the heavy oak. 

On the outside, in simple leather armor, another knight of the castle stands at attention. He’s new to you, an unfamiliar bronze face with golden eyes. A foreigner, you wonder whilst looking at him. There was a memory of the merchants from afar who traveled through your father’s lands, their skin hadn’t quite been as dark as his, but just as curious to you. 

“My apologies, ma’am. But Lord Price requests your presence.” He tells you, bowing his head and crossing his chest with one arm. 

“Of course,” Swallowing hard, you step over the threshold and into the narrow hallway. Morning light streams through the few windows as he escorts you, speaking little except for directing you as to whether to turn. As you walk, servant girls in the castle greet the knight as he passes by, often giggling though the knight, who was called Sir Garrick, pays them little attention. Instead, he was focused on the task of bringing you to the lord’s study. 

Down narrow passages, up winding stairs into a high turret was where the lord of the castle worked and rested. When Sir Garrick brings you into the study, there is no one waiting for you. Just high shelves full of books, statues, and trinkets from wars and plunders. A tall tapestry with the crest hung down behind the desk, the embroidered skull and sword causing you to shiver. 

“Lord Price will be with you in a moment. Don’t touch anything.” Sir Garrick advises you before stepping out of the room and shutting the door. 

You startle when it slams shut, leaving you alone in the unwelcoming study. Glancing over at the bookshelves, you find yourself wanting to read over the title and run your fingers down the leather spines. Reading had never particularly been a hobby of yours, though your mother and tutor had taught you Latin and French, made you read pages upon pages, it bored you. Until now. There was a growing curiosity to view the collection that was grander than your father’s. How had you never known about a lord with a castle this grand? Surely your father knew the man, yet you’d never heard of Lord Price nor Castle Tharn. 

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” You startle at the sudden intrusion, not even having heard the door open. Quickly turning on your heel, you see the lord of the castle standing in the doorway. Tall in stature, broad shoulders hidden under his dark green shirt. He had the appearance of a warrior, the pride of a king in his gait. 

“Quite the collection, m’Lord.” You stutter out as he walks past, settling behind his desk. 

“My father started them to appease my mother. She was very unhappy in this castle and saw it as her prison, so my father began to gather them as they were the only thing that brought comfort to her short life.” He tells you, his light eyes narrowing to study your reaction, that the way you held yourself was different from a commoner. Even with the state of humility that you were in. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You tilt your head, remembering the string of jewels and pearls the prince had sent to you during the engagement. A sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, a frown crossing your face. A question lingers in your head though you do not chase it for an answer. “That was very kind of him.” 

“Hmph. A captor trying to please the captured.” Lord Price hums, his chest rumbling with his words as he sits straight up in his velvet chair. “Foolish, is it not?” 

“I’m not sure, m’Lord.” 

“It’s as foolish as my servants trying to console you.” The frown on your face grows more visible at his words, the riddles he spoke confusing you. His steely, cold eyes sliced like knives through your resolve. “My knights have told me of the misfortunes that befell your company on the highway. A highway which they were not supposed to travel on.” 

“Pardon me?” Your hands grip the fabric of your borrowed dress, wrinkling the gray fabric in your fists. The accusations stung, though you had no defense to his words. What did you know about the plans for traveling your father had forged? 

“The House of Cain, galloping about through the Queen’s land. It’s by God’s graciousness alone and the will of my knights that a single soul survived the night.” Lord Price stands from his seat, his figure eclipsing the silver of light from the lone window. Cloaking you and the room in darkness. The Queen’s land? Your mind swelled from his words, lacking any understanding. 

Lord Price pulls a scroll of paper from a shelf, laying it out on the desk you wearily approach. A map of your father’s lands is etched out in red ink, and the harsh words traitor’s lands are written over the valleys and mountains he governed. In black ink, you saw Castle Tharn with its rivers and surrounding villages. It was different from the maps you’d seen growing up, glimpsing into the rooms where your father and his advisors plotted. You were sure there was more land of which your father governed. But it looked small in comparison to Lord Price’s lands and the land of another lord, a name of which you did not recognize. Where were the allies your father boasted about? Was he really that desperate, closed off from those who would aid him in battle? 

“Was this not the road you traveled?” He asked, his gloved hand pointed to a thick line that ran through the heart of Lord Price’s land. Yes, they were. 

Your blood runs cold, a feeling of faintness passing over you like a ghostly breeze. Reaching for the arm of a nearby chair, you try to steady yourself. This was not what you’d been told. How much more could your world be shattered in such short days? 

“No, no. My father is a respected man. Highly praised and honored. He has allies, he has the favor of the prince.” You respond, trying to defend your family name. The House of Cain demanded respect and you would not let that fall. 

But he scoffs at your declaration, shaking his head in amusement. “The prince?” 

“Yes. Have you no respect for the royal family?” You ask, your voice quivering in fear. Never had you seen a man speak in such a way, so brash and crude in attitude and tone. It made you quiver, a present dread in your bones. He reminded you of a commoner you’d once seen on the gallows, awaiting his death for the crime of treason; he still would not recant the words he’d spoken about your father and the prince. Now, you wondered who had truly committed that crime. 

“That man is royalty by blood alone, I do not bow to him nor do I recognize those who follow him like sheep.” Lord Price looks at you with harshness, sitting down again with his hands flat against the wooden desk. “Your father gave you an illusion of prosperity and power.” 

You’d known that your father had begun to grow weary, that was the reason for your arranged marriage. But you had no idea it was so dire and fearful. The brutes your father spoke of fighting against the borders were the very ones that’d pulled you out of the mud. 

Lord Price watches as you sink into the chair, your lip trembling and eyes beginning to burn though no tears would spill. Not after the long hours you’d spent last night, curled up in the unfamiliar bed praying to wake up from the never-ending nightmare that’d grown longer and colder. 

“I’ve sent a messenger to your father, to tell him of what has happened to his wife and daughter. It will be up to him whether or not he agrees to my negotiations for your freedom.” He says, continuing to watch you like a wolf on its prowl. You were the rabbit being hunted after, small, frail, and unable to defend yourself from the whims of men. 

“My freedom? Am I your prisoner?” So, this was why he’d asked you that question before. From the beginning, he’d made it clear what his intentions for you were. A pawn in a long drawn-out game of chess that Lord Price had captured for his play. His expressive face shows as much, there’s almost an expression of pity that is quickly hidden away the longer you stare. 

“My quarrel is not with you, girl. Your mother was a good woman, it grieves me that she was forced into the marriage she was. For her sake, you will be looked after well. Fed, clothed, and free to do as you wish. Were you just your father’s daughter, I’d keep you in the dungeon.” He says, still speaking to you firmly despite the mercy he’s extended. Yes, it was better than the rat-infested dark dungeons the castle had, but it was not freedom. A castle whose walls confine you, no matter how lavish it is, when the sun sets is still your prison. 

“Were you my own daughter, I wouldn’t waste a moment in your retrieval. For your dignity and sake, I pray your father is the same.” His large hand is gentle when placed on your shoulder. The urge to cry in humility is strong, but the numbing truth of your fate is stronger. Would your father be so kind? For all the affection he used to shower you in, your father had sent you on roads that he knew were unsafe. How much he really cared was yet another question you did not want to answer. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The small chapel sat in the west corner of the castle walls, as you walked down the stone path to seek refuge and pray for your mother, the feeling of being watched did not leave you. Though Lord Price had not explicitly said that you would be escorted by a knight, you knew better than to assume you were alone. But, in the church, you were given a glimpse of freedom.

Inside, it was cool. The stained glass windows depicting images of biblical stories left colorful lights dancing over the floor and walls. Somewhere, you assumed there was a monk who served to bless the lord and his keep. But no one bothered you as you slumped down to kneel and pray for your mother. Believing in higher beings had always seemed silly to you, but for her, you’d pray that she’d safely travel to the heavens that she read of. 

But prayer felt foolish. Her fate had already been decided, what would simple, dumb words do? 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I would be alone at this hour.” You rise from kneeling, turning to see a woman dressed in deep velvets, her hair pulled up out of her fair face. Like a divine being, she smiled softly at you seeing the distress in your appearance. How you seemed to shrink under her gaze. 

“No, it’s my apologies. I only wanted a moment to mourn.” You respond, smoothing down your dress and keeping your head turned to the stone floor. Hadn’t you once refused to look down when speaking to anyone? Weren’t they the ones who were to cower? 

“You must be our guest. I, again, must apologize for not coming to your chambers and introducing myself. My youngest child has been in bed with a fever, and I did not want to leave his bedside until it broke.” She continued to speak softly, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m the lady of the castle. Lady Price. Though, I’d prefer it if you just called me by my name, Eden.” 

Eden, a fitting name for the woman. She seemed to radiate the same aura your mother had once had, one of grace and goodwill. Someone you wanted to offer respect to. In the daylight of the chapel, she was strikingly different from her husband. More so than you ever thought your mother was compared to your father. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And do not apologize, your child’s health is more important than a guest. And I was not in the state of mind to visit with anyone.” You curtsy to her as you were taught, humbling yourself like your mother would’ve liked. 

“Yes, I am sorry to hear of what happened to your mother and company. It grieves me to know such tragedies happen within our borders.” She settles down onto a pew, muttering a quick prayer before glancing back at you. “I would also like to apologize for my husband and his ploy. I cannot excuse his behavior and whims, though I assure you he is a good man. There’s no one else in the world I’d want to be the father of my children.” 

Frowning, you still nod at her words and you couldn’t shake the truth from them. Even though you were bound behind the cobblestone walls, there was care offered to you. And you could not decide if you even wished to return home, unable to form a consensus about how you felt towards what you’d been told. Your father, a traitor to the crowned ruler? Exile seemed so much less cruel than accepting that truth.

Taglist: @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @ghostlythots @jadeloverxd @crystallizedtime

[sirwhistledown]

★ summary — after his fathers death, anthony finds solace within an unexpected someone ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x sibling!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. mention of death, description of grief & death, teenage anthony being in shambles after edmunds death (rest his poor soul) ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.9k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. angst, so much angst. smidge of fluff, hurt/comfort? ★ authors note: anthony's story is actually so sad but i wanted to see more of how he dealt with everything and a deep dive onto what he felt of so... (also there are NOT enough anthony x sibling reader so here we are!!) ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ requests are open !!

Anthony had always believed that a profound sadness enveloped the body like a condecending fog, delving deep into the bones and clawing recklessly at the soul until it was a suffocating weight with no escape in sight. Yet now, as he stood amidst the bouts of chaos, he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, no frustration. Just a vast, empty numbness that swallowed his entire being whole.

It were as if the world around him came to a grinding halt, and he had stopped with them—unable to escape the grasp of the coldness trickling up upon his spine. It felt as if his physical body had been frozen, but consciously, he had not—a distant observer in a weary state of forgery. The sheer oddity of it all left him out of it; an unsettling sense that he was lost in a dream too overwhelming to even comprehend was vastly disheartening. It felt like... a storm, a thunderstorm brewing inside of him, circling through and around his every vein and nerve until it ceased to exist.

He can briefly reminisce, pinching himself over and over until his skin turned blotchy red and had grown irritated in the area. The pain was a sharp reminder to him that it was a futile attempt at an escape, that it was not just some dream that he could simply wake up from. Yet, it could not be; Anthony wanted nothing better to do than just refuse. Laugh at the servants that crowded him with questions that he could not answer—the questions that he should not be worrying about at his age.

Their voices seemed to be distorted in a way that Anthony could not quite make out—a dissonant chorus, overlapping under the distinct rushing and ringing in his own ears. It was as if it went in through one ear and out the other, like water through a funnel. None of it made sense, despite it being more than natural common sense. He still isn’t sure how he managed to even utter a single coherent word; Anthony couldn’t even hear himself over the cacophony that tumbled through his mind. He couldn’t hear himself over the concious noise that screamed in his head and translated all the way to his entire body until it was the only thing radiating through his pumping blood.

In the mix of what seemed to sound like if someone had put all the most horrid sounds a man could hear and mixed them all together, jumbled and overwhelming, he could faintly hear his mother. His poor mother, screaming and crying, the sound so haunting and raw that Anthony wishes he could never hear again in his life, yet it lingered upon him like an uninvited shadow in the corner of his room. Even when it was not presently there, when he was stuck alone at night, his siblings sent off to bed by the maids, his mother nowhere in his line of sight, did he stare at the ceiling of nothing—hearing those cries replaying in his head again and again and again. It’s as if he wanted himself to go mad and Anthony must say, he was very close to so.

But the sounds were only a singular part of his torment. Lord, have mercy on his miserable soul; nothing could’ve prepared him for the sights that awaited him, that he was forced to face by nothing but himself.

His mother sprawled across the staircase, a flurry of maids assisting her but to no avail. There was no ending to her constant misery, and for a brief moment, a moment that Anthony must regret, he wished that his mother had an off-switch so he could just stop it. For her sake or his, he couldn’t quite say. 

His siblings, on the other hand, were a mix of emotions that Anthony was not qualified to handle nor care for. Was that not what maids were for? Daphne cried silently, dabbing at her tears cascading down her cheeks that failed to subside. He silently wonders to himself how many tears a woman could cry before her very essence would be evaported, while Colin and Benedict, although undeniably upset, managed to hide away their sentiments, at least towards Anthony. Well, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear roll down Benedict’s face, but there was nothing he could say nor do about that except pat him on the back a couple of times as a comfort of sorts before he’s again whisked away to care for something he knew little about. He wasn’t prepared for this; he wasn’t qualified for this. He was just a child. 

At least the younger ones were mostly oblivious to the situation that had wrapped around the mourning family. They all gazed up at Anthony, more confused than upset, and he must think that they would wonder why all their older siblings suddenly all looked so remorseful, cloaked with grief, and their mother a distant entity that was soon regarded as unapproachable. In the recesses of his grief-sorrowed mind, a feeble thought flickered for a moment's notice: how, he pondered, for any way to describe the gravity of their weighted reality. Could he even explain to them? Shield them from the truth, or perhaps let them burden down the knowledge that would take away their youthful innocence as it had done for Anthony as well? He felt like an abonomibal creature for even thinking about it twice.

One in particular, suggested to be more curious than the others. Y/N, her name was. Her curiosity stood out like a sore thumb, perhaps like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but to wonder at how she seemed so upbeat despite the dark and grim reality that faced her angel of a soul. She didn’t ought to know the truth. Each time Anthony called for her, the name rolling off her tongue with gilded ease. These times, unlike others, a gentle plea was slowly woven upon his voice that could speak no more as he edged her away from the chaos with a simple “Get away from there.” or “Come over here, Y/N.” In these instances, he always sounded so diminished that Benedict would end up swooping in and picking her up for some other sort of entertainment that was not so utterly upsetting.

This night couldn't be any different.

The thunderclap erupted like a cannon shot in the wild—a deep, profound, and resonant roar that rattled the air around them, the windows shuddering with every harsh punch of wind. It was, perhaps, a night of sorrows. As the rain splattered upon the house as if it were a hose, the wind howling in the near distance. Anthony swears for a beat that he can faintly hear the rain-shooken birds finding solace in their chimney. He wishes that he were a bird; at least he would be able to have some place to find tranquility that was not just the dreadful drag of the house, each lamenting moment drowning all the cheeriness that once stood in this very place.

Anthony taps his quill absently upon the polished wood of his late father's table, the designs that were so intricate, swirling under his fingers like echoes of the past that he could no longer reach but yearned for. It must’ve taken months upon months to create it. He found enjoyment in running his sullen fingertips around the smoothness of the edges, a contrast to the jagged edges that traced along his heart. Anything that wasn’t entirely dejectful felt like a cruel mockery of how he felt.

It was late—far too late for anyone in the house to be up, him included. And yet, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to indulge in the luxury of being able to forget it all, even for a few fleeting moments. He had tried, laying upon his father's old bed in his old room, which smelled all too much like him, enveloping his entire being. A bittersweet waiver of worn fabric and a mixture of odd colognes and papers that had been burnt from days ago. It was haunting in a way that Anthony couldn’t quite place, as if his father were still next to him—an unseen presence, watching his every move. Every time he squinted his eyes shut, the image of his father in the garden flooded his mind, lying so freakishly still. It coursed through his thoughts. He had been well surrounded by vibrant blooms of the spring-induced flowers, which seemed much too cheerful under the circumstances, and Anthony disantely thinks if those were the flowers to be used for the funeral.

Those were no means to sleep, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He isn’t quite sure why he slips into his study rather than any other place for some sort of solitude. Anywhere would’ve been far better than his father's study; nonetheless, he finds himself sitting in the very same chair his father once sat in. Would he be proud? The words ring into his mind, digging as if it were like a tattoo within his brain. He had thought about it a select number of times over the course of a couple of days, yet the question remains unsolved. Anthony respected his father more than anyone else in his life, and putting words into his mouth that he could not say only made him feel bitter rather than better.

The silence is deafening—as if all of a sudden, the thoughts and ringing that took up his every moment had just chosen to dissapear. A harsh push back into reality is what Anthony would’ve guessed. 

Tap

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, knitting together to crease over his squinted eyes. The new, unfamiliar sound is something that he briefly wonders. He strains to listen for any hint of noise beyond the relentless screeching of the wind and the staccato rhythm of rain pellets up against the window, each drop intensifying as time dragged on. When there is nothing to hear to follow up with his thoughts, enveloping him in a wooful silence, Anthony, for a chilling interval, genuinely believes that he might be going insane. As far as-

Thump, thump.

He could no longer deny the truth that it was in fact, not his mere imagination. Anthony was more certain than the flourishing green of the grass outside the house that the sound echoing through the darkness was real and not just a byproduct of his sleepless night or the weight of horrors from the days that lay behind him pressing down upon his consciousness. He stands up willfully, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that was met with a creak reverberating from the old wood panels. The candle that he had lit for comfort wavers precariously, the flame teetering on the edge of extinction from the sudden movement. It is no longer than a mere count of seconds before the light flickered back to light, casting an ominous glow throughout the room.

“Hello?” 

Anthony was a bit ashamed to admit it, but his words wobbeled as he spoke. A mirror reflection of how he truly felt. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady and ground himself to the so little he had. The silence that he was met with was perhaps even more unnerving than before—not even a sinned whisper to break the heavy stillness.

“Who’s there?” He proclaims, this time louder, his voice firming itself as the time passed by cautiously slowly, like it was moving through sticky molasses. Anthony is a moment's reach away from venturing out of his study and investigating for himself, curiousity gnawing at him. It was soon deemed unnecessary when a familiar little head popped up from the right frame of the heavy wooden door, wild tufts of hair jutting out from all directions in a way that resembled . He can’t help but to let out a huff of relief when he notices that it is only Y/N and that he was, in fact, not crazy.

Relief then morphs into confusion within a snap of a finger. His eyebrows are met together again, except this time, not from any sort of paralyzing fear but in question. “Y/N, pray tell, what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour?” Anthony is quick to step away from his desk, taking 3 large steps towards the younger sibling, looking down upon the half-shamed, half-curious look that had crossed her face.

He shook his head yet, bent down far enough to pick the little girl into her arms. She doesn’t protest, instead, nestling herself into his bigger body as if she were seeking some sort of comfort that Anthony could not find in himself to give. He had never been the best at offering solace to other people, nor himself, and especially not now, when his own heart felt too dim and restless to share.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbles, the words lost into the warm crook of Anthony’s neck. He sets the little girl onto one of the chairs that had been meticulously placed in front of the tidied desk. As he stands, his gaze drifts upward to the Renaissance painting hanging on the wall, overlooking the study—an eye-striking masterpiece from an era long before either of them had taken their first breaths. In truth, Anthony wasn’t quite sure how they even managed to get their hands on such an exquisite masterpiece, but it had been his father's favorite painting, so he didn’t dare ask. Every time he turned to face it, the vibrant colors and intricate details felt like a worn ghost from the past, fluttering memories that stung with longing. The image reminded him far too vividly of his father, pulling him into a clouded reverie that soured his mood.

Anthony’s lips are pulled into a drifted frown, eyes gazing over to the uncurtained window where darkness stared back at him, reverberating how the moment felt of. He unknowingly presses his fingers up against his hair, as if he were to adjust how it looked, although he never quite cared for how his hair stood. Is it the storm that troubles you?” He questions meticulously, knowing how fidgety Y/N got during those periods of weather; she never seemed to be a big fan nor curious of it, rather burying herself into a bundle of blankets in pillows. “You have nothing to fear from it.” 

The girl tilts her head to one side, as if she were pondering her answer. There is a brief moment before she slowly shakes her head to the side. “A bit, I suppose.” She mumbles, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown, the silk fabric one that was cooling rather than heating her up. She always preferred the material. “But…” 

His eyebrow arches in surprise at the answer, a rumble of perplexity stirring inside of him as he pondered what could be bothering her at this time of night. “Then what might it be if it is not the storm?” his tone softening as he addressed his younger sister, the usual edge in his voice fading into something gentler than usual.

“I…” She lets out a soft exhale, as though she were afraid of saying it aloud to Anthony. It struck him as odd, as well; Y/N was always more open towards him than any of his siblings, although he never understood why. He never brought it up in conversation, simply accepting her willingness to share with him. “I was thinking of father.”

The words spill out hesitantly, and Y/N looks up at her brother in a way that he could only describe as ashamed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Anthony’s breath catches into his throat, a reflex that had become all too familiar in recent days. He runs a hand over his face, appearing more dismayed than ever. “Whatever for?” He asks cautiously, unable to help the bittersweet modulation that came along with the sentence.

Y/N looked down, legs swinging over the edge of the seat, the motion that was so kid-like, reminding Anthony of the innocence of his little sister, how he needed to protect her from the cruelty of the world. “I miss him.” She finally says, though not confidently as she usually had been, as though she had chosen her words carefully, placed diligently. “Where is he?”

Where is he?

The words chime in his head persistently, the sensation of a dagger being strung into his heart. Anthony swallows the hardening lump in his throat. He had been able to answer questions and answer to orders his entire life, and yet– this simple question, was enough for him to falter in his step. He could not just simply tell her, Oh yes, our father. He is dead. Because, well, she was a child, and at her young age, Anthony would not know of what death was. It was the furthest thing possible from what he would’ve thought of, and yet, this was Y/N’s truth. She had to face the ridicule of death, not even knowing what it was than a melancholic goodbye.

“He-” The word floundered in his mouth, unable to correlate the thoughts in his brain to the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s…” 

“Is he dead?”

Anthony almost chokes out a laugh, because what the fuck? Where did she learn of such? She was still so young; he didn’t get it. He was sure neither Colin nor Benedict would directly say it towards her, and Daphne wouldn’t have the heart to do so. None of the other children had much of a clue of what was going on, so it could not have been them either. “Y/N, I-” And yet, he is still unable to speak. He doesn’t know if it is because of the absurdity of the conversation, or if it really is the sleep deprivation messing with him, and if he’s being honest, Anthony doesn’t have it in him to care for the reason. Not when he had... this to worry about now.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” He’s unable to refrain from noticing the quiver in her lip as she spoke, albeit the even cadence. 

Anthony dips his head down, eyes gluing to the floor because he’s unable to look his sister in the eyes. Unable to break the news and her heart at all the same time. She loved Edmund dearly; she loved everyone dearly, and that was her problem. Letting go was always the hard part, for even just a couple of moments—how could she let go for an eternity? Y/N is far from stupid though, and she’s quick to get the message. She too, looks away, this time to somewhere that Anthony can’t quite place. Her eyes are distant, as if she were not there presently, and it scared him a great deal.

“Are you sad?” Y/N inquired, the question so basic yet so meaningful for Anthony, and he can feel the strings tugging at his heart. It’s almost laughable to him; a young child who barely understood the severity of the situation, was the first one to ask him about how he felt. Not his siblings, not the maids, not the butlers, and certainly not his mother. No one doubted him, and while Anthony knew his family cared for him deeply, it underwent as if no one really did. 

“I suppose I am, yes.” He answers honestly, given that he was tired of lying to himself and others. And well, he was sure Y/N would figure it out eventually. 

“It’s okay to be sad.” She whispers gently, her head inclining to the left, and then up to meet Anthony’s gaze. For a brief period of a second, he wonders if she could read him that well. If she could see right through his facade, and knew what he needed to hear to the brink. He refused to acknowledge it, but he was aware that the words had some sort of effect on him. In a manner that had hardly ever moved him before. 

He can do nothing but nod slowly, hesitant to speak upon the matter at hand. "You truly ought to be sleeping, Y/N.” Anthony breathes out, pressing his hand against his subdued jawline, an uneven beard already beginning to form from the days he hadn’t shaved. It was the only response he could come up with, the only response he could say without directly speaking on the matter. 

Y/N bounces up, and off of the chair, landing on her two feet that were padded with socks that went up to her knees. Her favorite pair that she refused to let go of despite the many holes that had broken into the fabric. She stood much shorter than Anthony, still in the very early stages of growth. “Maybe you would be less sad if you talked.” She states woefully, her eyes holding only the sincerest of truths to the point where even Anthony knew that she did not lie. 

“I’ll be okay.” Is his respondance, his words cutting sharp into the heavy air that had filled the room. Because deep down, Anthony knows that his sister is partially right, that he truly needed to talk to someone. The only problem that he now faced was his honor and the fighting fact that he had no one to talk to. “It will all be okay.”

It’s hard for him to even believe his own words. He hadn’t had a clue how Y/N, in all her young wisdom and pureness, could believe him either. In spite of what he thinks, she only agrees with him, already beginning to walk towards the door again, this time with Anthony trailing a meter behind her. He knows well enough to at least tuck her into bed this time, to make sure that she gets some proper rest for the day ahead, although there is hardly anything to do other than funeral planning, which she had no part in.

Before she managed to walk out, Anthony ruffled his sister's hair in affection, something they now both lacked tremendously. He wished upon those days when he was Y/N’s age, able to curl up in his mother's lap, or next to his father in his study, where none of these adult problems affected him and it was just pure bliss. A perception which he could no longer relish in at this point in time. 

“Will we talk tomorrow?” Y/N promptly solicits, something that Anthony could finally answer that wouldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sure of it.” Perhaps for the first time in days, it’s a truthful answer in what he regarded. He says it, not as an entire answer, but as a promise for himself, because although he could be the mouthful of things that his brothers had constantly reminded him about, he never truly broke his promises for those he loved. And as Anthony slips his way out of Y/N’s, his sister falling into a light slumber that he’s sure will keep her down for a number of hours at least. Her eyes fluttered with the weight of sleep, her breathing steadying as the rainfall began to die down during the late night turning into early morning. 

God, maybe he could finally get some much needed sleep.

[some-messed-up-writing-for-you]

"Floral Affections" - Part 4

GN!Reader x Plant Monster

CW: slight suggestive themes.

It's here!! :DD Sorry that it's been ages since the last part. I'm just happy I finally finished part 4. Enjoy, fellas!

Part 1 | Previous Part |

~~~~

It was almost time. Oh boy.

You stood before the grand doors of Lord Sorrel’s home, the ornate wood looking particularly intimidating on this fine morning. But despite your nerves being strung high, you were still very excited.

With a final lookover, you admired the floral patterns adorning your outfit one last time before knocking upon the doors. As you waited, you hoped your appearance was presentable enough; you didn’t possess anything as lavish as your lord did after all.

You reassured yourself he wouldn’t judge.

Eventually, the door opened, and Lord Sorrel’s bright face greeted you with a smile. Somehow, he looked even prettier than usual... and seemed to feel the same way about you.

Both of you got distracted appreciating one another’s looks before you took the charge and exclaimed, “Lord Sorrel! Good morning!”

A flustered blush heated your face as he broke out of his own trance. “G-Good morning, my dear! You’re right on time—I just finished setting everything up!”

Very eagerly, the Lord stepped aside and welcomed you inside. You followed his gleeful self through the house, admiring the architecture. This was your second time inside the mansion, the first being the day of your employment. Back then, you had been here for business, but now?

Now you were here... on a date?

You flustered more at the thought. It seemed crazy! And yet, it was happening right before your eyes.

Your smile grew as Sorrel led you outside, sunlight warming your skin. He took you down a familiar path, right into the heart of the garden, where a beautiful gazebo stood proudly. The sight was mesmerizing. Butterflies and bees fluttered about the place, and the flowers waved gently in the breeze.

Set in the gazebo’s shade, your breakfast patiently waited. A pair of plates covered by metal lids sat on the table with a glass vase between them, filled with a combination of plants that had your body lit aflame with unmatched heat.

The small bouquet consisted of red and pink morning glories, which spoke of passion and love, respectively. And although their presence already warmed your heart, they weren’t quite what had gotten such a reaction out of you. No, it was the coriander surrounding them.

Coriander, which was a symbol of... lust.

The message couldn’t be more clear, and you were suddenly—but curiously—questioning how this little date would end.

Once this revelation finished processing in your brain, you turned to Lord Sorrel, who appeared equally flustered. He was also, however, quite literally shaking with excitement.

The petals around his head moved in a wave as he briskly approached the table and politely pulled out a seat for you. The gesture had you swooning a little more as you thanked him and sat down. He pushed the chair in for you before damn-near dashing to reveal your breakfast to you.

As he lifted the metal covers, a variety of sweet scents drew into the air. Your mouth watered at the delicious sight of nearly a dozen rolled pancakes, all with different fillings, and a side of juicy fruits. A glass of wine was also set beside you before your gracious host finally took his own seat.

You looked at him with starry eyes. “Lord Sorrel, this looks amazing. Thank you again for inviting me.”

His smile turned shy. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, my dear. And please, just Sorrel is fine.”

“I may call you by name?” you questioned in surprise and were answered with a delighted nod. You gave a grin in return. “Alright then. Thank you for this lovely breakfast, Sorrel.”

Hearing you utter his name so sweetly seemed to put the plantman on cloud nine. He looked especially thrilled by it, and you had to hold back a giggle from how cute he looked.

In an effort to distract yourself from his charming face, you chose to dig into your food, gleefully stabbing a piece of pancake onto your fork. The moment it touched your tongue, a quiet moan slipped from your lips. You couldn’t help yourself; it was delicious.

The flavors danced upon your tastebuds, each bite better than the last. Sorrel was quick to join, though he kept stealing glances of your pleased expression. You were just too stunning to him like this, absorbed in the simple yet effective pleasures of food.

And to top it all off, it was his food! He couldn’t be happier... or so he thought.

The breakfast continued in relative silence, going by quickly but calmly as the two of you enjoyed one another’s presence. Once you finished eating, however, your eyes wandered back to the daring little plant decorating the table.

As you slowly sipped the last of your wine, you gathered your courage and bit the bullet. “These are... very lovely flowers,” you began, immediately catching his attention. “Any reason why you picked these ones exactly?”

Sorrel’s petals stood on end, stiff as rose thorns, until they suddenly bent inward, completely hiding his face from view. You jumped at the sudden movement, going from shock to confusion to amusement.

“Sorrel?” you asked with the tiniest hint of a laugh.

The plantman groaned in defeat, bowing his head and putting it in his hands as if they could hide him any further. “Forgive me, my dear, but I... fear I cannot say it out loud. It is too much for my heart to bear.”

If you had any doubts about falling for him, they were completely gone within an instant of hearing his words. Gods, the more you got to know him, the more he seemed like a lovable goofball rather than a scary nobleman.

His goofiness had your heart racing all the same.

“Then perhaps...” you started, “if you struggle with your reasons for these… daring admissions…” His breath hitched as you talked, and a few of his petals shifted ever so slightly, letting him peek out and look at you. “...you could speak of what you wish to do?”

“To do...” he mimicked, trailing off unsurely.

“To me,” you finished daringly, pushing him back into hiding once more.

His petals shook vigorously before he quietly began, “I… wish to hold you close…”

“What else?” you urged, lowering your voice as if speaking of filthy secrets.

He slowly began to unwind from his shell, though with great effort. “I want to… kiss you… touch you… I–”

Once his petals pulled back at last, he looked into your eyes with a gaze so hungry it threw you off course completely. “I want to make you mine.”

Just seconds ago, you had the upper hand but suddenly found yourself shy. Your face only grew hotter as Sorrel took hold of your hand and gently pulled, urging you to come to him.

Your now-wobbly legs carried you around the small table where you settled in his lap. He tilted your chin up to look at him, the soft caress drawing excited shivers down your spine.

“Darling, may I?” he asked, leaning closer, his lips but a breath away from yours.

You swallowed your nerves in favor of tasting excitement and gave a faint nod. “Yes…, please.”

Once the small gap between you two was sealed, control began to wither in both of you. Soft, shy moans were exchanged between kisses. Nervous but interested hands wandered as things slowly heated up.

Your fingers glided through the mane of fuzzy leaves on his neck as Sorrel explored the locks of your hair. The feeling was fantastic. It urged you to properly straddle Sorrel’s lap, your thighs encompassing his waist.

His hand tightened its grip on your hair as you pressed against him, grinding your sex against his. Sparks of pleasure shot through you two, dragging out more wanting moans.

The moment did, however, end up being partially disturbed.

Your Lord got a little too excited. The brilliant petals of his face surrounded yours in a sudden move, pulling you closer. The unexpected grab had you jumping back with a gasp for air. And you only now realized just how breathless you’d become.

Sorrel looked equally surprised with himself and rushed to explain, but you shut his stuttered yapping with a firm kiss. After taking a moment to recompose, you finally took notice of the golden dust fluttering in the air and covering your entire face. It had a lovely, sweet scent.

You trailed a few fingers down your own cheek curiously to examine it better. “What is this stuff?”

When you turned back to Sorrel, he looked ready to vanish into the earth. His petals twitched, stuck between wanting to hide him and to curl around you once more. “I-I’m sorry, love. I should’ve mentioned this sooner. This is… my pollen.”

“O-Oh!” Your face flushed, both from the new pet name and info.

“I-It’s not quite what you think though!” Sorrel stumbled out the words, absentmindedly pawing at your waist. “This is… how my kind marks their partners. It is how I leave my scent on you.”

You eyed the golden powder on your hand with a new perspective before looking back to Sorrel. You cracked a smile. “Well, kind of a shame I can’t do the same, huh?”

“Ohhh, love…” Sorrel groaned in a way you had yet to hear, the sound coming deep from his chest. “But you can… Your scent, albeit fainter than what I’m used to, still makes my mind go blank; it makes me think only of you.”

He leaned closer, speaking in a hushed whisper. “Even if you cannot sense it yourself, know that it turns my desire for you into a starving wolf, eternally hungry for more. ”

To say those words got you excited would be an understatement. And while you could feel that excitement pooling between your legs, Sorrel could smell it in the air.

This new knowledge was going to ruin you in the best way possible.

The desire Sorrel felt for you was heavy and overwhelming, prompting another groan out of his lips. His head fell to rest on your shoulder; husky words whispered in your ear, raising goosebumps across your skin. “Darling, please. May I have you?”

Even if you weren’t drowning in a cocktail of excitement and horniness at the moment, you don’t think you would’ve declined him.

[greeeengoblin]

“I can’t believe you! And I’m not crazy! I’d prefer a regular prison,” Hood shot back as he threw crates at Nightwing. He couldn’t understand why Batman and the others were so set on locking him up in Arkham. After all, escaping from Arkham was easier for him. He was more suited for a regular prison. He wasn’t insane—he didn’t have ridiculous, harebrained schemes, unless you counted the occasional severed heads of crime lords’ second-in-commands in gym bags. And he definitely didn’t belong anywhere near Joker because he wasn’t Joker. “Just leave me alone! I’m helping you, and you don’t even see it!”

“This isn’t helping! You’re going to hurt people, and I don’t care what you say—you’re insane!” Nightwing easily dodged the crates, as they were being thrown haphazardly without focus, making it easier to evade them. “You could get better care in Arkham! You could get therapy to stop your urge to kill people, trust me!” Nightwing was practically shouting now, frustrated that Hood refused to listen and kept trying to escape.

“Like Joker and the others? Their sadism never went away, their madness and resolve never faded! Arkham’s not a place that helps anyone! IT’S ALREADY A ROTTING HELLHOLE THAT CONTAINS PEOPLE WHO’VE ALREADY LOST TO INSANITY!” Hood yelled, firing his gun at a crate covered in gas canisters. He slammed the door shut, locking himself in the basement below. Nightwing, realizing the gas was spreading, quickly put on his oxygen mask and started pounding on the door.

“Hood! Ja- HOOD! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!”

Hood slammed the door with frustration. He could hear Dick’s angry shouts and the pounding of his boots against the walls echoing through the thick barrier. Hood removed his helmet, gasping in deep, uneven breaths as he looked around the basement. He’d never been down here before. The room was lined with mirrors—more than he’d expected. But it wasn’t the sheer number of mirrors that unsettled him. 

It was the fact that none of them showed his reflection.

[moyazaika]

omg doe brought up this AMAZINGGG idea abt the crime lord yan and his lawyer darling hello hey hi!!!!!!

this kinda got away from me because it is 3am but i nEEEEEDED to get this out bjsjsjjs i blame @carnivorousyandeere

i know i wrote the initial dynamic for his darling to be his lawyer, in that they’re on his side in court to keep him from getting sent to prison BUT BUT BUT hear me out T_T

lawyer darling who put yan kingpin away.

as in ,, you are the reason he was found guilty. you are the one, when the judge announced the final verdict, that his gaze turned to and that he smiled for, then. sentenced to death, before it was appealed to multiple life sentences; the beginning of the end of his empire.

you, you, you — the cause of his downfall.

after the infamous internationally documented case, your career soars to unprecedented heights. you’re the lawyer on every newspaper in every country, all the tv channels and glossy magazines. every law school wants you to speak at their graduation ceremonies. every firm’s reaching out to you. the whole world knows your name; you have everything!

—so why do you keep going back to the man who now has nothing?

the kingpin looks the same as he did that fateful day in court. only now, there’s bags under his eyes, and a five o clock shadow on his jaw; lips still curled in an easygoing smile. he laughs when he sees you, as if the two of you were merely old friends who hadn’t caught up in a while.

as if you’re not visiting him years later in the city’s most high security prison.

he grins. “come to gloat, have ‘ya?”

“you’ve committed countless crimes.” you state. “stolen lives and livelihoods. broken up families. killed good men. and still, all these years later, no remorse?”

“don’t get ‘yer panties in a twist,” he huffs, lazily leans back in the rickety prison chair so that he’s swinging it back and forth on its back legs, like a child. how absurd that even the garish orange uniform of a prison should suit him, “comes with the job description, don’t it?”

“i think about you,” you admit, eyeing the chains that bind his handcuffed hands to the desk in front of him. you look up, meet his gaze through the thick, dirty pane that separates you from him. keeps you safe. out of his reach, if only just.

a low whistle. “you sure know how to make a man feel special, y’know. been followin’ your cases. never put another one like me away, did ‘ya?” he grins. “i like that i’m special. makes me feel all warm ‘nd fuzzy inside.”

“wow,” you let out. “you really have gone insane.”

“always been a ‘lil crazy! like i said, part of the job description. though i’ve been thinkin’ recently,” he starts.

your fascination prompts you to lean closer. a sort of morbid curiosity that yearns to solve the puzzle of his twisted mind, slot the pieces you’ve already got in a way that makes them fit. you’ve got this weird feeling that you’re missing something. a big piece, maybe. one of the central ones.

“thinking about what?” your voice is barely above a whisper, almost conspiratorial. he leans in, too, all wide eyes—

—and then he jerks forward with the chains around the cuffs on his wrists pulled taut as he suddenly yanks them all the way, like a feral dog pulling on its leash. he looks like one, too, with that glint in his eyes.

“fuck!”

you barely even register that you’re on the floor until he laughs, low in his throat. he makes a vague gesture to your chair, toppled over on its side.

“oops.” he says, coyly. “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.”

“liar,” you hiss, standing up to dust yourself off. this was stupid. why would you even entertain the idea of a civil conversation with a madman?

he gasps dramatically. “this is slander, your honour!”

“i’m leaving,” you scoff. “i don’t even know why i even came down here. you’re clearly fucking crazy.”

“and you’re no fun!” he pouts. “how ‘bout you stay just a little longer and i’ll make it worth ‘yer time, pretty please?”

“no can do,” you turn on your heels and reach for the door, fingers curled around the handle as you spare him one final glance over your shoulder— “have fun rotting in here for the rest of your life, psycho.”

—except the door won’t open. you try again, and again once more. the handle won’t budge. an awful sense of urgency overcomes you as you desperately shake the handle in a futile attempt to get it to just—

“funny ‘yer calling me crazy, ‘cus einstein once said real insanity is doin’ the same thing,” he beams. “over and over and over and over again, and expecting different results. door’s locked, lovely. ‘yer not getting out from there, ‘m afraid.”

you turn back then, still holding onto that door like a lifeline. he’s standing up, rubbing sore wrists that are, you realise with a sinking feeling, no longer bound by the handcuffs that kept him chained; on a short leash, like a good dog.

“what are you doing…?” your voice shakes, and it’s a far cry to the headstrong, unwavering lawyer who put the world’s most notorious criminal behind bars. “what the fuck—”

“i told you i’d make it worth your while t’stay,” he rolls up his sleeves, before pushing all of his hair (longer and greasier than the last you saw him) out of his face, features set in a determination you’ve never glimpsed before. familiar eyes twinkle with mischief. “and i meant it, y’know. the world’s very best lawyer came so far to see me! least i can do is greet ‘em properly.”

“‘cus see, the other prisoners wouldn’t be so nice. but i’ve been thinkin’ about you too.” he pulls his arm back and his fist comes flying at the pane. “don’t wanna have a conversation or nothin’ like that, nah, we talked enough.”

“you’ve been thinking about me, i’ve been waiting around for you…” bloody knuckles against cracks in the one barrier that is keeping you safe from him. you watch, helpless, as it threatens to break beneath the brute force of his trained fists.

“now let me just come over there,” he pulls his arm back again, ready to strike; knuckles raw and red, like the maniacal grin carved onto his pretty, flushed face. a deep blush and a shaky smile as those fists bring it all crashing down. “and show you how much i missed my faaavourite lawyer in the whole wide world.”

“—that be a good enough reason to stick around?” he asks slyly, before catching himself. “oh, silly me.” he shakes his head, apologetically, as he steps over broken shards on the floor, tainted with his blood. “doesn’t matter what ‘ya say.” a low hum when scarred hands reach out for you. “i waited so long for you…”

“… so, let’s make up reaaalllll good for all that lost time, okay?”

[jules-writes-stories]

Just Enough Light to Cast Shadows

Azriel x Eris

Chapter 25 on AO3

What did Azriel whisper in Eris's ear at the High Lord's meeting?

"Who else knows what happened today?” He asked the heir. Azriel needed it to stay a secret. If his family found out—if Mor knew…

“No one.” Something like hurt flickered in the fireling’s eyes as he added, “Don’t worry. I am very good at remaining a secret.” And while the beautiful male’s face was all sharp angles and mischief, it did not match the depth of sadness that slipped along the golden thread they shared.

That wasn’t the Illyrian’s problem. He let out a breath. For now, he was grateful that his secret was safe. "And the alliance?" The spymaster asked.

Eris studied the male across from him with his keen, golden eyes. “I have no plan to revoke my alliance with your court, Shadowsinger. I still need your support, for when the time comes…” he trailed off. “I will do my best to convince Beron to join the cause against Hybern.”

The heir straightened, placing his half-full glass on the side table. He then asked a question of his own as if inquiring about the weather. “Do you intend to reject the bond?”

Azriel hadn’t even considered it. But before he could, his shadows hissed ours, ours, ours at him, and he blurted out, “No.”

Hazel eyes locked with amber. “Do you?” Eris bit his lower lip in thought, and the Illyrian watched.

“I have not given it much thought but don’t see the point. We don’t see each other enough that it would… interfere with our lives, right?” His auburn brow arched.

Azriel read between the lines. “Are you in love with someone?” he asked.

Eris laughed, a sharp, flinty sound, nothing like the musical warmth from earlier. “No, Shadowsinger. I enjoy a good fuck like any fae, but I am not in love.”

He knew it was completely unreasonable, but hearing Eris even mention fucking another fae had Azriel gritting his teeth.

Please let me know if you ever want on/off the tag | @the-darkestminds @fieldofdaisiies @mistandmemories @c-starstuff-man0 @molcat07 @chunkypossum @going-through-shit @talibunny30 @yanny-77 @lilah-asteria @amalhe-kofee @theartofmischief @futurehunt @seihdacalling @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @unanswered-stars

[1800naveen]

Until.

Wander.

Tamlin often wandered around the Spring Court. For a while, he lived in his beast form. He felt a sense of freedom in that form. He could run, run, run, and nobody would stop him. But now, he was walking in his fae form. A feeling of melancholy surrounded the Spring Court, which was brought to its knees by his former lover and fiancé, Feyre Archeron, who was now the High Lady of the Night Court and both mate and wife to his former friend and ally, Rhysand.

He had caused her pain so in return, she did the same to him. Manipulating and scheming to make this Court fall. His people were taken in by Tarquin, High Lord of the Summer Court and Tamlin was grateful for his generosity.

"Be happy, Feyre." were the last words he told her before helping her resurrect Rhysand from the dead. In return, she wrote Tamlin a letter.

"Thank you. I hope you find happiness too." It was a kind gesture. But could he find happiness? She was the one to ruin the damn court and drove his people away. Homes and nature burned to ashes by the armies of Hybern.

A part of him felt a twinge of guilt. He let this happen to his own home. He should've figured out something was wrong. He also knew that not all of the blame fell on his shoulders. The forefathers of his bloodline would be disappointed, that's for sure.

Especially his father.

He could hear the words coming from his mouth. "How could you have let this happen? Let a Mortal-Made Fae destroy this Court? An abomination of a High Lord. A failure that I have to call a son." Tamlin remembered how his brothers threatened to kill him if he wished to be a High Lord. "Remember this, dear brother. Remember these words when you wish to think of the words "High Lord"." Weylin, the second-born, had whispered to him after he snuck into Tamlin's room at the dead of night.

"If you dare to pursue being worthy. To be chosen by father. To be his heir to the Spring Court. We will put an end to you and make sure you never see the light of day again. Do you understand?" Cian, the first-born, spat out. Tamlin could hear the poison, the venom intertwining in his words. The boy he had once been only nodded. He didn't have much power back then but it feels like he doesn't have much power even now.

Cupping his hands into the stream, Tamlin splashed his face to stop thinking about those thoughts. A gentle breeze made his hair sway. It was now down to his mid-back as it was once before.

Conflicted.

That was the word to describe how Tamlin was feeling. Conflicted.

A part of him felt smug for being crowned High Lord when his brothers terrorized him about it.

A part of him was glad that Rhysand and his father killed his family but not his mother. She was the only one who he mourned.

Tamlin loved his mother and he knew that she loved him too but when his father, Taranis, was being a tyrannical piece of shit, she turned a blind eye. How could a mother do something like that to their own child? To their own son?

A sigh left his lips.

His brothers were right.

Perhaps they knew the future of him and what would happen to the Court.

And a part of him wished that his brothers had killed him. He wouldn't have to be burdened with the title and responsibilities of a High Lord. The Spring Court would still be thriving. He wouldn't have to go through all this pain. But maybe in another life, he would be a traveling minstrel. He would go around and sing songs, speak of poems, limericks, ballads, but most of all, he could play his fiddle to his heart's content. He would have his own group that he would call his family. A ragtag team of misfits.

His own family that would love him, flaws and all. A family that wouldn't leave him behind.

It had been a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday. He had to carve his name into the fiddle so that his brothers wouldn't take it from him. Luckily, they didn't break it or toss it away as it kept him from High Lord. But they did make fun of it. However, Tamlin didn't mind. He had more talent in his fingers than his brothers had in their entire body. Besides being warriors and strategists.

A door creaked open. It's been a while since Tamlin was in the manor. It was a mess, of course. He really needed to clean it up. Most of the mess was created by him when he felt his emotions all pent up. And the rest came from him neglecting the home.

Now or never, Tamlin got to work. In an attempt to tidy up the manor to the best of his abilities. This would take a while.

The living room and kitchen were the only things Tamlin cleaned up. Some other time, he would clean the upstairs.

A broken mirror was on the ground, facing down. Tamlin carefully picked it up so that he wouldn't cut himself. Half of the shattered mirror pieces are still laid on the ground. He would have to fix it later with paste. The other half of the mirror was intact, showing half of his face. He went to hang it up on the wall of the living room.

"You've changed." Tamlin spoke himself as he stared into the mirror. The light in his green eyes was dimmed. Sadness and loneliness danced in his eyes in replacement.

A shell of a male.

He let his anger, frustration, and sadness consume him and he was now what people thought him of.

A beast.

A monster.

And a villain in the eyes of those he wronged.

He traveled far beyond the path of reason.

"What troubles you, Tam?" That voice. Tamlin hadn't heard it since he died. Killed by the woman he once loved.

Andras.

Brown hair tied back, rich tanned skin, and eyes the color of amber that were filled with mischief. That used to be filled with mischief.

"It's been a long time, my friend." Tamlin turned to face Andras. He stood there as a spirit. Was he going mad to the point he could see ghosts?

"It has." Andras' eyes darted from place to place as he studied the manor. "And what the hell happened here?" "A long story." Tamlin replied. "Ah yes. A story that I'm aware of." That made him still.

"How?" His voice was hushed but the tone was filled with uneasiness. "I've been wandering around the Court ever since I was killed. Prythian too but I prefer to stay here." Tamlin needed to sit down. He stumbled to the couch, putting a hand to his head.

"My job was done when Feyre put an end to my life but deep down, I knew it wasn't. And I was right. Because here you are, all alone with nothing but your sunken Court." "Thanks for your kind words, Andras. I love to be reminded of that." "You're welcome!" A stupid grin grew on his face.

Oh, how Tamlin missed it.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start." Tamlin muttered. "With what?" "With everything." He fell back, hitting the cushions. Andras didn't say a word but walked up to Tamlin, helping him sit back up. "How are you touching me?" "Don't question it. Let me help." Oh, he hated those words. Tamlin never liked getting people's help. He believed that he could do almost anything on his own. It was one of his flaws; his hubris.

"Tell me everything. What happened?" Andras' face showed gentleness. "I thought you knew." "I know half. I did say that I wander around Prythian, not just the Spring Court."

Tamlin rolled his eyes but still, he told Andras everything. Under The Mountain, him locking Feyre up in what he thought was protection, becoming a double spy for Hybern, Feyre dismantling the Court, Feyre and Lucien leaving together, Tarquin taking in his people, Hybern's armies bringing damage to both Spring and Summer, the war, helping Feyre bring Rhysand back to life, and finally, Rhysand coming to mock him during Solstice.

A wince came from Andras. "That's rough, buddy." "Indeed." Now annoyed, Tamlin stared off into the distance. None of the males said a word to each other. Only let the silence fill the air.

A clock ticked calmly. Like a metronome.

"Tam, listen to me." Tamlin slowly turned his head to Andras, waiting for whatever Andras was going to say.

"Do you remember when you were crowned High Lord?" How could he not remember? He could still recall the memory, even though it had been centuries.

"May the Mother bless you and the Spring Court. All hail Tamlin Lysander, High Lord of the Spring Court!" Ianthe, his former childhood friend was the one to crown him.

All hail Tamlin, High Lord of Ruin.

Since that day, he knew that no amount of self-sought fury would bring back the glory of innocence.

"I do. And what does my coronation have to do with anything?" "Being a High Lord, you're in charge of the land and have duties to do. You're in charge of Spring. The land that is ever-changing." That was false though. The Seasonal Courts were in a permanent state of the season it represents. Mother, he sounded like a smartass.

"Spring is a new beginning. A new transformation. Staring over and staring anew." "What are you getting at?" Tamlin was starting to tire.

"What I'm saying is, you are the High Lord of the Spring Court. You are the land and the magic. You are Spring. So act like it." Tamlin raised an eyebrow.

"When flora begins to bloom, bloom alongside with it. When the light shines upon, shine and burn bright. When something new is planted, take root and grow. Change has always been and will always be possible. We cannot fix our past mistakes but we can reflect back on it, see what we have done wrong, acknowledge it, and grow." Andras took Tamlin's hand into his.

"To grow is to be reborn. To live is to suffer but to love as well. You are so much more than your fears. Than your anxieties, your anger, and your sadness." Woe climbed Tamlin like a ladder, tears threatened to fall but he wouldn't let them. He never did like to cry in front of people but with Andras, maybe it would be alright.

"You were the poet of us three but it didn't mean I couldn't pick up a few things." Andras shot a wink. Tamlin chuckled, the tears going back into the depths. Him, Lucien, and Andras. The death of their dear friend was hard on the both of them but mostly on Lucien.

He viewed him as his younger brother even though Andras was the second oldest; Tamlin being the eldest and Lucien being the youngest.

"I promise you this," Andras' grip got tighter. "I won't pass on until you are better. Until our home is better. I refuse to leave you until that smile of yours returns, until the light in your eyes is radiant like an emerald once more. I will not give up on you, so don't give up on me." "Thank you, Andras...Thank you." Tamlin whispered the last thanks, almost like a prayer. His head fell onto Andras' shoulder and his arms wrapped around like a snake.

He wanted to get better. He wanted to be better. He would get better, be better than the male he once was.

"Walk with me." Tamlin lend out a hand for Andras to take. Both of the males' hands clasped together.

They headed outside.

Birds chirped here and there. Woodland creatures scurried on the grass. The air was calm and chill. The sun was being to set which let the sky a beautiful orange, red, and purple.

Tamlin and Andras' hands were still intertwined. His thumb moved up and down softly, soothing on the High Lord's hand. Almost like a lullaby.

510 years, Tamlin had been alive. His childhood was one no child should ever have. He only had a few friends as making friends was a difficult task. Rhysand then came to mind. He remembered how Rhysand would find him everytime he had time to. He taught him fighting techniques that were native to Illyrians. They ate, drank, hunted, trained, laughed, and fought together. He even made wrote him letters, poems, and limericks. A memory played in his mind where the two were away from the war camps. Tamlin was resting on a tree as he played the fiddle and Rhysand rested his head upon his lap. Not that he minded. It didn't mean anything.

But their fathers ruined it and for what? A insipid rivalry?

Inside of him, Tamlin felt a small sense of hope that one day, they would reconcile. He was a fool to think it.

Rhysand was a winged insect (quite literally) while Tamlin was a funeral pyre. Sadness and anger crackled and twisted like flames within him.

A deep breath in and a deep breath out. Tamlin felt a heavy weight lift from his chest. Something in him stirred. Feelings and emotions.

Not the negative ones he grown accustom to but something new.

Hope.

It was the breath of fresh air that he needed.

Out of all of the Seasonal Courts, Tamlin assumed Spring wasn't all that important compared to Winter, Autumn, and especially Summer. But he was wrong.

Spring was life coming back into the lands and blossoming hope all around.

Summer, in many eyes, was the best season. A season of light, warmth, adventure, and happiness. But when Summer retreated, Autumn took its place. Leaves began to fall and colors changed from bright to dark, the temperatures cooled down and people would soon harvest for Winter was coming.

With Winter, brought the death of nature. The most deadliest season of them all. The night-darkness, would come earlier than before. Many things would come to an end but it wouldn't be forever. Celebrations would be held during the season; for family, for loved ones, for surviving another terrible winter, and a new year approaching.

And with this new year, things would change yet again. The snow will melt, the ice will thaw, and winter would bow as Spring came into blossom.

"For you." Tamlin broke from his thoughts to see Andras holding a rose in his hands. "Be careful of the thorns." He took the rose without worry. Not fearing if thorns would cut him.

"I love you, thorns and all." were the words he once said to Feyre. Who would he say the words to now? He had no lover. But he had himself.

"I love you, thorns and all." Tamlin said to himself, in the back of his mind.

He was not a monster.

He was no villain.

And until that day comes when he could prove it, he would work and work.

He would not spend his immortality in rage.

He would not let anger consume him, control him.

Until the light in his eyes shined brighter than a thousand suns.

Until he could love himself.

Until the day that he could look into a mirror, smile, and know that he was a lovely reminder of how beautiful change could be.

Until he was the true High Lord of the Spring Court once again.

(This is my first writing piece that I've shown people so I hope you'll enjoy or like it. His family never got names so these are my names for them. Lysander just fits Tamlin; It means "Liberator" or "Freedom".)

(THIS FEELS LIKE SHIT, UGH!!)

(Wait, would this be a Tamlin X Andras? I swear I didn't mean for that. AND YES, I REFERENCED TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN! IT'S A KICKASS SONG!)

@viktoriaashleyyx here's that add, hope you like it👍🏾

[pookietsunoda]

Saw this post abt Alonso getting accidentally electrocuted and thinking he was 14 (as well as this tag on a reblog)

what if... the whole grid accidentally got struck by some deus ex machina non fatal zap that gave them temporary amnesia and they all became convinced they were 14 for a day? Here is what I think would happen:

First off, they're all so hyped about being F1 drivers and get excited about the dumbest shit (phone games, wheel guns, tire blankets)

Max and Charles fight each other over the Inchident

George is starstruck by the fact that Alex is an F1 racer (bc Alex was his karting hero growing up) but Alex didn't become friends with George until he was 15, so he has no idea who George is, which is Humiliating to fragile teenage George.

Half of them can't speak English fluently yet. Only the younger ones (Oscar, Franco, etc) know that google translate exists and they help massively in the linguistic problems.

Unclear whether or not Pierre and Esteban are besties or enemies, or both. They are one of those things, and they're insane about it because they're teenagers. Lance and Esteban are probably like Normal friends though.

Lewis is like "where tf is Nico" and finds adult Nico. Lewis is super pumped to hear that they both made it to F1, were teammates and won WDCs, Lewis is an F1 GOAT, and that Nico married his childhood crush. (Their life trajectories literally sound like what a kid imagines their future to be like.) And Nico is like "hey we actually had a falling out" and Lewis is like "that's crazy man, how would we stop being friends? You want some frosties?"

Immediate Spanish speaker clique between Fernando, Carlos, Checo, and Franco. They are shook that THE Fernando Alonso wants to be besties with them (especially Carlos since Fernando is his hero).

KMag and Hulk are probably friends since this is pre Suck My Balls and they're friends now so, their energies align I guess.

Being 14 year olds who find out they're rich and famous, they all want to escape into the real world and take joyrides in the expensive cars they own/ drink alcohol/ see strippers/ buy crazy stuff and their team staff is like OH NO WE CAN'T LET THEM ESCAPE (Thus ensues comedy gold of the team staff chasing kids who have the bodies of professional athletes around the track and trying to contain them)

If in Singapore, Yuki and Zhou manage to escape because they are 2 East Asians wearing designer and F1 merch and they blend in with the fans. (As a disguise, they swap team shirts and put on surgical masks and people are like "Is that Zhou Guanyu?" "Nah why would Zhou be wearing a Yuki shirt?") Word gets out in the drivers whatsapp that they escaped and they immediately get bombarded with requests for what to buy for the rest of the paddock. They cannot rly understand each other but Zhou can get around Sgp pretty easily bc a lot of people there speak Mandarin. He has to stop Yuki from breaking at least five Singaporean laws. They stuff themselves at hawker stands and have a great field trip but then get recognized and have to make an emergency getaway on a stolen electric scooter. They do get Lewis his Frosties.

Lewis doesn't know he's a vegan and almost ruins his reputation by being spotted by paparazzi eating Frosties with non vegan milk. Also gives himself a nasty stomachache.

Despite being told not to tell other people about the mass amnesia, Max and Lance both call their dads. Lawrence is like "My poor son! I will get the experts to look into this right away!" Jos is like "idc if you don't remember how to drive the car, you're gonna do it or I'll disown you." Daniel and Lando grab the phone and tell Jos he's a meanie and also was a shit F1 driver, then hang up.

George finds chewing gum at the bottom of someone's bag and starts spiraling, convinced that the Singaporean police are going to arrest and execute them all for possessing illegal items.

Lord of the Flies scenario where George and Oscar are trying to organize everyone to make sure they don't accidentally hurt themselves, whereas Lando, Fernando, KMag, Daniel, and a few others are just trying to have a good time and cause chaos. Bottas and Alex and a third group are just like quietly messing around in the back.

They come to a truce in order to organize a GPDA strike because they have been banned from leaving the track until they regain their memories. They barricade themselves in someone's garage and have a sleepover on the floor with lots of candy and games. Lewis finds a guitar and plays Wonderwall.

They wake up the next day extremely confused (but remembering everything) and race as normal LOL