#fire and blood volume 2

[intheyearofourlord800]

Everybody else patiently waiting for George RR Martin to release fire and blood volume two:

Meanwhile me:

"I SAID WRITE THE DAMN BOOK NOW."

[sarcasticsweetlara]

I really want to see Aegon remembering his mother and how that influences him to see people and everything around him, especially considering the prejudices Dornish people suffer which his mother must have faced maybe not in the same way as Myriah but still

Considering Fire & Blood Vol.2 and George R.R. Martin's overuse of the Death by Childbirth Trope. Do you think that following woman died in Childbed? -Daenaera Velaryon, Dyanna Dayne (Wife of Maekar), Mariah Martell, Jena Dondarrion (Wife of Baelor Breakspear), Alys Arryn (wife of Rhaegel) and Daenora Targaryen

We know that Mariah Martell didn’t die in childbirth. Yandel writes in TWOIAF that Daeron II’s “marriage to Mariah of Dorne—now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—had been happy and fruitful”. Since Maekar, her youngest, was already between 6 and 10 when his father became king, in 184 AC, Mariah appears to have survived the births of all of her children and lived to become queen. 

As for the rest, however, there is simply too little we know at this point to say. When I predicted, before Fire and Blood Volume 1 came out, that Alyssa Targaryen would be revealed to have died in childbirth, I based it on the fact that at that point we had TWOIAF (which mentioned Alyssa giving birth three times) and “The Rogue Prince” (where she was noticeably absent despite the importance she could have had as “my lady the king’s mother”). But F&B ends in 136 AC, several years before the birth of Aegon III and Daenaera’s first child, without any hint toward Daenaera’s future as queen; moreover, Yandel barely speaks about Daenaera, and certainly doesn’t mention whether she survived the birth of her youngest, Elaena. Dyanna Dayne, Jena Dondarrion, Alys Arryn, and Daenora Targaryen don’t even get the passing mentions in the text of TWOIAF which Mariah and Daenaera receive; the four of them were only named in the Targaryen Lineage in that book, and the most definite conclusion we can make about any of them is that Dyanna died sometime between 201 AC (the earliest possible date for her young child’s birth) and 209 AC (when Egg told Dunk that “[m]y mother’s dead, she wouldn’t say anything”).

Now, all that being said, would I be surprised if any of these women (minus, of course, Mariah Martell) will be revealed to have died in childbirth? Not in the least. It’s become pretty evident by this point that GRRM relies on killing off women in childbirth in his Westerosi works, and not because of its actual historical accuracy (because that does not seem to be the case h/t @joannalannister). Relatedly, and just as disappointingly too, GRRM has felt comfortable treating these dynastic mothers as no more than walking wombs, whose importance is inherently tied up in their ability to give birth to the really important characters. Need I remind anyone of “Lady Stark. She died”? Need I mention again that we know nothing about the fates of the mothers of the three male Great Bastards after each of them gave birth to her son? Given what we’ve seen in F&B (where 11 women, by my count, are stated to have died in or as a result of childbirth), I could very much imagine GRRM taking the same route and killing off any of these women in the same fashion.

Still, I will hold out some - not much, maybe a thimbleful, but some - hope that this will not be the case. I voiced my disappointment at Jocelyn Baratheon getting little attention in F&B despite being a Targaryen crown princess, the daughter of a Targaryen queen, and the mother of a would-be queen, but in Jena Dondarrion GRRM has another opportunity to create an interesting, complex, detailed crown princess who never became queen. I have had a lot of thoughts on Alys Arryn and the ambition she could have had for her descendants, and while I don’t expect all of those to be true, I think GRRM could easily have Alys be a strong, intelligent, ambitious figure in her own right. Even if Dyanna Dayne was dead by the time of “The Hedge Knight”, I would like to hope that in future D&E tales we could learn more about her and Egg’s early childhood relationship with his mother, instead of having her relegated to the “gave birth and died” position unfortunately common for the mothers of major characters in this series. Again, I have a real fear this won’t be the case, given what we’ve seen, but I’m crossing my fingers for now.

[personapeters]

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬

— a rafe cameron one shot (1 of 2) part one • part two

✰ you’re at a party with your ‘best friend’, rafe, when things suddenly turn sour, and he’s not afraid to fight for whats his.

rating: sfw — cw: alcohol, physical assault, blood

if y/n was somehow convinced that the rafe cameron could have simply walked away from a situation as such — she was terribly mistaken. the mild taste of alcohol burning in the back of his throat became overwhelmingly bitter as he shoved his phone back into his pocket, his knuckles aching in sheer anticipation.

his mind raced for a moment as he stood, rage gradually bubbling in his stomach as a burning sensation overtook his skin. they weren’t ‘official’ by any means — he wasn’t even sure if she saw him the way he did her — but in his mind, that truly meant changed nothing; whether she was simply his closest friend or his girlfriend, she was still someone of his — his.

he downed the rest of the weak mixer in his red solo cup before throwing it down onto the already trash cluttered floor. his narrow eyes scanned the crowed of moving bodies surrounding him before they landed on a familiar head of dirty blonde.

“aye — aye, top!” he called out, weaving his way through the living room with minimal care for the people he was shoving before fully approaching his friend. “yo, rafe, you good?” topper questioned with immediate concern, noticing the all-too-familiar look on the older mans face as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“where’s your man?” rafe asked through gritted teeth, attempting to keep his composure — he knew exactly who y/n refered to, he just needed to find him. “wha- who?” topper replied with a genuine confusion, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. “that short fuck you invited, topper,” rafe seethed with mild annoyance, his patience wearing extremely thin as he watched his friend take another swig of his beer, “the blonde — where is he?”

“mmm,” topper hummed in recognition as he pulled his lips from the bottle and took a swallow, “mikey? uh, out back with kelce, last i seen ‘em.” needing nothing more, rafe swiftly stormed off with a clenched jaw, exiting out of the back porch door with a slam while ignoring topper’s questioning calls from behind.

the sandy backyard was almost as populated as the inside, the once pounding music now a muted bass as he furthered himself from house, his head on a swivel as he searched the sea of people. once again, he roughly pushed his way through party-goers, his height playing to his advantage as he peered above their heads, scanning the area. it took all of a minute before he spotted kelce and a few others gathered around a fire, laughing amongst themselves.

he felt a twisting heat build in his core as he neared them, his fists balled tightly as he held them stiff by his sides, knuckles white from the intense pressure. kelce noticed rafe approaching out of the corner of his eye, a bright smile on his face as he prepared to greet his friend that was quickly wiped away when he noticed his hostile demeanor.

“aye, what’s-,” kelce started, but was cut off abruptly as rafe brushed past and violently shoved the lanky blonde beside him to the ground. “yo, what the fuck, rafe?!” kelce yelled, stepping in between the two men hastily, eyes widened as he glanced between them both — once again, rafe simply brushed past him.

“y’think you can just try ‘n force girls to fuck you? keep fuckin’ with her ‘till she puts out?” rafe seethed at a moderate volume, towering over a heaving michael who was attempting to regain the breath that was knocked out of him. rafe used the plural term ‘girls’ loosely as he only really cared for the one girl in particular — he wasn’t afraid to admit that, either.

“what are you talking about, dude?” the man in the sand exclaimed, though rafe knew he was feigning ignorance. “what the hell is going on?!” kelce added, though through everything he was hearing, he began putting the jagged pieces together.

“can’t get pussy without beggin’ for it, right? ah, that’s it,” rafe taunted with a malicious half-grin, one that could send a static chill down one’s spine and make them question what it’s owner was capable of. some would say rafe cameron always had a hint of crazy in his eyes, but now it was prominent and on full display. “c’mon, rafe, just chill,” kelce reasoned, or attempted to, pushing his friend back by his biceps as michael clamored to his feet.

“yo, get the fuck off me!” rafe barked, swiping both of kelce’s arms away with a single motion, his eyes still locked onto his target. “y’like puttin’ your hands on girls, yeah?!” rafe hissed, marching across the sand and pressing his broad chest to michael’s lesser one, his breaths hot and rapid as they fanned across his opponent’s face. a crowd had formed as the altercation became louder and more evident, encouraging chants emitting from the herd of college students surrounding who drunkenly anticipated the unconventional entertainment.

admittedly, rafe liked — no, loved that everyone was watching him make an example out of the unfortunate soul who crossed him. anyone who had an ounce of sense knew never to mess with rafe cameron or his people, especially not his girl — his name was written all over her. yet, seemingly, not everyone got that very important message; though, he knew it would soon be made exceedingly loud and abundantly clear, as it should be.

“dude, i-i don’t know what the fuck you’re talking ab-,” the blonde began to babble but rafe wasn’t in any mood to listen, abruptly interrupting him in his fit of rage by swinging back a heavy fist and letting it crack against mikey’s jaw. the shorter man stumbled backwards, the sand beneath his feet making it harder to regain his balance as he plummeted to the ground. he gripped his chin as a thin stream of warm blood began to pour from his mouth before yelling, “what the fuck, dude?!”

“what—you don’t like that?” rafe mocked with a sickeningly sweet tone, watching with an ice-melting gaze as the man clamored to his feet. “tell me to stop,” rafe snarled, lunging forward and taking another loaded swing, connecting it straight into michael’s ribs, “nah, you like it, don’t you?” he doubled over in pain, letting out a strained groan as he placed a hand over his sore abdomen.

“yo, that’s enough, rafe,” kelce intervened again, stepping in between the two men in an attempt to distinguish the fight. rafe ignored his friend’s plea, roughly brushing shoulders passed him as he advanced once again. “c’mon, tough guy, don’t be a bitch,” he taunted again, “put your hands on somebody who wants ‘em.”

suddenly, a voice from within the large huddle of bystanders was heard, topper emerging from the mass with urgency. “hey, hey! what the fuck is going on?!” he asked frantically, his eyes flickering between rafe and the battered man before him. “why don’t you ask your buddy over there, huh?” rafe hissed, enough anger boiling in his blood to heat the very surface of his skin, his adrenaline at an all-time high.

“i ain’t do nothing, alright?!” michael defended breathlessly, and rafe felt as though his body could have burst from rage. “nothing, huh?” rafe muttered, surprisingly calm as an overwhelming, animalistic urge to tear the man apart limb from limb began to overtake him even further.

“beggin’ to crack girls who don’t want to fuck you is nothing, huh?” rafe projected as though it was an announcement, loud enough for everyone surrounding to hear, “getting your dick in a twist when they turn you down, leavin’ marks on ‘em — that’s nothing? you’re a fuckin’ pussy.”

“alright, you watch your mouth,” michael spat through gritted teeth, striding forward with a pointed finger, stopping it a mere inch away from rafe’s stoic face; rafe found it almost comical. “or what?” rafe rebutted, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his rose tinted lips. the volume of the crowd raised once more as the momentum picked up, the watchers on the edge of their metaphorical seats as they awaited a fight they knew rafe would deliver.

“you guys needa just-just chill out — calm down,” topper coaxed, attempting to play peacemaker, though his efforts were deemed futile when michael suddenly pulled his fist back and pounded it against rafe’s bottom lip, catching him off guard. the pink, supple flesh split instantly, blood trickling over his chin and trailing down his neck, the fabric of his shirt soaking it up and painting itself crimson.

rafe darted forward, virtually unfazed by the newfound gash on his face, grabbing michael by his collar with one hand and striking him in the jaw with the other. the crowd gasped while others cheered, their phones tight in their grasps as they recorded the brawl — this is what they were waiting for. rafe felt multiple pairs of hands on his back, tugging at his shirt as they attempted to pull him off, but rafe could only stop when he wanted to.

he planted another jab into michael’s side, which was quickly reciprocated when a set of knuckles collided with rafe’s torso, causing him to stumble. although michael was noticeably smaller, his brute was still nothing to be undermined, especially when being used against a girl like y/n. considering that only pushed rafe further off the edge — the idea of anyone trying her made him irrevocably livid.

“you’re a coward,” rafe yelled as he swung once again, this time knocking michael off his feet and onto his back with a sand-cushioned thud, “a fucking coward!” he kicked the fallen man in his side with the entirety of his strength, causing him to roll over in agony as he hugged himself. “ain’t even man enough,” he gritted out while kicking him again, “to own up to it,” and again, “wanna touch my girl,” and again, “fuckin’ joke.”

in the near distance, a loud siren was heard followed by the hue of red and blue lights washing over the front of the house, causing the gaggle of bystanders to all flee in various directions. “that’s enough,” topper insisted with a hand yanking rafe back by his shoulder, frankly only concerned for him after digesting the entirety of the situation, “the cops are here — we gotta go.”

rafe ignored his warning, stalking towards the blonde on the ground with an unwavering desire to make his face utterly unrecognizable. moments like these made him wish he could guarantee getting away with murder, completely removing the problem from his island. he crouch down slowly, grabbing michael by his dirtied polo before roughly pulling him upwards, their faces inches apart as he left him with a final message warning:

“don’t come back here again. if you ever — ever even so much as fucking speak to her again, i promise… i will fucking kill you.”

 personapeters 2024 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[mejaemin]

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so bossy - johnny suh

wc: 1k summary: deny it all you want, sass him all you want, but you’re definitely johnny’s girl. warnings: blood/injuries, flirty + bad boy!johnny, nerdy ish reader, neighbors to ??? (implied neighbors to lovers) lmk if anything is missing! an: this is sooo rushed but i wanted 2 post it before posting my 600 follower event !!! i hope you all likey 😛

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you’re nose deep in a textbook at a time where your eyes really should be shut when a knock sounds at your door. you simply raise the volume of your speaker, study playlist filling the room as you choose to ignore the outside world and civilization. it works for a while too, and you just about get back into the groove until a rattling sound starts tapping against your window.

you lower the music, squinting to look at what it could be, and groan, loud enough for the person at your window to hear. making your way over, you begrudgingly open the window. you don’t even get a chance to let him in, his heavy body shaking the fire escape (and your entire living room) as he tumbles through the window and hits the floor with a groan.

“get up.” your tone is sharp. “you’re getting dirt, and.. blood, all over my floor.” he mumbles a damn under his breath, and you ignore him, continuing your nagging, “and did you need to use the fire escape? you live in the same building. just use the elevator like a normal person.“

“sorry pretty, don’t want any losers following me home, now do i?” johnny says, voice a little raspy, probably from yelling. he sits down on your kitchen counter, and you’re so ready to yell at him for it until you see just how much he winces when he hops uo there.

after pulling the ever-growing first aid from your bathroom, you make your way to where he’s sitting. even while sitting down, you still have to crane your neck to look at him. with a warm, wet cloth, you begin wiping at the blood on his lips and cheeks. there’s countless spots on his face and jaw that are swollen, split open by whoever he got caught up with.

your finger dips into some ointment, rubbing it over all the sidewalk burns and cuts. he’s actually quite compliant throughout the process, staying silent like you always beg him to be when this happens.

“you’re being oddly good. it’s weird.” you say, hoping to mask your bashfulness when you begin running your finger over his lip, covering it in ointment where the skin is broken.

he smirks, “i’ve already-“ without thinking, you speak over him, murmuring about how he’ll split it open again, grabbing his face to stop his smile. he continues despite you talking, fighting back a laugh at your sudden touchy nature. “-pissed you off enough, haven’t i? can’t hurt to be a little nice.”

“that’s a first.” you say, ignoring anything else he says while trying not to be squeamish as you place butterfly bandages over his skin, standing on your tiptoes to do so. under the dimmed lights of your kitchen, his gaze is hard on your eyes, your cheeks so flushed they match the color of his wounds.

you finish up, throwing away your trash and putting your first aid kit away. it’s a miracle, really, how you managed to push through it with his incessant yapping and flirting, but it’s done. when you come back from putting everything away, he’s still there, having moved to the couch, laying down with his arm covering his eyes.

“are you staying?” you ask, scoffing when you see that he still has his shoes on, ripping them off his feet and bringing them to your front door.

he sits up, his smile full of surprise and flirtatious intent. “oh, so i have a choice now? what’s gotten into you, sweetheart?”

you roll your eyes, pushing his legs off the arm of your couch to sit on it. “if you don’t answer my question, i’ll do it for you.” elbows propped on your knees, you tuck a hair behind your ear, keeping your eyes down.

“i’ll stay, then. ‘s too much work to walk home.” he groans, obnoxiously loud, stretching as he sinks into your couch cushions.

“you live like two doors down, john, don’t be ridiculous,” you call out from down the hallway, reaching into your hall closet for a spare blanket, and a pillow from your bed for him to sleep with. without much care, you throw them in his direction, a grunt sounding when they hit his body.

“aww, i can’t stay in your bed?” he fake pouts, laughing when you give him the most disgusted look while standing over him.

“you stink. and you’re dirty. and bloody.” you say, arms crossed, hugging your cardigan to yourself.

he sits upright, patting the spot next to him. you sit down, the gap between you big enough to keep you comfortable, but still awkward. he leans back, truly making himself comfortable (as if he hadn’t already) by manspreading. he turns to you, appearance lazy and tired, yet full of teasing and romantic energy.

“that wasn’t a no, was it?” he teases, leaning in close. he’s not even trying anything, simply invading your space to get a rise out of you. your eyes widen, leaning back for every inch he gets closer. the inside of your body is on fire, getting even worse when you accidentally look down at his lips. and of course, he notices, his sly grin only getting bigger.

“i-” you sigh, your head falling into your hands. he leans in even closer, arm falling around your back. you shake your head, kicking your feet in a fit of nerves, or who knows what even.

“you’re always so bossy, but you don’t have much to say now, hm?” you peek through your fingers and see him right next to you, at face level, and flinch. he smiles, leaning back in his seat like he had before.

“g- go to sleep, john..” you say, getting up and walking to your bedroom. his eyes follow you the whole time, only shutting when you disappear behind the door. for the rest of the night, your minds are both hooked on the knowledge that no matter how bossy you may be with him, he’s had you wrapped around his finger since the first time you patched him up.

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nct 🏷️ @chenlezip @coquettejunnie

[monstersflashlight]

Patreon Commission for @monstersholygrail

A/N: You can read part 1 here and part 2 here. Enjoy!

The curse (part 3)

Demon (POV) x fem!reader || desperate sex, intimate

Your words kept spinning in his brain. He could still feel them burning on his frontal cortex as you opened a new book. “Because I’m in love with a demon who’s been cursed to never leave this store. And I’m damn sure I can break the damn curse so he can come to sleep on my fucking bed.” You were in love with him. In love with a demon… You, his sweet human, were in love with him.

He couldn’t figure out how that came to be. He couldn’t figure out how he made that possible. He was a grumpy asshole who always scared you (on purpose) when you arrived and made fun of your book choices. Even if he later on ordered more romance and supernatural book because it was what you liked to read more. But he would never confess to that.

And still you were there, trying to save him… because for some reason you loved him.

Fascinating.

He couldn’t stop watching you, just staring after your gorgeous face as you worked on the books, completely focused on it. It was the third time he caught you yawning when he decided that was enough. It was okay that you wanted to read everything relating to the curse in order to destroy it, but he wasn’t about to let you overwork yourself for him.

He might be a demon, but he was a demon that felt very human things for the very pretty human trying to help him. “I have a bed here, you know?” He deadpanned, leaning against the door frame trying to look casual.

You looked up from the old volume you were reading, “What?” Your eyes were hooded in a sleepy way, and that made something he didn’t know how to name stir inside his chest. His wings flapping behind him.

“You said you wanted to break the curse so I could go sleep on your bed, but I have a bed,” he explained as if you were stupid, his fangs biting his lip to try not to smile at your annoyed face.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” you complained, focus back on the book.

“I know…” He told you, approaching the table you were on very slowly. “But I want to see you on that bed. Preferably naked,” he whispered against your ear, making you let out a screech because of the surprise of having him so close.

He laughed loudly as you scowled at him. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Whatever you say,” he let out between chuckles, wiping away a tear running down his cheek. “Come on, you are tired, let’s go to bed and we can continue this tomorrow,” he tried softer this time, a hint of worry permeating his words.

“Naked?” You teased.

He tried to be good, he really tried, but you were asking about sleeping naked next to him and he was nothing but a demon. A very horny demon. “Do I need to touch you again so you remember what happens when I have you naked?”

The smirk playing on your lips was enough to make him hard as a rock, and the way you whispered: “Mmmm… Maybe I need a reminder,” turned his blood on fire.

“You do, huh?” He teased back, his wings flapping a bit on his back as he approached you, helping you stand up and pressing his hard body against your soft one.

“Yes, please…” Your plea ignited something inside of him that was long dormant.

He grabbed you by the waist, unable to control himself, and used one of his spells to teleport you to bed. You fell backwards as he fell on top of you, your mouths meeting in a frenzy of kisses. His hands tried to touch skin, roaring when he couldn’t touch you fully because you were still dressed. You were giggling as he growled at your clothes, pulling at them until his fingertips burned holes through them, pulling and pulling until they tore and you were exposed to his hungry eyes.

He touched every single part of you he could, until he felt dizzy, almost drunk with desire for you. He could smell your pleasure. He could smell how wet you were for him. And it only made his own arousal grow higher, his brain spinning as he licked and nipped at your skin.

He was desperate, he wanted to touch you but he was scared he could hurt you in any way. “Ride me, little human,” he whispered against your ear.

You moaned as he manhandled you until you were straddling his hard on, his wings trapped under him and your hands pressed against his chest. You were rocking your hips to drive your pleasure higher, and he couldn’t be more happy with it.

He lasted very little like that, your luscious body over him, driving him insane, but your movements too controlled, too slow. He needed more. So he took it. He grabbed your hips with strong hands, his claws picking at your skin as you moaned his name and threw your head back, looking magnificent. But the way your pussy twitched was what gave him the signal you craved the movement, you craved the savageness inside of him.

He pressed you down harder, pushing his hips up at the same time until you screamed. And then he did it again and again, helping you move over him as you rode his dick like a Valkyrie going into battle. He had never seen anything as beautiful as you in that moment.

Your orgasm was a loud, shouting his name at the top of your lungs as he roared his own release, his thrusts erratic as he pushed every little bit of his essence as deep inside of you as he could. The way you smelt at the peak of your passion drove him completely insane. But the way you smelt right after you came and he filled you with his come? Absolute ambrosia.

He was still breathing hard when you whispered: “I can’t forget you if I don’t leave, can I?” You were half asleep against his chest, but the idea of the curse affecting you in that way had him almost jumping out of the bed. Your body resting on top of him was the only thing stopping him from running out. “Hear me out, you were worried the curse could hurt me, but I’ve been here for hours and it hasn’t done anything, so I think it’s safe for me to stay until we figure it out.”

He tried to hold back a growl, but his voice was a low rumble when he blurted: “I won’t let you be trapped here the same way I am.”

“Lucky you aren’t the one deciding it, so suck it and go to sleep,” your tone didn’t leave space for arguments and he could do nothing but to hug you closer as you fell asleep against his side.

He really needed to face the curse, didn’t he?

Fuck.

Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

[swanlakex]

Ok so I’m actually in love with this plot lmk if I should make a mini-series or something.. enjoy!

Camp Counselor Sam

Sam hated his job.

Or, at least that’s what he wanted everyone else to think. His mom had forced him to apply after finding 2 bongs and a concerning amount of pills under his bed and in his sock drawer. A summer would set him straight, teach him some responsibility, she figured.

“Hey,” Sam groaned to his campers, lying down on a bench. “No fighting.” He pulled his arms over his face, his dark sunglasses not even helping the hangover he was facing. The other counselors slipped out of the cabins late last night to “The Spot”, which was really just a gazebo tucked away in the woods a walk away. It was there they drank cheap beer around the fire, strumming songs on their guitars and complaining about the kids. You were there, too. And you couldn’t find an escape to Sam’s burning gaze through the fire, staring straight through your soul. It was a little creepy.

Sam was in charge of the Chippewa cabin, boys aged 7-9. Potty trained, sure; but loud, sticky, and stubborn. Two boys were wrestling around in the dirt before lunch, obviously stir crazy. Once Sam chided them, they both stood up, and one pushed the other as a last resort get-back.

“Seriously, Jacob. Enough. Ethan’ll have another asthma attack, and I’m not going through that paperwork again.” Sam groaned. “Why can’t you go play Gaga with the others? Always gotta stir up stuff.” Jacob, one of the older kids in the cabin, looked back at the Gaga pit. “I can’t.” He whispered. Sam sighed and sat up, throwing his arms up and landing them back on his knees with a Slap! “Why not?”

“Emma’s there.” Jacob pointed to a girl around his age, braids in her hair as she kicked a ball around, smiling.

“So?”

Silence was all Sam needed to understand.

“Oh! You like her, huh?”

“Shhh!” Jacob cringed.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’m great with girls.” He said quietly with a smirk.

“Like Counselor Y/N?”

“Shut up,” Sam looked away. “Go talk to her.”

“And say what?”

“I dunno. You like her shirt, or somethin’. Or- better option: show her your killer Gaga skills. That’ll impress her.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man. Go.” Sam swatted Jacob away with his hand, pushing towards the game, smiling as he laid back down for some peace and quiet. Finally.

“AHHHHH!” Sam sat up immediately when he heard an ear-piercing scream. Wincing at the volume. As he whipped his head around, he saw little Emma on the ground, clutching her face. Sobbing. He also saw Jacob with the purest look of terror in his eyes, and a ball right beside Emma.

“Oh my god! Emma! Are you okay?” You shout, looking up from your magazine. You run to her, kneeling down to her to assess the damage.

“I’m so sorry!” Jacob cried. “I- I didn’t mean to!”

Sam came over, grabbing Jacob by the shoulders.

“Way to fumble the bag, dude.” Sam whispered in his ear. He nodded to you and Emma. “Is she ok?”

Emma moved her hands from her face. Blood gushed from her nose.

“Fuck,” Sam mumbled under his breath.

You turned to Sam, not recognizing him until now because of the chaos. “Uh. Yeah. Just gotta go to the infirmary.” You turn back to Emma, one of your campers, with a face full of pity.

“Can you walk, bug?” Emma responded with loud, inconsolable wailing. You just nod, stand, and pull Emma up in your arms, her head dangling over your shoulder. Blood was getting all over your shirt.

Sam and his camper watched in horror as you walked Emma to the infirmary. Then, the lunch bell rang.

Emma was fine. Some Kleenex, ice, and a sucker was all she needed before you walked her to the dining hall with a smile on her face. But before she could run to her friends, you two were stopped. Sam and Jacob stood awkwardly, but Sam nudged Jacob and he spoke.

“E-Emma. I’m really sorry I kicked the ball in your face. I didn’t mean to. Sorry.” Jacob then handed her a handful of picked dandelions that he was hiding behind his back. “These are for you.”

Sam whispered something in Jacob’s ear.

“And I like your shirt.”

Emma smiled gently and took the yellow flowers. “Thanks.” She said shyly. “Do you wanna sit together?”

Jacob turned to Sam beaming with pride.

“Go get ‘em tiger.” He said with a push. With that, Emma and Jacob ran off to the other side of the dining hall.

You looked up at Sam, smiling confusedly.

“The apology was his idea,” he blurted. “I just thought the flowers might sweeten the deal.” Dandelions are actually weeds, you thought. You kept that to yourself.

“That was sweet, Sam. Thank you.” You smile.

He just nodded curtly and slipped away into the buzzing crowd of people.

What a mystery of a guy, you thought.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Can you do a Daryl Dixon one where he almost loses her to someone/something/or a walker so he decides to tell her that he loves her and he makes love to her as well. A little possessive and maybe kinda future family references?

.⋆｡Worst Timing｡⋆.

Daryl Dixon x plus size reader

Daryl is an all or nothing man, so obviously he would only tell you that he was desperately in love with you right after you almost died.

Warnings: canon-level violence, walkers, loosely based around s6 ep9, sorry no smut this time (i blame the luteal phase), angst, fluff, confessions, blood, mention of kids  WC: 1.1k

Minors DNI

A/N: Could be read as a part 2 to this but it isn't necessary to read it first

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The sounds of walkers were almost deafening, almost. The crackling of the flames behind him and the squelch of blades against flesh but Daryl forced himself to ignore all of that, though the volume kept increasing like someone had turned up the world’s biggest stereo. 

Withered hands reached for him, but the hunter battered them away with a swing of his knife. He just had to get further into the crowd, he could see the house where the group had been held up, the candles in the window like a beacon in the night. He was only a couple hundred feet away, a few rows of walkers between him and his people.

The sea of rotting bodies parted for just a moment, right as a street lamp flickered to life, and there you were. A crowbar in your dominant hand, your clothes soaked in blood and walker guts, your eyes reflecting the fire in front of you and for a moment, Daryl froze in awe. You gracefully swung the weapon over your head, bringing it down into the skull of a fresh walker before spinning on your heel and using the otherside to connect with the jaw of another. You moved fluidly, like this was a well-practised dance you had done hundreds of times before instead of a game of survival. 

Your arm came down, spiking a crawler through the top of its skull. But suddenly, you stopped moving, your eyes going wide. You grabbed at the crowbar with both hands and pulled back but it refused to budge, and just as you vanished once more into the crowd, Daryl saw why.

The straight end of the crowbar had pierced all the way through the walker and buried itself in the hard soil beneath your feet and with the walkers closing in around you, you had no room to get enough leverage to pull it out. Then you vanished between the walkers once more.

“Y/N!” Daryl didn’t even think as he launched himself in your direction, hunting knife screaming through the air, cutting down anything that stood in his way. He pushed and shoved and clawed his way through because you were all that mattered, you were all he lived for. The moment he met you in that stupid, beautiful, damned farm, his world had tilted on its axis.

Your smile was his sunlight, your laugh, his favourite music. Your body, his aurora borealis. You were a miracle and yet so painfully human all the same. And if he let you die, his heart would wither away with you before he ever got to tell you that it had been yours since before you both had even met.

Red blurred his vision though whether it was from blood or rage, he didn’t care to find out. He threw his broad shoulder into the chest of a particularly tall walker, forcing it back into the waiting blade of one of the Alexandrians and finally, finally clearing the way to you. 

You were pinned against the street curb, your back curved at an awkward angle as the weight of two walkers kept you from standing or rolling away. You held one back with your left arm, its face barely centimetres from your own, as you wedged a knee between you and the second one.

His fingers sank into the rotted flesh of the creature trying to sink its teeth into your forearm and threw it off with so much force that as soon as it hit the concrete several feet away, its skull cracked open, spilling black brain matter onto the street. You were now fully on your back, still punching and kicking in any direction you could, even as the walkers started to thin. You shoved off the second walker, just in time for Daryl’s steel-toed boot to come down right on the back of its head.

“Daryl.” His name dripped from your lips like honey, immediately cooling his head like some sort of balm to his soul. The ground shook as he fell to his knees next to you. The orange light of the lake still burning strong flickered across your face, illuminating every single detail he had memorised so long ago.

The roughness of his palm met the softness of your full cheek, sending a spark of excitement racing through his tired body. “I almost lost ya.” You pressed into his touch, your own shaking hand cupping his elbow as you leaned in closer.

“But you saved me.” His heart skipped a beat and you smiled gently at him. You were here, you were alive and in his arms and suddenly, Daryl couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

Your lips were chapped and dry but perfect all the same as he finally kissed you. A squeak of surprise passed from your mouth to his before your eyes fluttered shut and you pressed against him. Your fingers curled into the soft leather of his vest, like you were trying to anchor him to you as if he were about to get up and walk away. Daryl snarled at the thought, his grip on your jaw getting tighter as the kiss began to heat up.

You were desperately chasing his lips, your feelings so plainly laid out for him that Daryl felt stupid for never having seen them before. He felt your need to be by his side in the warmth of your touch, the faith you had in him in the way you let his weight rest against you. 

The softness of your body moulded to him in a way he could only imagine it would and it was so much more than that. Your nose bumped into his, prompting him to tilt his head. You responded with a soft moan that shot through his body. 

“While I am happy for you two, we still have shit to do, now’s not really the time.” You pulled away from Daryl’s lips with an embarrassed gasp, leaving him cold without your touch. Michonne stood above the both of you, equally haggard and filthy but her smile, although small, was genuine if not teasing. 

“Sorry.” You scrambled to your feet and pulled your crowbar from where it was still stuck. Your eyes sparkled as you looked at Daryl, a promise and heat in your gaze, before you jogged off into the centre of town where the herd was now thinned but still biting. 

He watched you go, his heart trailing behind you. “Rick’ll want to be godfather to your kids, just so you know.” 

A blush exploded across his face. “Shuddup.” He rushed after you, cheeks still burning and his body exhausted but he felt lighter than he had ever felt before. Because you were surviving and you were his and by whatever god was out there, he would spend the rest of his life thanking them for that.

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[visenyaism]

assume fire and blood 2: electric boogaloo has the same issues with writing women as the first volume. which of the remaining targaryen princesses and queens in the family tree do you think would slot into the sexy tomboy category, the submissive waif category, and the evil femme fatale category? and who you think is going to be the rare well-written female character (my money is on elaena)

I don’t want to put people in categories like this because i want fire and blood 2 to be less sexist even though I know it won’t be. Heres some predictions though:

Morning gets poisoned in Oldtown because they want to kind of confirm the maesters are up to something. Rhaena dies of grief or childbirth or being a woman over the age of 35 in these shortly after.

Laena Velaryon has a kid with some random and then goes on a voyage to Valyria to find Elissa Farman’s dragon eggs and disappears.

Baela Targaryen early Blackfyre loyalist even though she dies when Daemon Blackfyre is like 5 years old because she is team let Daena do whatever she wants. She has a meeting in the capital with Viserys like 3 days before Baelor gets maybe-poisoned which could mean nothing.

Daeron Dreamer and Dae2mon Blackfyre hook up #real

All of Maekar’s siblings and children are described as “exceptionally pale” because GRRM’s racist freak advisors need everyone to know that even though they are half to three-quarters dornish everyone involved in this story is Whiiiiiite.

Every single Blackwood character gets the hereditary archery powers. Missy has a close call where she tries to shoot Barba Bracken and pins her braid to a tree. We already know Bloodraven shot Daemon Blackfyre but one of his sisters actually helped (the other one didn’t because she was too sweet and shy see this is fire and blood.) Betha Blackwood is a trick shooter who can thread a needle with a bow and arrow from 20 yards out and this is how she met Egg.

Aelora Targaryen mystery still a complete mystery.

In the interest of complicating the narrative, Bittersteel is now an antihero and Daeron II gets the Jaehaerys treatment. Fire and Blood II gets accused of being pro-Blackfyre.

Shiera and Shaera are both pro-valyrian revanchists we learn nothing of real import about. Shiera disappears off the face of the earth but someone matching her description is seen leaving Summerhall right after it happens

One of Eggs non-entity sisters is a lesbian and the other is a Septa

[lackinggravitas]

god, this got... long. nearly 6k words long. not sure how that happened, lmao.

i’ve been overthinking this chapter for too long, sitting on it too long. been busy, graduating in a week. im writing this note at like... midnight. sorry if i'm incoherent. anyways. this fic is fun to write. next chapter won't be nearly this long. uh. yep. i think thats it. enjoyyy

ao3 vers

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 (you are here!) / part 7 (eventually)

Ford was off like a shot as soon as the sounds erupted, and Fiddleford was helpless to do anything except follow, stumbling after him through his patterned maze of hallways. Gizmos and gadgets were strewn about on seemingly every floor in every room, with enough paper to set a forest on fire littered about everywhere too. 

There was a raucous cacophony of barking and what sounded like shrill screaming echoing off the maze of Ford’s cabin, rattling through the quaint halls and setting Fiddleford’s hair on edge and his heart thumping like a rabbit’s in his chest. 

Lordy, first Stanley and now this? Fiddleford thought, flabbergasted,  as he followed Ford down another turn. Is this place some sorta weirdness magnet?

Ford awkwardly clambered over what looked to be some sort of complicated, hodge-podged machine that not even Fiddleford could parse the design of, that had fallen in the hallway. The way he swung over it without missing a beat, clearly not surprised at all to see it there, spoke volumes. Namely, that Ford hadn’t gotten any better about keeping tidy since their shared dorm room in college. 

Only Stanford could get himself into a situation like this, Fiddleford thought, following after him as quick as he could, scrambling over the machine. With a laboratory in the woods, living with his feral brother that he refuses to admit is his brother. Fer’ some reason. 

They drew closer and closer to the noises, until suddenly Ford turned a corner and- oh. 

Remus- Stanley- their new friend was hunched on the floor, still on all fours (did he know how to walk? The thought made Fiddleford’s heart stir uncomfortably in his chest)- and presently busying himself with shaking something around in his mouth, not unlike how a dog might a toy. The motion was all a blur - Fiddleford couldn’t even see what he was holding. 

Then he realized the shrill noise was coming from the creature in Stanley’s mouth.

“Good Lord in Heaven!” Fiddleford yelped, not sure whether to jump in or run the opposite direction and settled to just tug anxiously at his hair instead. “Just what in tarnation is goin’ on in here?!”

There was a dash of blood on the linoleum, the jagged shards of a smashed ceramic laying in pieces on the ground. The mere sight of blood alone sent Fiddleford’s pulse skyrocketing, but then he finally caught sight of what Stanley - definitely not ‘Remus’, Lord knows he shouldn’t be playin’ into Stanford’s delusions - actually had in his mouth, and really it was a wonder Fiddleford’s heart hadn’t given out on him yet.

There was a small man between Stanley’s jaws, screaming and flailing one of his arms angrily. He seemed too big to actually fit in Stanley’s mouth - Stanley had to awkwardly bite into his side, holding him by grip strength mostly, as the other half dangled like a too-big fish.

This didn’t seem to be too much of a setback for Stanley though, as he shook the small man vigorously, like he was trying to shake the living daylights out of him.

“Gavin!” another shrill voice yelled in distress, and Fiddleford turned to see - oh sweet baby Jesus, there’s two of ‘em.

There was another little man in a pointy red hat like a garden gnome, this one wielding a fork like a weapon that he didn’t know how to use. He looked shaky and overwhelmed and, frankly, Fiddleford could relate.

“Harry!” The gnome-like little bugger apparently named Gavin, currently being shaken out of his wits in Stanley’s mouth, swung his free arm at his companion, yelling at him, “Harry, you useless idiot, do something!”

Harry shook like a leaf, taking a swing with his fork at Stanley. It was a weak hit - it didn’t even connect. “B-back! Unhand him, foul demon!”

“Would you quit dicking around?!” Gavin shrilled, flailing his free arm in blind panic and rage, eyes wild. “I don’t want to die here, you- you-!”

Predictably, Ford got his wits about him and bearings back much faster than Fiddleford - he sprung forward, jumping into the scene with a recklessness that made Fiddleford yelp. “Remus!” Ford yelled, more disapproving than angry, “Let go of him!”

His hands snapped around the other half of Gavin, grabbing him and trying to pull him out of Stanley’s mouth. This only made Stanley growl louder and bite down harder, and Fiddleford could see tiny pricks of blood bubbling up from where Stanley’s teeth sank into the gnome. Gavin only got louder, cursing cracking up an octave. 

“You can’t eat gnomes!” Ford tried, yanking the gnome - and Stanley along with it - closer to himself. “They’ve been vital to my research so far, you can’t just-!”

“What on earth am I even looking at here?” Fiddleford’s hands were in his own hair again and pulling anxiously without even having to think about it, eyes ping-ponging wildly across the room. The gnomes (honest to God, actual, living gnomes), Ford, and Stanley. He felt faint. 

Stanley growled loudly, biting down and pulling back, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge Ford’s grip. 

They’re playing tug-a-war with a gnome, Fiddleford thought hysterically. 

“LIBERTY OR DEATH!” Harry cried suddenly, charging forward with his fork extended out like a short sword, going right for Stanley.

Like a cavaliering knight, he struck right in the arm, slamming into Stanley and wrenching the prongs of the fork into him. Stanley dropped Gavin immediately, almost instinctively, letting a sharp yip of surprise and springing away from the attack - but the fork was already stuck deep into his forearm.

Fiddleford felt nauseous just looking at the blunt, inflexible hand of the fork stabbed into Stanley’s arm like a spear. He felt even sicker when Stanley looked down at it, whined, and then promptly closed his teeth around the handle and yanked it out. 

Fiddleford wasn’t sure if he was going to faint or throw up. He felt very lightheaded. 

Without Stanley to balance him, Ford went toppling over almost comically, rear hitting the floor with a thump, still gripping the wiggling gnome tightly. Expression almost dazed with confusion, he looked over at Stanley perplexedly, like he didn’t understand why he let go. Then his gaze snagged on the bloodied metal prongs of the fork Stanley held between his teeth, and his eyes widened.

“You-” Ford looked down at the gnomes, at Stanley, back and forth again. Eyes wide, incredulous and surprised. “This is utterly preposterous. What on earth is going on?”

“Your naked brother is a monster, man!” Harry said (a gnome. A talking gnome. Fiddleford was looking at a talking gnome). He scurried over to Ford’s side. “A monster!”

“He’s not my-”

“All we wanted was to go through your pantry and take all your sugar packets and jams,” Gavin hissed, weird little voice laced with pain and bubbling with anger. “And this guy just flew at us!”

Ford looked down at Gavin like he was surprised to find him still in his hands. He quickly set him down next to Harry, who scurried over to his fellow gnome’s side and helped him up, a supportive arm wrapping around Gavin’s shoulders, despite his grumbling protests. 

“Not even a ‘hello, how do you do’!” Harry added as guided Gavin’s arm to rest around his shoulders. “He just went crazy, barking and everything, and when Gavin tried to att- negotiate, your friend over here lunged at him and started shaking him like a frisbee!”

“Not. Cool.” Gavin said thinly, face pursed with pain.

“Not cool at all,” Harry agreed vehemently. “Why do you have this freak around?”

Stanley growled loudly, both in warning and, seemingly, in unhappiness. He looked like he wanted to lunge at them again, but with his eyes flicking to Ford and Stanley himself heavily favoring his weight on one arm, he didn’t seem like he was about to make any sudden moves. He still glowered at the gnomes, not letting up his growling, but he didn’t move either. 

Fiddleford looked up at Ford to see Ford’s eyes also examining Stanley, thoughtful. After a moment he huffed, turning back to the gnomes. “Right. Well, I’m sure he just thought he was defending our, ah, territory, so to speak. He doesn’t exactly understand speech.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Gavin grouched. “He’s like a dumb animal. Did he get dropped on his head or something?”

Ford’s expression pinched. “Remains to be seen,” he said awkwardly.

How old was he when they lost him again? Fiddleford thought, racking his mind for the late night whispers and drunken mumblings Ford had traded with him in pieces, years and years ago. ‘bout five, wasn’t he?

…sweet Lord, Fiddleford thought suddenly, with a sickening, plunging feeling. He was Tater’s age. 

“You watch what you say,” Fiddleford blurted out heatedly, words cutting sharply through the air before he could even realize he was saying them. He continued, “He’s had a rough go of things. Ain’t his fault y’all… spookums broke in and started messin’ ‘round, probably scarin’ him half to death.”

Gavin glared at him. “Spookums? Did you call us spookums?”

“We’re a proud race of forest gnomes,” Harry said hotly. “Maybe you should watch what you say.”

Fiddleford put his hands on his hips, furrowing his brow. “Now hold on now. Y’all can’t just breakin’ into people’s houses and get mad when somebody gets mad ‘atcha! If you didn’t want to get in trouble, you shouldn’t go poking your heads in the badger’s den.” 

“We’re gnomes, man. Breaking-in is what we do!” Harry said, voice raising slightly as his shoulders hunched, eyes going fierce. “You’re the weirdos with this guy hanging around in your house.” He gestured disdainfully towards Stanley. “Some things are better left in the woods, man.”

Fiddleford made an offended noise, like a kettle about to blow its lid. He couldn’t get the image of Tate’s little face out of his head - had Stanley looked like that? 

He was about to snap back before Ford interrupted him-

“Let’s not get too emotional,” Ford tried, clearly aiming for his voice to be smooth, casual and professional-like, but ending up falling somewhere closer towards too stiff, tense. “This is all just an… unfortunate accident on everyone’s parts. Let’s be civilized about this.”

Gavin scoffed. “Yeah, tell that to him,” he glared in Stanley’s direction, letting out a mocking sound as though to mimic Stanley’s growling.

His own growling racketing up, Stanley shifted like he was about to move forward, but Ford hastily stepped between them. “Please don’t antagonize him,” Ford said, more like an order than a request, “There’s no need. I have the situation under control now.” 

“Yeah,” Fiddleford piped up, “You leave him alone.”

He glanced towards Stanley’s hunched form, the thin specks of blood that the fork had drawn, the way he held that arm aloft not like a human, but like a dog might with an injured leg. A cold shudder blustered through Fiddleford. 

Lord, man, Fiddleford thought, what happened to you?

Fiddleford had a five year old boy at home. Ford himself was proof that one can in fact retain memories of that time with some level of clarity - incredible clarity, if you're Ford. A five year old can walk and talk, form memories, can be plenty cognizant of their surroundings. A five year old boy doesn’t just forget how to be a human. 

Something had to have happened. And just the thought of what that could have been terrified Fiddleford more than he could say. 

What if it had been Tate?

“You guys should control your weird friend,” Gavin grumbled. “‘coulda mauled me to death.” 

“Right, well, you survived,” Ford said, with more brusqueness than was polite - really though, knowing him, he probably thought he was being comforting.

“We’d like an apology,” Harry piped up. 

“Yeah. Maybe a token of your regrets, too…” Gavin agreed, looking meaningfully towards the fridge. 

Ford frowned, more confusion than anything else. “What is there to apologize for? It's not as though you died. You'll get better.”

Stanley was looking tenser and tenser by the minute, glancing up at Ford periodically with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. His arm was still bleeding sluggishly, Fiddleford noticed, tucked tight and protective to his chest.

A drop of his blood rolled down his arm and hit the floor with the smallest of sounds.

Fiddleford felt the last of his rapidly depleting patience fray. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said suddenly, crossing his arms and affecting an immovable sternness into his voice only a man with a toddler at home could achieve, “Clear out, the both of ya. You’ve overstayed yer welcome ‘round here.”

“Wh- hey!” Harry protested as Fiddleford started shooing them away, towards the open kitchen window they’d presumably come from. “You can’t just kick us out without even-”

“I can, and I’m doin’ it,” Fiddleford said, ushering them out. “Shoo, shoo ya varmint! Don’t you go comin’ back here for a long while!”

“We won’t stand for this! We’re the gnomes of the forest, we won’t just be- ack!” Fiddleford leaned down and scooped Gavin and Harry, tucking both of them under his arms like one would unruly toddlers. Gavin let out a hiss of pain as his injured side was jostled, and Harry let out a hiss of indignant rage as he was easily lifted. 

Both gnomes under his arms, he marched them both to the window. 

“You’re going to regret this!” Harry shrilled angrily, flailing and struggling, punching Fiddleford’s arm and side without avail. “We gnomes are not to be trifled with! We’re a powerful race!”

“Yeah, yeah, y’all have fun wit’ that.” Fiddleford shuffled his grip on them, holding them by the backs of their shirts out the window. “See y’all later now.” 

Harry and Gavin both hit the ground with twin thumps, Gavin letting out a groan of pain and clutching his side, glaring up at Fiddleford heatedly. Harry, to his credit, rushed to his buddies side, helping him up. He glowered up at Fiddleford. “You will regret this. Gnomes are terrible enemies to have-” 

“That’s real nice for you, bye now,” Fiddleford said, and shut the window on both of them. 

The click of the lock latching into place was more of a relief than Fiddleford expected. He let out a deep, drawn out sigh, closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Stanley’s growling had stopped sometime around when Fiddleford first grabbed the gnomes. When Fiddleford cracked an open, he could see Stanley peering at him intently now, clearly weighing him consideringly in his mind, though in what way Fiddleford hadn’t the darndest clue. 

“That was maybe not the best move,” Ford started slowly, startling Fiddleford a bit - he’d honestly forgotten his friend was even there for a moment. “I know they might seem unthreatening, but the gnomes can indeed be quite terrifying when they all set their minds to it-”

“I don’t even know where to begin with the fact that there are honest to God, real living gnomes running around,” Fiddleford interrupted. “I ain’t about to start pondering their power of teamwork or what have you.” 

Fiddleford looked at his hands, then shuddered. 

“They aren’t venomous to the touch, are they? Diseased or anything?” He started looking around the kitchen, hands held aloft. “I should wash my hands, just to be sure.” 

“I believe the word you are looking for is actually ‘poisonous’. And no, they’re not - trust me, I’ve handled them many times before and suffered no ill effects.” 

“Thank the Lord,” Fiddleford sighed. “‘kay then. So, gnomes?”

Ford folded his hands behind his back. “Gnomes, yes. My apologies for not warning you sooner, I just didn’t think it would come up this early.” 

Ford drew in a breath, lifted his head, straightened his shoulders - his clear tell for an oncoming lecture. 

“You see, Gravity Falls is a very strange town, filled with all sorts of anomalous and magical entities, such as those gnomes. I’ve been studying the properties and creatures of this Weirdness - that’s how I met Remus over here.” He nodded towards Stanley. “We likely won’t be interacting much with any of it, due to the nature of our work, but it is best to let you know, to mitigate any more surprises.”

Won’t be interacting much with it. Fiddleford let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good ‘ta hear at least. I don’t reckon my heart could take too many more scares like that, at least not without a bit of mental and physical preparation.” 

“Of course. I can assure you that other than the gnomes, most anomalies tend to stay in the woods, and not in my kitchen.” Ford glanced down at the shattered remains of some ceramic fixture, and the gnome-blood on the floor, and he frowned. “Hm. I should probably clean that up.” 

“Yes, you probably should. Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt now.” 

“No, of course- oh!” Ford froze, like he was suddenly remembering something. He turned to Stanley. “Oh, Remus! I’d almost forgotten!”

Stanley was hunkered down and, now that Fiddleford was paying attention, making low, unhappy noises, arm still held aloft protectively. He looked up at Ford with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, eyes narrowed. 

“You were injured in that scuffle, were you not?” Ford dropped to his knees, shifting forward to brazenly grab at Stanley’s injured arm, as though Stanley wasn’t a feral man with seemingly no understanding of English and an already apparent tendency towards violence. Ford grasped his arm, pulling and turning it so he could get a good look at the injury. “Blast, these are some deep wounds for an injury from a fork, Remus. We’ll need to clean this in case of infection.”

Stanley growled warningly, trying to pull his arm away. Fiddleford felt his heart stutter slightly in fear. 

But Ford just pulled back at him, refusing to let go. He tsked. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, you're fine. Fiddleford, would you fetch me my first aid kit? I believe there’s one in the cabinet underneath the sink.”

Indeed there was one, pressed up amidst the cleaning supplies and jars filled with items Fiddleford would really rather not spend any time thinking about. He quickly fished out the kit and shut the cabinet door.

“Thank you,” Ford said as Fiddleford handed the white box to him. He deftly popped it open with one hand, the other still holding Stanley’s arm, and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of what looked to be homemade antiseptic. It was green, watery and slightly iridescent under the light, and Ford doused a liberal amount of it right onto Stanley’s injury.

Stanley snarled, loud and surprised, attempting to yank his arm back. Ford just tightened his grip.

“I know, I know,” Ford sighed. He rubbed Stanley’s arm with his thumb, showing more gentleness than Fiddleford ever thought possible of the blunt, awkward man he knew from college. “It hurts, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, but I can’t let you get an infection.”

He set the antiseptic aside carefully, his now freed hand reaching up to card six fingers through Stanley’s hair with a shocking amount of tenderness.

“There, you’re alright. That's over now.” He huffed, shaking his head a bit. “I’d reprimand you for being so foolish as to pick a fight with those gnomes, but it seems you’ve learned your lesson. Perhaps a little more harshly than is even necessary.” He patted Stanley’s arm, frowning at the injury there. “I think I’m starting to understand why some of the townsfolk dislike the gnomes, honestly.”

Ford sighed, his arms snaking around Stanley, tipping his head to mumble to him. 

“We best install some sort of reinforcement to keep those gnomes out. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt, now would we?” Stanley sighed, slumping into Ford’s arms. Ford propped his chin on top of Stanley’s head contentedly. “No, I won’t have you getting hurt at all, not if I can help it.”

Feeling like an intruder in a private moment, Fiddleford busied himself with awkwardly snagging the bottle of antiseptic and screwing its cap back on as quietly and unintrusively as he could. 

Ford glanced over at him, giving an approving nod, before turning his attention back to Stanley, who seemed to have calmed down significantly under Ford’s attention, slumping against him trustingly, breathing slowly. Ford scratched lightly at his scalp affectionately. “We better get some salve on that arm, hm?”

Sitting on his now idle hands, Fiddleford looked away, wanting to give them some semblance of privacy but also not wanting to draw attention to himself by moving elsewhere. This felt like something he should leave them alone for - he’d never seen Ford act this… what was the word? Touchy? Emotionally-open? 

He’d never seen Ford act like this without inhibition of a few drinks to loosen his tongue up, or a blanket of night to provide him some sense of secrecy.

Aware of it or not, Ford’s brother seemed to bring out a different side to him. A heart alongside his brains. Not to say that Ford was heartless or anything! Fiddleford knew better than anyone how much Ford cared, sometimes - he just wasn’t always the best at showing it- not that he never-

“Fiddleford?” Jolting a bit at his name being called, Fiddleford turned to see Ford looking at him. “Would you mind grabbing that small glass container in the first aid kit? Yes, that’s the one- now, would you be so kind as to apply some of that gel to Remus’s arm here? Just on the injury.” 

Hands tightening around the small, roughly four-ounce jar. Fiddleford’s eyes widened a bit. He glanced over to Stanley, who had Ford's gaze towards Fiddleford, expression unreadable, yet watchful. “Uh, you sure ‘bout that, Stanford?”

Ford looked at him as though he couldn't possibly understand what the problem was. “Certainly. Remus warmed up to me quite a bit when I did the same, it’s the easiest way for you to gain his trust.” Ford patted Stanley on the head like one might the hood of a reliable old car. “He’s very intelligent. He’ll understand you aren’t trying to hurt him.” 

Fiddleford swallowed, shrinking back a bit. “I… I dunno, Stanford, I mean, saying hello to him earlier was one thing, but smart or not he still thinks he’s a wild animal…” He’d seen just a minute ago how hard Stanley could bite when he wanted to.

“Come on now, Fiddleford, it’s only Remus. He won't hurt you. Furthermore, you and him having a positive relationship will be beneficial not only for our research, but also for our living situation. I can’t supervise the two of you at all times, you’ll need to be able to at least coexist peacefully.” Ford snaked his arms even further around Stanley, completely enveloping him in a tight embrace. “Here, I’ll even hold him still, for your peace of mind.” 

“Goody,” Fiddleford mumbled, fumbling to pop the cap off the jar with suddenly shaky hands. He couldn’t stop picturing the way Stanley’s teeth had been embedded into that gnome, the force behind that bite. “Can’t wait.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Ford dismissed with more flippancy than Fiddleford found comforting. “Now, just dip a finger or two into the gel, getting just enough to cover the whole of Remus’ wound here.”

The salve was oddly smooth, almost soft as Fiddleford scooped up a small dollop of the stuff onto two fingers. He lifted it up, examining it in the light - it wasn’t quite as iridescent as the antiseptic, but it did seem to slowly shift slightly in color, the stuff making contact with Fiddleford’s fingers shifting to be more of a greenish-hue, while the rest stayed a calming teal.

“It reacts to body-heat,” Ford piped up, pride shining in voice. He must have noticed Fiddleford’s curiosity. “Because of its slight transparency, you can actually see that with your naked eye - hence the difference in color.” 

“Fascinating,” Fiddleford murmured, tilting it this way and that. “And it heals people?”

“To an extent,” Ford said excitedly. “Its effects and limits are actually very interesting just on their own - it can heal surface wounds, but anything deeper it can’t reach. I’ve yet to experiment with injecting it, nevermind that that would be rather imprecise… Well, anyways, I haven’t needed it for any serious injuries yet, but it does wonders for sunburns and mosquito bites.”

“Well ain’t that just the darndest thing. Where’d ya even find something like this?” 

Ford preened, practically fluffing with pride. “That’s just the thing! I made it myself, combining various ingredients from the forest and-”

Stanley made a low, unhappy noise. Ford jolted. 

“Ah, right, the task at hand. I’ve gotten carried away again.” Ford shook his head. “Nevermind all that for now, we can discuss it further later. For now, we tend to our wounded.” 

Ford patted Stanley on the back, motioning with his other hand for Fiddleford to come closer.

“Simply apply the salve over the injured area and watch it work its magic,” Ford instructed. “Don’t worry about hurting him, he’ll be alright. Better for it, really.” 

Despite the assurances, Fiddleford’s hand still shook slightly as he carefully, so carefully reached over, glancing over at Stanley’s face repeatedly to watch his reaction. The feral man remained impassive, just watching him as Fiddleford slowly started smearing the gel over the wounds.

Stanley tensed suddenly, a soft growl kicking to life in his chest. His lips pulled back to reveal jagged, truly grisly looking teeth, twisting into an angry snarl. 

Fear struck Fiddleford in the chest like a physical, wrenching blow - he scooted backwards, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, gel-covered hand still raised up. Images of those teeth flashing in his head, those teeth digging into the gnome’s side, those teeth, still red with blood, snarling at him-

“Fiddleford,” Ford said, voice steady, almost firm. “He’s not going to hurt you. He’s just flinching. See, I’m not even holding him back.”

And he wasn’t. Stanley wasn’t struggling from Ford’s grip at all, just sitting there, calm as anything, not even straining to lunge for Fiddleford’s jugular and rip him to pieces. He was just… sitting there. Face twisted not in rage, but in pain. Calmness in his eyes. Just sitting there, watching Fiddleford. 

“He’s just flinching, as anyone would to having gel rubbed into an open wound. He did the same when I was applying it, and he never once attacked me. You’re alright,” Ford continued. 

“Right. Yeah.” Fiddleford shook himself, forcing himself to stop shaking. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, don’t know what came over me there.” 

“It’s no matter,” Ford said. “Can you apply the rest?”

Fiddleford nodded tensely, scooting forward and slowly placing his fingers back onto Stanley’s arm, pressing down with as little force as he could. And true to Ford’s word, while he did growl and whine, Stanley didn’t move a muscle against Fiddleford as he cautiously applied the cool gel. 

Once he was done, Fiddleford retracted his hand, holding it to his chest almost protectively. 

Stanley just looked him over, then huffed. He bumped his head lightly against the side of Ford’s face, then wiggled out. With one last friendly pat to Stanley’s shoulder, Ford let him go - Fiddleford froze where he sat, but Stanley only glanced at him before looking back to the kitchen window, where Fiddleford had, uh, disposed of the gnomes.

He looked between Fiddleford and the window, something almost thoughtful in his eyes, though what he was thinking about Fiddleford hadn’t the faintest clues. If Stanley even thought like a human did at all.

His gaze landed with finality on the window. Stanley’s lips pulled back into a snarl, like out a loud, rumbling warning call of a growl. Hunkering down slightly, he opened his mouth and let a sharp, thunderclap of a bark, powerful enough to send the startled caws of birds up from the trees outside.

Fiddleford flinched so hard he nearly brained himself on a cabinet. 

Stanley’s eyes flicked over to him. The growling softened and faded out, leaving him silent. 

He walked, arm still held up, on his hand and knees. Instinctively Fiddleford scooted back, his back bumping against the cabinet - he hissed as one of the knobs jabbed him in the side, but then Stanley was inches away, and he fell silent again. 

 Stanley was as blank-faced and watchful as the old farm dogs Fiddleford had grown up with - never the most friendly things, but dutiful to the very end.  

They had been far from pets, and as children Fiddleford’s parents always strongly discouraged him and his siblings from viewing them that way. They were working dogs - they were useful, born bred and trained all their lives to be the perfect livestock dogs. A good one was well appreciated, practically irreplaceable. 

A bad dog was taken out back and- disposed of. That was just the way of things - no mourning, not for bad dogs. They were animals, and this was the way of things. 

And like an animal, there was nothing readable in Stanley’s eyes.

Part of their work in training the dogs was to catch the good from the bad, figure out which was which. The good dogs do their jobs. The good dogs take to their training well, help wrangle the animals, ward off threats and, if necessary, protect them at all costs, even if that cost is their own life. It’s what they’re trained to do. A bad dog is an untrainable dog.

It’s a dog that hunts the animals, not protects.

And Fiddleford couldn’t tell which one Stanley was.

“H-hey there, uh, buddy,” he said, cursing the way his voice shook. “Whatcha doin’?”

Unreadable brown eyes bored into Fiddleford’s skull.

What does he want? He ain’t mad I put that salve on his arm, is he? Ford said he’s smarter than that but Ford’s a bit of a sentimental sort, you know he ain’t always as pragmatic as he makes himself out to be, and you saw what Stanley did to them gnomes, Fiddleford, teeth like that he’ll got a good chunk outta ya before you can pull him off, and who knows what kinda diseases this fella’s carryin’ around from the woods - sweet sarsaparilla, what if he’s got rabies? There ain’t no cure for rabies. If I get rabies I won’t ever be able to see ‘m boy again, he’s just a little fella, he’ll have to grow up with barely a memory of his old man, all ‘cause I got bit by a rabid man, and then how will Ems keep float without botha’ our income, they’ll have to sell the house to ‘m funeral expenses, and Tate’ll have to go to a different school and Ems will havta to move in with her folks and she hates her folks and-

Something warm and wet lapped at Fiddleford’s cheek. 

He was abruptly snapped out of his spiraling thoughts, returning to the reality of-

-of Stanley licking him on the face. What?

“Remus!” Ford admonished from aside, coming over to pull Stanley off Fiddleford. “What did I tell you about licking people?”

Stanley huffed at him, waving his tongue in Fiddleford’s direction menacingly, like how one might waggle a finger at someone. Fiddleford pressed a shell-shocked hand to his cheek. It was indeed damp with salvia. Like he’d been licked by a dog. 

“Terribly sorry, Fiddleford, I should have warned you that he tends to do that sometimes. I believe it’s something he picked up from the coyotes - did I mention he’s been living with the coyotes? - well, I hypothesize the licking to be an attempt at a soothing gesture.” He hooked his arms under Stanley’s, pulling him aside like a misbehaving dog. “Fret not, he’s done the same to me before I’ve suffered no ill consequences. He doesn’t seem to be carrying any sort of transmittable disease - miraculously, considering his previous living conditions.”

“I- uh. Um.” Fiddleford blinked, dazed. He felt as though his thoughts, racing and uncontrollable just seconds ago, had suddenly slammed into a solid wall, leaving him stumbling and reeling.

Stanley looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable as they’d ever been - then he blinked, exhaling, and slipped out of Ford’s hold. He trudged out of the kitchen, still on all fours, turning around a corner and disappearing. 

There was a shroud of silence over the kitchen for a moment. Fiddleford didn’t think he could bring himself to break the clasp of silence over them even if he wanted to.

Then Ford stood with a soft grunt, dusting off his pants, and the spell was broken.

“Right, well, crisis averted, I suppose. I do hope the gnomes don’t take anything personally.” He straightened his shirt primly, glancing down at the mess still on the kitchen floor unhappily. “If anyone should be upset, it should be me, after all. I rather liked that jam jar.”

Fiddleford wasn’t really listening - his eyes stayed on where he’d last seen Stanley, the gears of his brain slowly returning to their turning, replaying the events of the day in his mind. “...you seem mighty comfortable with him.”

“Hm?” Ford looked up, following Fiddleford’s gaze to the doorway, the bend Stanley disappeared behind. Realization fluttered to life across his face, the thoughtful pinch of his brow smoothing. “Oh, you mean Remus?”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford confirmed distantly. 

Ford shrugged loosely. “Now that you say it, I suppose that that’s true. It’s just… hm, how to explain it?” He scratched the back of his neck idly, squinting at nothing as though trying to parse his thoughts into words. “It’s just that I feel… at ease, in Remus’ presence. Comfortable, like you said. I’d honestly assumed that would be the case for anyone meeting Remus, that it might be an effect of his - you don’t find him soothing to be around at all?”

Fiddleford’s heart still hadn’t quite returned to normal, still a flurry steadily slowing in his chest with each passing moment he wasn’t mauled or attacked. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle Ford’s words surprised out of him. “No, I don’t reckon I do. He damn near gave me a heart attack, he did. Thought he was gonna chew me up and spit me out like an old chicken bone.” 

Ford scoffed, somehow both with surprise and disagreement. “I told you, he’s perfectly safe to be around! I’ve been keeping a close eye on him for the past week or so, and he’s never once done anything violent towards me.”

“If you say so,” Fiddleford said doubtfully. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Still, we havta find some way to help the poor fella. It ain’t right, letting him go on as he is, not even knowing he’s a human person…”

“Of course, of course, as we’ve agreed to. We’ll fit it in the schedule, sometime between our work on the machine.”

“‘bout that machine,” Fiddleford started, straightening, “I was wonderin’ if ya had any ideas in mind? Any plans or anythin’?”

Ford brightened. “Yes! I’ve been working on drawing up some blueprints for you, and I have a few theories as to how it might work…”

He went on, talking animatedly as he started guiding Fiddleford out of the kitchen, down the spiraling halls of the cabin and towards the study - but Fiddleford couldn’t help the way his eyes wandered down every corridor and corner, looking the distinctive hunched shape and billowing brown hair of a certain Pines. 

I’ll help ya, Fiddleford promised in his head, I’ll getcha back on yer two feet, or my names not Fiddleford H. McGucket. I promise.

taglist! let me know if you want to be added or removed :-)

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[hantengudelulu]

Upper Moon 4 *is* stronger than Upper Moon 6

Why Upper Moon 4 Is Stronger Than Upper Moon 6

There’s a recurring debate about whether Gyutaro was stronger than the clones of Upper Moon 4, with some arguing that only Zohakuten is the “real” Upper Moon 4. I disagree—and here’s why that view misses key context.

1. The Entertainment District fight was inflated. While the battle with Gyutaro and Daki was visually stunning and emotionally intense, the narrative clearly shows that Tanjiro’s team barely survived. Tengen was poisoned and outmatched. Tanjiro didn’t have the mark yet, and Zenitsu and Inosuke were pushed to their limits. But that’s the point—it was a major struggle because they were weaker then. That was their threshold at the time.

By contrast, when Tanjiro fought the clones of Hantengu, he had:

The mark,

A significantly more trained and battle-hardened body,

Developed Sun Breathing to a usable level,

Better tactical awareness and swordsmanship.

He was much stronger than when he faced Gyutaro—yet even then, the clones nearly overwhelmed him. That should tell you something.

2. Sekido's reflexes alone prove insane power scaling. There’s a key moment that fans often overlook: when Genya fires at Sekido, and Sekido’s eye visibly tracks the bullet. That’s Superman vs Flash-level reflexes—showcased in slow motion for us to even understand what’s happening. The fact that he could see and react to that speed says volumes about his combat capability.

3. Their Blood Demon Arts would obliterate early-series Tanjiro. People also underestimate just how lethal each clone’s technique is:

Urogi’s sonic scream isn’t just loud—it shatters buildings and throws off internal equilibrium.

Karaku’s pressure gusts can break bones from a distance, throw opponents like ragdolls, and destroy terrain.

Aizetsu’s spear fighting skills plus his weeping spears are deadly and fast.

Sekido’s lightning doesn’t just paralyze I reckon it cooks from the inside out.

Had Tanjiro met them back in the Entertainment District arc, without his mark or sun breathing, any one of them could’ve killed him outright.

4. Total Concentration Breathing is a defense multiplier. Breathing techniques increase resilience and auto-healing. That explains how Tanjiro, Genya, and Nezuko withstood attacks that might have one-shot someone else. Imagine how fatal Sekido’s lightning or Urogi’s scream would’ve been to untrained fighters. The only reason our heroes even lasted was due to late-series power-ups.

5. Gyutaro’s main advantage was his poisoned sickles. Most of the damage he inflicted relied on slowing opponents over time, weakening their coordination. He also fought in sync with Daki, often using her as a distraction while hiding in the shadows. The clones don’t use poison. They overwhelm directly with brute force, area attacks, and relentless pressure—no gimmicks, just raw, overwhelming power.

6. Unlike Gyutaro, whose weak point was known and visible (dual beheading), Hantengu’s true body was hidden inside a minuscule, cowardly form, smaller than a mouse and fast enough to escape detection, even from marked, enhanced Demon Slayers. Most fighters wouldn’t have even noticed him on the battlefield, let alone known to target him.

Even Tanjiro, with his heightened senses, only tracked him down by sheer luck and desperation, managing to scent him just barely in the chaos. And even then, Hantengu’s neck didn't cut. The only reason Tanjiro succeeded was because sunlight had begun to weaken him IMO otherwise I reckon his sword would have failed agaim. Without Nezuko’s intervention and the rising sun, Hantengu would have escaped, and the clones would have regenerated again.

[lookingforariaa]

Attack On Titan: Actor AU ᝰ.ᐟ

ᯓ★ From the very first "Attack on Titan" table read, Eren Jaeger and Y/N L/N been locked in a personal war. They had hated each other, for their own personal reasons. But, now, fate (or the writers) had dealt them a cruel hand: their characters, the series' central love interests, were about to share their first intimate scene. actor!eren x actress!reader

Ensconced in the makeup chair, you flipped through the script with practiced ease. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you absorbed the scene directions and drilled the lines for today's shoot into your memory.

If 13 year old you thought it was bad enough having to share your first kiss with Eren Jaeger at the end of the season 2 finale with a bunch of camera's pointed at you, she would probably want to kill herself for this scene.

Smiles were plastered on for fans, talk show appearances, the whole nine yards. But everyone on set knew the hatred simmering beneath the surface between Eren and you. But your reasons for the animosity ran deeper than just hating him for the funsies.

You'd always bristled at entitled people like Eren Yeager. His producer father had undoubtedly greased the wheels for his leading role alongside you. He hadn't earned it like everyone in this series had, and he had gotten one of the leading roles in the series.

It wasn't fair. The rich always win.

The first table read had confirmed your worst fears. You had extended a friendly hand, introducing yourself as his love interest and the second leading role in the series.

Eren's response? A dismissive scoff and a head-to-toe sweep that spoke volumes. That self-satisfied smirk ignited a fire in your gut. People like him, who waltzed into success on silver platters, were everything you weren't. You'd clawed your way up, and his arrogance was a slap in the face to everything you'd achieve

The hatred towards Eren only intensified on the first filming day. His arrogance wasn't confined to you. He barked orders at crew members and treated his assistant like an indentured servant. Your blood pressure skyrocketed.

These were people, not props for his entitled performance.

He treated them like they weren't human.

The scene triggered a raw nerve. You knew all too well the sting of dehumanization. The humiliation. Your mother was a single parent forced into sex work to keep a roof over your head. Even if you lived in a brothel full of sex workers, you didn't ask god for anything else other than to get your mom another job.

You had watched your mom try her best to hide you from the men coming in so you wouldn't have to fall into the hands of prostitution as well. The way those men treated her - a flicker of desire followed by callous dismissal, like a discarded rag.

Like she wasn't even worthy enough to be called a human.

You had clawed your way out. Your striking features - the cascading dark blonde hair and the mesmerising hazel eyes and amazing acting skills - were your ticket to this role, a chance to give your mother a life she deserved.

Seeing Eren was like looking into a mirror of your traumatic past, seeing your mom thrashed around like an object.

Blinking back the sleep in your eyes after having drinks with Sasha the entire night, the scripts pages wavered in your hands, the words blurring at the edges.

Sasha's death still felt unreal. You'd sought solace in her company after they killed her character, clinging to the real Sasha for as long as possible.

A yawn stretched your lips into a wide, ungainly shape. The gentle hum of the hair curlers and the soft touch of the makeup brushes did little to dispel the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

The last layer of blush being applied felt strangely cool against your warm cheeks. You lowered your heavy lashes as they started applying a gentle layer of mascara to your makeup as the finishing touch.

The problem with Attack On Titan was the fact that all the makeup had to look natural. But at the same time all the girls, especially you and Mikasa, had to look beautiful.

Which wasn't hard, because both of you were drop dead gorgeous. But both of you were too humble to ever admit it out loud.

You skimmed through the script one last time as the Matt, your gay best friend who mostly does your hair, brushes them out slightly to make them look more natural.

Perfect," he sighed dramatically, a playful smile on his face. "Ready for today's shoot?"

You rolled your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. "Absolutely not."

"Yeah, figured," Matt chuckled. "t's funny honestly. Do you actually have to ride his thigh? God, the writers hate you."

"Oh shut up!" You scoffed, slapping his arm with your script as you looked a laughing Matt through the mirror.

"Okay, come on, they're asking for you."

"Tell them I'll be right out."

The director barked out his final instructions, taking help from Isayama as his gaze flickering between you and Eren.

Both of you stood with arms crossed and brows furrowed, listening carefully to the director and Isayam. Eren, clad in his iconic faded green shirt and a the black jacket over it.

While you wore a white button-up strained slightly against your chest, the small black corset tied right beneath your chest emphasizing your hourglass figure beneath it.

"So, remember, Y/N you hate him in this scene, you despise him." The director emphasized, looking down at the script.

"Yeah, that's gonna be easy to act out." You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Eren smirked, leaning down for his mouth to reach your ear. "Don't forget what scene we're filming." His breath tickled your ear. You didn't know what sent the chills down your spine-- his mouth being so close to your ear, or the fact that he was referring to how you had absolutely no control in this scene.

The director clapped his hands, snapping you and Eren out of your silent standoff. You cleared your throat, forcing your attention away from the infuriating green shirt and towards the man barking orders.

"Y/N," he said, pointing at you, "when you say, 'So you're going to kill billions of people for what?!' I want a reaction. Fling your arms wide, like you're trying to grasp the weight of those lives. Let your anger crackle in your eyes, burning into Eren as you demand an answer." You nodded.

His gaze shifted to Eren, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Eren, when you deliver the line, 'For you,' I want hesitation. Let out a sigh that speaks volumes. Run your hand through your hair, whatever. Turn away, build the drama. Then, do a dramatic turn around back towards Y/N, unleashing that scream with every ounce of conviction you have. Got it?"

Eren nodded understandingly, pursing his lips. "Got it."

"Great! Let's get this scene rolling!" The director boomed, clapping his hands. A flurry of activity followed as the set crew started getting the prison set ready for filming, fixing any minor misplaces in it.

You and Eren stood by, the tension crackling between you like live wires. Within minutes, the set was prepped, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows on the fabricated brick walls. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the emotional rollercoaster about to unfold.

"Scene 27, take 1."

"Lights," The director sighed, "Cameras." He pointed, "And.. action!"

The sterile light glinted off the metal bars, casting a harsh glow on the tense scene unfolding. You stood across from Eren, your voice laced with barely contained fury

"I know what I'm doing," you spat, the words sharp as shards of ice. "But do you, Eren? Do you have any goddamn clue what you're doing?!"

Eren was positioned before a cracked mirror, avoided your gaze. His knuckles tightened around the chipped porcelain sink, the strain evident in his posture. A sigh, heavy and laced with despair, escaped his lips as he stared down at his clenched fists.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah?" you shrieked, disbelief and frustration clawing at your throat. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't seem like a single thought has crossed that thick skull of yours!"

Your hands flew to your hair, tugging at the strands in agitation. Frustration boiled over, and you flung your arms wide, the metal cot scraping against the wall with a jarring clang

"Eren!" you roared, your voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "You're about to make billions die at the hands of a horrifying death! And for what?!"

Eren remained silent, his back a rigid wall against your onslaught. A shaky breath escaped him, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth seemed ready to shatter. Slowly, he raised his hand, running it through his hair in a gesture of defeat. His eyes, half-lidded and shadowed, flickered towards his reflection in the mirror, a flicker of something akin to shame crossing his features.

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he spun around, his voice laced with a desperate conviction that bordered on hysteria.

"For you!" he screamed, the words echoing through the cell. But as quickly as the outburst erupted, it died down. A defeated sigh escaped his lips, and he repeated the words, this time a mere whisper, "For you..." His half lidded eyes met yours.

"Well, that's fucking stupid!" You screamed out.

"Cut!" You furrowed your eyebrows and turned your head back to the director. "Y/N! Your resolve breaks for a second, okay? You still love him deep down and when he looks at you like that your heart aches." The director says, clutching at his own heart to emphasise. "So wait for a second, show emotion, and then say the stupid line."

"Idiot." Eren muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

"Okay, got it. Everything else was fine?" You asked, ignoring his comment.

"Yeah." The director responded, "Let's take it again from Eren's line."

"Scene 27, take 2."

"Lights, camera.. action!"

Eren sighs once more, "For you.."

A tremor ran through your composure. Your eyelids fluttered shut for a brief moment, a shaky breath escaping your lips. When your eyes reopened, the anger had returned, but it felt brittle, tinged with a flicker of something else - confusion, maybe even a hint of pain. It was a fleeting glimpse, quickly masked by the familiar fury

"Well that's.. that's fucking stupid!" You stammered, trying to showcase your characters resolve breaking.

"Is it?! I think it's fucking stupid that you aren't understanding that Marley wants to take you so you can make pure royal blooded babies with my brother so they can take the founding titan easily!" Eren roared, turning back to you.

"Babies?" The word hung in the air, a foreign concept amidst the weight of Eren's plan. The anger you wielded began to crumble at the edges.

A shaky laugh escaped you, a humorless sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. "Is that it, Eren? All this so I don't sleep with your fucking brother?!"

Eren's jaw clenched tight. He ran his hands through his hair again, his voice laced with a desperate edge. "You aren't fucking getting it! They'll use you, Y/N! Turn you into a breeding machine for their twisted agenda and then kill you! This way, at least you're..." His voice trailed off, the defiance flickering for a moment.

"Atleast i'm what? Safe? You fucking sociopath! You're killing all these people for one person?!"

"Shut up."

"That's what you are.. a murderer, a psychopath!"

"Shut the fuck up." He growled, grabbing you by your neck and pushing you against the wall, choking you slightly. The camera followed both of you in kind.

You smiled, scoffing. "Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

A tense silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the ragged rasp of your breath. Disgust simmered in your eyes, a mirror image of the icy loathing reflected back from Eren. The space between you crackled with unspoken hostility

He was supposed to kiss you now, but you were glad he wasn't, otherwise you might've barfed in his mouth. He looked at you with the same expression etched on his face: disgust.

"Cut!" The director yelled out and Eren rolled his eyes, sighing as he released your neck and immediately walked away from you.

The director slammed his script down, the sound echoing through the soundstage. "Alright, what's going on here? You two are supposed to be passionately making out, not glaring at each other like you're about to duel."

Eren scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe our characters wouldn't actually kiss in this situation."

You crossed your arms, your eyes narrowing. "Oh, and why wouldn't they? Because your fragile ego can't handle kissing someone who doesn't fawn over you?"

Eren's smirk vanished, replaced by a cold stare. "Funny you should mention ego. It takes a certain level of delusion to think anyone would be interested in someone who constantly reeks of desperation."

You bristled. "Desperation? At least I earned this role on my own merit, unlike some nepo baby." You smirked. "At least I don't need a daddy with a fat wallet to buy my way into a role."

Eren's voice turned low and dangerous. "Careful. You wouldn't want to upset the golden goose who keeps this whole production afloat, would you?"

Y/N leaned forward, her voice a steely whisper. "Don't you dare pull that daddy producer stunt on me. You think your money can buy you everything? It can't buy respect, and it certainly can't buy genuine affection."

Eren's smirk faltered for a moment, his jaw clenching, much to your amusement. "Oh, touchy subject? Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

The director sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, can we focus? This scene is supposed to be about raw emotions, about their need for each other. Let's take it again, both of you are professionals, I know you can handle it."

"Scene 27, take 3."

"Lights, Camera... Action!"

The boy holding the movie clip snapper sighs, exhausted, even from a simple job as his. "Scene 27... take 23."

"Okay, guys, If it doesn't happen this time then we'll have to redo this tomorrow. And then we won't have time to film the scenes scheduled for tomorrow, hence the season 4 premiere will get delayed. So, just be professionals for once. You aren't kids anymore." The director sighs, putting his cap back on as he leans back in the chair.

Both you and Eren get back into place as the director yells action and Eren quickly slams you against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

You and Eren looked at each other for a second and you almost thought he was going to chicken out once more, so did the director as he rolled his eyes and slid a hand across his face.

But he didn't.

Eren quickly brought his lips to yours, rough and full of all the hatred that's been simmering between both of you all this while. It was a frantic kiss, as the director had wanted. Both of you were breathless as his hand stopped choking you and went to the side of your neck and the other clutched at your waist, and your hands went to grasp at his hair.

It was a tangled mess of limbs as your heads moved together at the speed of light, begging to deepen the kiss, begging to explore every inch of each others mouth. The air crackled with unspoken desire, the kiss a whirlwind of exploring touches and desperate needy moans. 

Everything was a blur. Gasping breaths mingled with the frantic rhythm of your kiss, his tongue had even made an appearance. It surprised you, because when kissing a co-star the other doesn't use tongue to keep the kiss professional and to show the person respect.

But what would Eren Jaeger know about respect?

His hands gripped your waist, a possessive ache that mirrored your owns as one of your hands tugged at his hair and the other caressed his cheek. The kiss deepened, your heads moving together frantically, a battle fought on bruised lips and tangled tongues.

A whimper escaped your lips as Eren grabbed your hair and tilted your head backwards, the kiss turning urgent, so frantic. It felt like an eternity, a culmination of unspoken longing poured into this single, desperate moment.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling at it harshly on purpose, hoping it would hurt. With the groan that he let out into the kiss, you were sure it did.

Then, with a swift movement, Eren shoved his knee in between your legs, your surprised moan swallowed by the next searing kiss.

His hand shot out, gripping your throat as your heads whipped back and forth, a frantic chase for deepening the kiss. A tender moan left your lips as Eren's grip on your throat tightened, his tongue thrusting deeper. The sound of your kiss echoed in the room, into the mic, a desperate rhythm. You let out another soft, breathy moan and it was muffled into his mouth as he tried to get even closer to you.

And with the directors snap, which was your cue to start grinding on his thigh, you did just that. A soft moan escaped your lips and muffled into his mouth. "Eren." You sighed into the kiss, as you disconnected your lips and connected your forehead with his, grinding on his thigh.

Fuck. You didn't expect this to happen, especially not with Eren, but you could feel your pussy pulsate and throb with need. You just hoped he couldn't feel it.

"We shouldn't do this." You said in a soft moan as you threw your head back, giving Eren the chance to kiss down your neck.

"We shouldn't." He sighed into your neck.

"It's a bad idea." Your grinding intensified and his hand came to grab at your hips to help you, a sigh of pleasure escaping you, your nails digging into his shoulder.

"It is." You could feel his breath on your neck.

"I loathe you."

"The feelings mutual."

The air crackled as your eyes locked with Eren's. You guys locked eyes for a moment, as written in the script.

And then you leaned down as you were slightly lifted above the ground with a surge of undeniable desire. Your lips met in a frantic kiss, a tangle of emotions that both fueled and fought against your self-control. The kiss was so rushed, such a blur. Both your heads moving so frantically to fight for dominance.

It was like you were fighting to crawl into each others skin.

A strangled sound escaped your throat, a mix of surprise and something more primal. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your mind. Fuck, why were you enjoying this?

Shame threatened to choke the rising tide of sensation, but Eren's touch, a hand gently yanking at your hair, grounded you. In that moment, you were caught in a delicious storm of confusion and exhilaration.

"Cut!"

You tore yourself away from the kiss, gasping for breath. Eren mirrored your action, his chest heaving slightly. A ghost of a smile played on his lips, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. Both of you gazed at each other with longing and confusion, almost disgust and hate for themselves because deep down they know they liked it.

''Great job! I love the intensity. We'll just need to film some POV and closeup shots for the sex scenes and we're done for the day." The director smiled, praising both of you. "Let's take 5."

You started to walk away, but before you could leave, Eren grabbed your hand. "Also, by the way." You sighed and rolled your eyes.

"What?"

"I could feel that, you know."

Shit.

[aro-of-argentum]

Red Dahlia- Chapter 2

WC: 2,381

Note: Jason is angsty, sassy, and semi-smitten in this one. Bruce is an ass (this will continue to be the case). Jason finds out the reader is a fan of his. Getting more of Jason's POV in this one.

Beta'd by: @teaspacebar

Previous Chapter, Masterlist, Next Chapter

Chapter 2:

Jason had just woken up when Alfred knocked on his door to tell him Bruce had requested Jason’s presence in his office.

“You’re taking a week off.” There was no room for argument in Bruce’s tone.

Jason was already fuming, and this “discussion” had only just begun. “I don’t need a week,” he ground out through his teeth.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “How many stitches is it?”

“I don’t-”

“No.” He raised his volume enough to cut Jason off. “Cassandra told me you were hit, and three of us saw the bandage through the tear in your suit this morning. No excuses. How many?”

Jason’s jaw clenched and unclenched repeatedly as he wrestled with resignation to the order. “23.”

The older man scoffed. “You’re lucky I’m not benching you longer.” He pulled the stack of files he’d been working on prior to Jason’s arrival back to the center of his desk, and Jason took it as a sign he was dismissed.

He stood and turned to leave, only stopping when he heard Bruce speak again.

“Where did you go?” There was no accusation in Bruce’s tone, only curiosity, but the question grated on Jason’s ears anyway. “I know you don’t take supplies with you in the field. Do you have a hideout we don’t know about?” He waited for Jason to answer but received nothing other than his son’s turned back as he waited to be excused. He breathed a heavy sigh as he realized Jason would not be giving an answer. “Dismissed.”

Jason did his best not to rush from the room but closed the door harder than he needed to on his way out. He took a direct path back to his room and slammed the door there too. He returned to the mirror, pulled up the side of his shirt, and peeled away the bandage to once again examine the stitches there. They were small and precise, perfectly spaced, and holding better than anything he’d ever done on himself, and he didn’t even remember getting them. His skin hardly even looked irritated around the threads, which should not have been the case for a wound so fresh. His hand hovered for a moment over the wound as he considered the effort someone must have gone through to patch him up, especially through the suit. And then to cover him in an attempt to shield him from the chill-

No. He thought to himself. Whoever it was could have figured out how to remove his helmet and seen his face. They could have his blood. They can’t see tomorrow.

Just because he wasn’t allowed out on patrol didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to leave, it just meant he had to be more discreet about it. There were only a few hours until sunset. If he waited for everyone else to leave, he’d be able to slip out fairly easily. He could wear his costume under normal clothes and take his bike so he wasn’t jumping roof to roof with fresh stitches, and he would be back before anyone in the house even knew he was gone. He considered the gear he’d need but figured it better for the event to look like a B&E rather than a planned attack, so that nothing would trace back to him. And besides, he still needed to figure out who the person was. Simply taking a shot from the next building over wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t long after the on-duty bats and birds left the manor that Jason got himself together and left as well. The drive toward the apartment building was only a few minutes, and he parked in an alley a couple blocks away before stuffing his extra clothes into the duffle stashed with his motorcycle. He covered the rest of the distance on foot, over rooftops and sneaking in the midnight shadows of the city. His first stop was the landing of the fire escape he’d woken up on.

He landed silently, and found open curtains, with light pouring from the living room window of the 8th floor apartment. He noticed a couch that faced the window, well worn, with the same blanket from that morning draped over the back. There was a coffee table in front of it; a copy of Pride and Prejudice left open, face down on the table as though someone was coming back for it shortly. His eyes seemed caught on the book, one of his favorites, and something akin to familiarity bubbled up in his chest. He had confirmation that whoever lived here was the one who’d patched him up, and that they read the same books he did.

There was movement, and Jason regained his composure some, but realized the figure hadn’t seen him. She was too focused on whatever tune she was humming as she walked to the kitchen with a sway, almost as though she was dancing. She was beautiful. She wore her hair messily pulled out of her face and a t-shirt far too big over her shorts, and a small smile rested on her face as she moved. She was content, happy even.

Was he really about to ruin this? Something in his chest ached at the notion and the foreign sensation almost broke him out of the spell. But he watched as she pulled a mug from the cabinet and set it on the counter before turning her back to the window. The mug was dark grey in color, and on it was the Red Hood symbol.

His symbol.

A million thoughts and emotions ran through Jason’s mind as he was frozen in place. The instantaneous want to protect her was deeply in combat with his earlier decision to kill the person. But things were different now, weren’t they? You couldn’t trust a threat or money to buy someone’s silence in Gotham. If she had seen his face, she couldn’t live. And if she hadn’t?

Jason’s eyes refocused as the sound of shattering ceramic ripped him from his thoughts. She was staring right at him.

-

There was not a single spared thought for your favorite mug now shattered at your feet. You felt your stomach on the floor and your heart in your throat as you stared at him. The Red Hood was on your fire escape again, though this time entirely conscious, and he stared back.

Every instinct told you this was bad, that it was time to run, but you forced your feet to stay. If he wanted you dead, you would be already, you told yourself. And there was no chance you’d be able to outrun him anyway. At least not for long. “What do you want?” You did your best to hide your fear as you asked the question.

“Open the window.”

Your heart was beating so fast you could barely hear your own thoughts. You were surprised you could hear him. “And if I say no?”

He pulled two batons from his belt. “Then in a week your neighbors start asking the landlord about the smell.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat and you nodded, the motion small and fast. Before you moved, you grabbed a towel from the counter and dropped it over the spill, with a faint hope that it wouldn’t stain. As though that was the biggest of your worries.

The approach to the window was cautious. You unlocked the latch and began to pull it open, but before you could get it very far, the man on the other side slipped his fingers through and wrenched it the rest of the way open. You scrambled backward as he ducked in through the window.

The room became quiet again, aside from the sounds of the city coming in with the breeze, and you watched as the Red Hood looked around your apartment. His head turned slowly as you could only assume he inspected it all. He paused briefly, facing the table covered in vials and canisters and your microscope, before returning his gaze to yours. Or at least you assumed, given that you could not see his eyes.

“You treated me yesterday.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” you answered, doing your best not to allow your voice to shake. Even inside, where he couldn’t use the darkness to help obscure his form, he was menacing.

Jason stopped stalking forward, something in the back of his head begging him not to scare you. “Why?”

Confusion crossed your face at his question. That was it? That’s why he was here? “What?” You asked.

“Why did you do it?” He hoped the vocal modulator in his mask would hide the slight crack in his tone, his uncertainty slipping into his speech.

“Uh…” you were genuinely at a loss for words. It seemed like such an obvious answer. “You needed help, I didn’t-” a sharp inhale gave you the breath to continue, “You fell onto my fire escape unconscious and bleeding everywhere, what was I supposed to do?”

Jason’s face curdled in disgust under his mask. “You honestly expect me to believe you helped someone just because they needed it?”

“Don’t you do that?” You questioned in return, eyes narrowed, searching for an answer in his body language. “Or do you just go around saving peoples’ lives anonymously for fun?”

He inhaled to begin a reply but fell short when he found he had nothing to say.

You felt the conversation fall open, so you continued, “You and the other vigilantes do everything to keep people here safe and you don’t ever ask for anything in return. Have you not considered other people might do that for you?”

His stomach flipped at the notion. You did cover him up last night. His eyes flicked to the blanket, draped over the back of the couch like nothing had ever happened. He ground his teeth in attempt to bite back the guilt at having questioned you in the first place. “You said I was bleeding. What did you do with it?”

“Your blood?” Shock seeped through your voice at the question.

He huffed in frustration. “Yes, my blood, which could very easily be used to identify me. Did you keep any?”

You clicked your tongue. “Ah. No, I got rid of every scrap today. My job has a biohazard disposal site.” You watched his shoulders soften slightly, clearly satisfied with your answer.

“And my helmet?”

“Stayed on you the whole time.” You raised your hands in mock surrender. “The only thing I moved was the edges of your uniform around the wound, and only long enough to fix it up and bandage it.” You looked to his side where you knew the bandages must still be and saw no tear in the uniform, and no bulk from the covering you’d put on. If he was using a smaller bandage, then the stitches were already well on their way to healing. The compound was doing its job.

“Thanks,” came out of Jason’s mouth before he could stop himself and it caught both of you off guard.

Your reply was a hesitant but genuine, “You’re welcome.”

A small smile formed on your face and Jason felt the back of neck and ears heat up at the sight. He immediately turned back toward the window to leave, irrationally worried that you’d somehow be able to see him through the mask.

“Wait!” When you called for him, he froze, waiting. “They aren’t dissolvable, you’ll need to pull them in 4 days or so.”

He snorted at the idea. “4 days? For a gunshot wound?” He turned back to look at you, trying to determine whether you were serious. “What, are they magical stitches now?”

You huffed a small laugh at the implication. “No, just-” You paused, trying to think of a way to explain. “Trust me.”

I do. Jason crushed the thought faster than he’d ever shot down a feeling before. He shoved every ounce of skepticism he could muster into his response, “Right. Sure.” He turned back to the window and was through it in a moment.  He already had a hand on the roof access ladder when he stopped. You weren’t in his line of sight anymore, but he’d heard you follow to close the window after him. “You can’t tell anyone I was here.” The sentence hurt like a goodbye, and he couldn’t find a reason for it.

“I know.” And you wouldn’t say a word. You knew how important this was, and you’d made that decision long before he’d asked.

You never heard him leave. It was felt more than anything, almost like a source of gravity was gone, and you closed and locked the window. You went back to where the mug had shattered, picked up all the pieces, and got the mop to clean up the half-dried, sticky, puddle of coffee. You shook your head as you examined the piece of ceramic that bore most of the center piece of the Red Hood logo. As your thumb ran over it, your thoughts wandered. He’d come with a threat to kill you, but left you alive and thanked you. You hadn’t expected anything to come from that, only wanting to help when you could, but to know he appreciated it, truly, was a feeling you didn’t have the energy to put words to. The mostly intact logo was the only piece of the mug you saved; it was rinsed and dried, then tucked onto a bookshelf.

You went back to the couch to sit, wanting anything but to be on your feet a minute longer, and picked your book back up. You tried to read, to pretend everything was normal, but found yourself having to go back over the same paragraph over and over as your mind raced, thinking about everything that just happened. The decision to go to bed was an easy one when exhaustion set in. Adrenaline crashes always hit you like this, always made you feel like your bones all rested right against each other with no tissue between them.

At least you have tomorrow off, you thought to yourself as you shut the lights off and made your way to bed. You weren’t even sure whether your head was on your pillow yet when you fell asleep.

[talk-danmei-to-me]

Letting Tumblr rank my faves: the results

10) Chang Jingxing (Riverbay Men’s Dormitory)

Hot photographer that can’t catch a break. Bisexual icon. Guaranteed to bottom in volume 2. That’s not me manifesting that’s my bl wizardry coming through.

Zhao Chao (To Rule in a Turbulent World)

Family disappointment, in love with the boy he was held hostage with. Can’t catch a break. Probably not that good at military strategy.

In all seriousness though… everyone needs to stop sleeping on my man Fei Tian Ye Xiang.

9) Xing Ming (Lip and Sword)

Whiny little bitch boy that probably deserves his spot. Will fuck his boss so as not to get fired, maybe also because he’s into it. But he’s definitely straight okay? Watches cause him emotional damage.

8) He Yu (Case File Compendium)

He deserved to be higher! Repressed theatre kid madly in love with his doctor and convinced he is good at sex. Will give head when threatened by ex wives. Would’ve been a well rounded individual if not for his mother. He’s basically Freud’s wet dream and I love him!

7) Chang Geng (Stars of Chaos)

Yifu fucker with a messy family background.

6) Li Jinglong (Legend of Exorcism)

The best boy. He tries so, so hard. Is definitely in love with Hongjun. Cursed by the universe to only have bad days. Also to be surrounded by people who want to go to brothels when he is a monogamous romantic. He’s definitely going to be kinky as shit though.

5) Mo Xi (Remnants of Filth)

The ultimate Danmei Sad Boy and the most considerate gong you will ever meet. My man used lube on a self lubricating arsehole. Looks pretty when he cries. Which is fortunate because he cries a lot (although mostly on the inside). Also as subtle as a brick to the face.

4) Qi Rong (Heaven Official’s Blessing)

Literally the reason I got into danmei. Shout out to the funniest bitch, best dad and worst cousin. Guaranteed to win the roast.

3) Jin Guangyao (Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation)

Game of Thrones speed runner. Fucked his sister, murdered his father, stabbed his lover. Main character energy. Stole vol 5. Eunuch level shenanigans. Deserved a hornier coffin scene.

Shen Wei (Guardian)

The man who invented yearning. Blueballed a man so hard his only option was to come out to his mother. Flustered by a kiss but also has a blood kink. Easily seduced.

2) Shen Zechuan (Ballad of Sword and Wine)

Literally the prettiest boy you will ever meet but can skin a man alive. Currently speed running every kink with his lover. Will probably take over the world whilst being fucked against the war table. Son of a whore with a princes education. Likes fans.

1) Mo Ran (The Husky and his White Cat Shizun)

The correct answer! The funniest bitch with the saddest backstory. The cringiest flirt who did nothing wrong in his whole life ever. Is apparently very good at sex. His dick could probably be categorised as a weapon.

[queenofterrasen418]

Cruel Fates (Part 4- Final)

Pairing: Azriel x f!Reader, little Eris x f!Reader

Summary: Azriel is your mate but only you know it. You are very aware that he has eyes for someone else and thus you decide not to hide it forever. After all, what could go wrong right?

Warnings: Angst (Not the usual kind), heartbreak, bad decision-making by the reader (personally, at least.)

5.3K words

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You’re not nervous, not even the tiniest. It was not like there was any room to be so because today was the Midnight Solistice ball. It has been a fortnight since you wrote that letter to Eris, he had sent one back confirming his attendance. When you told the rest of the inner court of your decision things had gone… well it went as you expected. Rhys supported your decision while Feyre was disappointed. Amren gave you a look that seemed to say ‘Is that so?’ to which you just gave a firm nod. Cassian had been less vocal, but the silent disapproval in his stance spoke volumes and when you looked for Mor, she merely raised an eyebrow, an unreadable expression on his face. As for Azriel, he was sent out on a mission a few days back so thankfully you escaped from the awkwardness that seemed to linger wherever your path crossed.

But today, none of that mattered. Tonight, the ball was about more than just diplomacy or expectations; it was a chance to make your mark, to reclaim a piece of yourself that had been lost in the shuffle of responsibilities and politics. The Midnight Solstice ball, with its glimmering chandeliers and whispering silk curtains, was the perfect backdrop for what you hoped would be a turning point.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. The gown, a deep, rich blood red with intricate gold embroidery that mimicked the flickering embers of a fire, hugged your figure perfectly. A gold and ruby tiara sat atop your head, the gemstones catching the light and casting a warm glow over your skin. Your hair, elegantly pinned back, let the tiara shine like a crown of flames. You were a vision of grace and strength, the embodiment of confidence you needed to exude tonight.

Just as you reached the ballroom in Hewn City, the clock struck the hour of midnight, the anticipation crackled in the air. The first notes of the orchestra began to play, a soft and enchanting melody that set the mood for the evening. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for what was to come. Eris would be arriving soon, and with him, a new chapter of intrigue and possibility.

You joined the rest of the court at the dias standing beside Cassian. As much as you hated it your eyes searched for Azriel as soon as you set foot in here but he was nowhere to be found.

Rhys must have noticed you searching because his voice softly whispered in your her, “He'll arrive a little late.”

Stars, you hated waiting. It had been only a few minutes before the giant doors opened to reveal the Autumn Prince prowling towards you like a predator but it felt like an eternity had passed.

In the periphery of your eyes, you noticed the movement of smokey Shadows to know Azriel was behind you.

Eris approached with that ever-present smirk, his amber eyes gleaming with mischief as he bowed slightly, offering his hand. “I must admit, you wear the autumn colours well, Y/N, you look glorious. Careful—if you keep looking this tempting, I might forget we're here to talk business.”

He straightened, his gaze flickering over the ruby tiara, lingering as though assessing not just her appearance, but her entire being. “Though I’m beginning to think this alliance will be far more enjoyable than I first anticipated.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, “Hello to you too, Prince.”

The smile Eris gave you in reply could only be described as… sweet. Odd, but lovely. He began to greet the rest of the court but that was more tense than a tightrope. No surprise there.

The music played softly in the background, and your eyes drifted to the ballroom, watching the swirl of colours and movement before you. The anticipation had been building all evening, and though you had expected it, the flutter of nerves in your chest hadn’t entirely subsided.

Then, your vision shifted back to Eris. His amber eyes gleamed as his focus locked on you, but something about his expression was softer than you had anticipated. He extended his hands towards you, his gaze unwavering.

“Dance with me,” Eris said, his voice quieter than usual. There was no teasing, no smirk—just a simple request.

For a brief moment, you hesitated. It wasn’t because you didn’t want to—there was a pull between you, undeniable and magnetic—but because stepping onto that dance floor felt like crossing a threshold you weren’t sure you were ready for. You were here for diplomacy, for alliances, and yet, the weight of what this dance might mean had your heart beating faster than you liked to admit. You also took note of the heavy silence around you, the inner court was observing every single interaction, and you would indeed give anything to get away from this awkwardness too.

So despite the million reasons not to, you took his hand anyway. His fingers were warm against your skin, steady and sure, and as he led you onto the floor, you reminded yourself to breathe. The room around you seemed to quiet, the conversations and glances fading into the background, though you were keenly aware of the eyes that followed your every move.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. Eris’s hand settled at your waist, his other holding yours gently, and though his grip was firm, there was a subtle hesitation in how he held you, as though giving you the chance to step back if you wanted. But you didn’t.

“I wasn’t sure you’d even consider agreeing to this,” Eris said, his voice just above a whisper as he guided you into the first steps of the dance.

You glanced up at him, your eyes meeting his, searching for any sign of the usual arrogance. But there was none. Instead, there was something almost uncertain, like he, too, was navigating unfamiliar ground. The urge to use your powers to make sure you were right about your assumptions was tempting but tonight you refused to use them. Whatever relationship you are about to form with Eris heavily depends on trust and your powers would only be an invasion of that.

“Neither was I,” you admitted, your tone softer than you intended. Your steps were fluid, your bodies moving in sync, but you couldn’t shake the quiet wariness that lingered at the edges of your mind. This felt too personal, too close for something that was supposed to be about strategy. A part of you inside, you realised, did not mind it. There is no harm in genuinely enjoying each other’s company, right? “But we’re here.”

He gave a slight nod, his gaze not leaving yours. “We are.”

For a few moments, the only sound was the music and the soft rustle of your movements. The way Eris moved with you, not leading too aggressively but not holding back either, felt like a delicate balance—one that required trust. And that trust was what made you hesitate, even as you followed his lead.

“You’re different than I expected,” you said quietly, your voice barely carrying over the music.

Eris raised an eyebrow, amusement filled his gaze, but the small smile on his lips didn’t hold its usual edge. “Different, how?”

You bit your lip, searching for the right words. “Less… calculated,” you said after a moment. “More… real.”

He chuckled softly, though it wasn’t mocking. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“I’m not sure yet,” you replied, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips despite the uncertainty in your heart. “But it’s unexpected.”

Eris’s expression shifted, something thoughtful passing over his features. “I suppose I’m full of surprises, then.”

The dance carried on, each step a little more sure than the last, the tension between you slowly dissolving into something else—something neither of you had anticipated. But even as the chemistry between you became palpable, there was still a part of you that remained guarded, your thoughts caught between what you were feeling and what this meant for everything else.

“You’re still hesitating,” Eris said after a beat, his voice low, though there was no judgment in his tone. “I can feel it.”

Your breath caught for a second, surprised by how easily he read you. But then, this was Eris—sharp, perceptive, always watching. “I’m not sure what to make of this,” you admitted softly. “Of us.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, just enough to ground you. “Neither am I,” he said quietly. “But maybe that’s part of it.”

The honesty in his voice startled you, and for a moment, you faltered in your steps. He caught you without hesitation, his hand steadying you as he pulled you back into the rhythm of the dance. His scent filled you as you got close to him again, crackling fire, smoky with a surprising touch of sweetness and a cosy blend of spices. It was intoxicating. His eyes searched yours, as though he was trying to figure out what you were thinking, trying to piece together the puzzle that was you.

“You don’t need to give me an answer tonight, you know?” Eris said softly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand in a barely-there gesture. “Sometimes it’s okay not to know.”

The simplicity of his words made something in your chest loosen, even if just a little. You weren’t sure how much you trusted him yet, or what this dance would mean for the future, but in this moment, the weight of your decisions seemed to lighten.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you murmured, your voice quieter than before.

The music slowed, signalling the end of the dance, and as you pulled away, you noticed the lingering warmth of his hand in yours. You didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. There was no need for more words, not yet. But in the stillness that followed, with Eris watching you, not as a prince or a suitor, but as someone trying to understand you, you realized something important:

You weren’t entirely sure what was happening between you, but whatever it was, it wasn’t a game. Not anymore.

Azriel’s POV

Azriel watched from the shadows, his chest tightening with each passing second as you and Eris glided across the dance floor. The elegant way your bodies moved together was undeniable, but it was the way you smiled, that soft, hesitant smile, that made something in him twist uncomfortably. He couldn’t explain the feeling gnawing at him, but he knew one thing: this wasn’t just about diplomacy.

It was more than that.

He had been watching you for weeks now, ever since you’d first spoken to him at a meeting that seemed so insignificant at the time. But now, in this dimly lit ballroom, he could recall every detail of those moments, ever since you both first met, like a collection of memories he hadn’t even realized he’d stored away. Once he was aware of its existence he couldn’t stop noticing every little thing about you.

It started small. At first, he noticed how you carried yourself—calm and composed, yet always with a hint of mischief in your eyes. He remembered how you’d touch your lips absentmindedly when you were lost in thought or how you’d tuck a stray hair behind your ear without thinking twice about it. He’d caught himself staring more than once, admiring the little things about you—the delicate way you handled a blade, the way you always seemed to know when someone needed a kind word or a sharp one. And, by the mother, the times you wielded your powers had to be his favourite, the most lethal poisons indeed did come in the prettiest forms.

But then there were other moments—deeper, quieter ones. Like when you stood beside him, your shoulder brushing his for the briefest second, and he’d felt something stir within him, something he couldn’t name. Or the way you’d throw him a fleeting glance during those Inner Court meetings, where your eyes would catch his for just a second longer than necessary, and he’d be left wondering what lay beneath that look.

He never thought much of it at the time. It was all so subtle, so easy to ignore until it wasn’t.

He remembered one particular evening, only a week ago, when you had laughed at something Feyre had said during dinner. That laugh—it was rare to hear you laugh like that, full and genuine—and it had struck him in a way that made his chest feel uncomfortably tight. He’d found himself watching you for the rest of the evening, his attention constantly drifting toward you, but he brushed it off as nothing more than curiosity.

But now, watching you dance with Eris, all those subtle moments came crashing down on him. The way he’d been noticing the smallest things about you, how he’d been admiring them without truly registering why. How his thoughts would drift to you even when you weren’t in the room, and how lately, he found himself lingering near you whenever he could as if drawn by something he couldn’t quite grasp.

It wasn’t until now—until he saw you in someone else’s arms—that the realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave.

He was falling for you. Maybe he had been for a while. He didn’t even know when it started, but it had crept up on him, subtle and silent like his shadows.

And now, seeing you with Eris, something primal inside him screamed at the thought of losing you, of letting someone else see those small, beautiful things about you that he had come to cherish in secret.

Azriel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the tension rolling through his body like a storm. He couldn’t let this happen. Not without speaking to you. Not without making you rethink whatever it was you were about to do.

Y/N’s POV

As the music quieted, Eris kept your hand in his, guiding you away from the centre of the ballroom. There was a quiet elegance to your movements, a shared understanding that you both needed space from the watching eyes, if only for a moment. Together, you wandered aimlessly, threading your way through clusters of guests without a destination in mind. It wasn’t uncomfortable—more like the kind of aimlessness that made sense, where words weren’t always necessary.

Eris tilted his head toward you, a playful gleam lighting his amber eyes. “I have to admit,” he began, his voice low but teasing, “this might be the first ball where I’m not the sole subject of the whispers.”

You glanced up at him with a smirk, your lips curving just enough to show your amusement. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t live for the scandal. You practically swim in it.”

He chuckled softly. “I’d never deny it. But tonight’s gossip is far juicier than I’d anticipated.”

That flicker of curiosity sparked to life inside you. “Go on, then. Don’t hold out on me.”

Eris leaned in just a bit closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Word around the ballroom is that Lady Soralyn’s sudden disappearance from her estate last week wasn’t for the usual reasons.”

You raised a brow, intrigued. “Usual reasons? You mean like her terrible taste in lovers?”

His grin was wicked. “Oh, it’s much worse this time. She’s apparently been caught in a rather… delicate situation with Tarquin’s advisors, yes, advisors, in plural”

Your eyes widened as you barely held back a laugh. “No. She wouldn’t.”

“Oh, she would,” he replied, his gaze gleaming with mischief. “But that’s not even the best part. The advisors? Married. Their wives showed up mid-rendezvous.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. “How do you always manage to be privy to the worst scandals?”

Eris shrugged, that self-satisfied smirk dancing on his lips. “What can I say? People like to talk when they think no one’s listening. I simply… listen better than most.”

“Or people just assume you’re too arrogant to care,” you teased back, your tone light.

“Ah, but that’s the trick. Let them think what they want.” He paused, his grin taking on a wicked edge. “Besides, it’s always the ones who look disinterested who end up knowing everything.”

You shook your head, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “You must have enough blackmail material on half of Prythian by now.”

“More than half, if we’re being honest,” he replied smoothly, his playful tone fading into something more thoughtful. 

For a while, you walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the ballroom fading into the background. It was nice, the quiet between you, thick with shared understanding but without the need to fill the space with words. 

“I have to admit, Y/N,” he began, breaking the silence, glancing at her with that ever-present smirk, “there are some rather interesting rumours swirling around about you.”

You tilted your head, intrigued but wary. “Oh? I’m sure they’re all incredibly dignified and respectful.”

Eris let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, very. One of the rumours is that you’re the one to fear more than anyone in your court. They speak of how you can practically stop a person’s heart with a look, maybe even… slow their pulse to a crawl.”

You scoffed lightly, but there was a trace of amusement in your voice. “I can’t help it if people are easily intimidated.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Easily? Y/N, I’ve seen battle-hardened generals flinch when you enter a room.”

“Well,” you shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though the flicker of a smile betrayed you, “alright, I have nothing to say to that.”

“Exactly.” Eris teased, but then his expression softened into something more genuine. “Though, truth be told, it’s what made me curious about you in the first place.”

You glanced up at him, taken aback. “Curious?”

Eris nodded, his amber eyes lingering on hers. “While others were whispering in fear, I wondered if there wasn’t more to the story. Something they were too blind or too intimidated to see.” His voice lowered, holding a trace of warmth that caught her off guard. “Turns out, I was right.”

You simply blinked, momentarily lost for words, the vulnerability in his tone throwing her slightly off balance. But Eris, never one to let a moment linger too long, cleared his throat and switched to a lighter tone.

Of course, there’s one piece of gossip about you that’s been making the rounds lately—something very scandalous.”

You shot him a wary look, already preparing for whatever teasing remark he was about to throw her way. “Oh? And here I thought I’d been behaving.”

Eris chuckled, low and dangerous. “Apparently, at a certain high-society dinner a few months back, there was a rather loud—and, shall we say, descriptive—comment made about you.”

A frown formed on your face, curiosity piqued despite the sinking feeling in your stomach. “Descriptive? Of what, exactly?”

Eris leaned in, his voice dropping into a mock whisper as he delivered the punchline. “Some lord from the Dawn Court—inebriated beyond saving, of course—remarked that he had it on good authority that you could literally make a man drop dead between the sheets. And not literally, if you catch my drift.”

Your mouth dropped open, blood rushing to your face, flushing with embarrassment. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.” Eris grinned wickedly, savouring the look of horror that spread across your face. “He claimed you had some very specific talents when it came to manipulating…certain bodily functions.”

You groaned, running a hand over your face as if to hide from the mortifying thought. “Stars, please tell me you’re making this up.”

“Wish I was.” Eris smirked, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “The entire room fell silent. A few looked horrified, but others were—let’s say—intrigued. I distinctly remember someone asking if there were any volunteers for you to demonstrate your ‘gifts’ after dinner.”

You swatted his arm in exasperation, mortified. “You’re disgusting, Eris.”

He laughed, completely unbothered. “I’m disgusting? You should’ve seen the way half the room was staring at you afterwards. They were probably wondering if they’d survive the night in your bed or if they’d drop dead with a smile on their face.”

Y/N shot him a glare, though she couldn’t stop the embarrassed laugh that slipped out. “I can’t believe people talk about me like that. How vulgar. Though that is a nice idea, never tried that before.”

Eris’s eyes darkened at that comment, not giving him a chance to reply to that you sighed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Well, I’m thrilled to know I’m the subject of such flattering gossip.”

Eris caught on and just smirked, a spark of admiration shining beneath his teasing gaze. “You might hate it, but it’s true. They don’t know what to make of you, Y/N. They’re either terrified of you or—”

“—or want to sleep with me, apparently,” she cut in, her tone dry.

Eris chuckled again, but this time there was a note of sincerity in his voice. “Some of us fall into neither category, you know? Not that I’ll object to the latter but only if you are up to it .”

Your teasing expression softened slightly as you glanced up at him, sensing something deeper beneath the banter. But before you could respond, a familiar shadowy presence loomed behind.

Azriel.

He stepped forward, his gaze sharp and focused, cutting through the playful atmosphere like a knife. “Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice steady but tense. “We need to talk.”

His expression was calm, but his hazel eyes were burning with something else—something you hadn’t seen before. The sight of him so close, after days of him being absent, sent your heart into overdrive.

You glanced at Eris, who raised an eyebrow but stepped back graciously. “I’ll wait for you by the balcony,” he said smoothly, leaving you and Azriel alone in the crowd.

Azriel wasted no time, pulling you aside to a quieter corner of the room. His grip on your arm was firm, his shadows swirling anxiously around his feet.

“Azriel, what—?”

“Why are you doing this?” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Why are you letting him... How are you so sure that you don’t have a mate? Did he die? Is that it?”

The shock hit you like a physical blow. You had never seen Azriel this... shaken. The calm, collected Spymaster seemed to be unravelling before you. “Azriel, what are you talking about?”

His eyes flicked over your face, searching for something—an answer, a sign, anything. “Y/N, I know what I’m saying sounds ridiculous. But you can’t go through with this. I can’t let you marry him.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Yes, I do have a mate and he is very much alive, Azriel.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Azriel’s expression shifted, confusion and something darker clouding his features. “Then why are you doing this? Why are you... with Eris?”

You couldn’t help but raise your voice, “Because mating bonds are complicated! Trust me, my mate isn’t interested. The cauldron makes mistakes.” 

“Y/n, rejecting a mating bond is so painful, it’s worse than death.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone.

You felt a flicker of something like hope stir inside you, but it was quickly drowned out by the weight of reality. “Why does it matter to you, Azriel?” you asked softly. “Why are you so bothered by this?”

His response was immediate, but it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “Eris isn’t good enough for you.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. Of course. Of course, it would be about Eris, not about him realising he was your mate. You stepped back, the disappointment settling like a stone in your chest.

“I need to go,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Eris is waiting for me.”

You found Eris on the balcony, staring out into the night. He turned when you approached, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

“Well?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes searching yours.

“I’ve been thinking,” you began, leaning against the railing. “Prythian needs this. And maybe... maybe I do, too.”

Eris’s brow lifted, but the teasing was gone from his expression. “You’re really considering it, then?”

You nodded, exhaling softly. “We both know this alliance is necessary. And... who knows? Maybe we’ll be good for each other.”

Eris studied you for a long moment before stepping closer, his hand resting over yours on the railing. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. But... I’m glad.”

You exchanged a look, one filled with an understanding that ran deeper than words. It wasn’t love, but it was something. And maybe that was enough.

“I accept your proposal,” you said softly.

The ceremony was held later that evening, under the cover of moonlight at a temple just beyond the court. Everything was ready—the vows, the magic that would bind you and Eris together in an alliance sealed by more than just words.

But as the moment to seal the bond drew closer, you felt it. A  pull deep within your chest.

Azriel stormed into the temple, his wings outstretched, his shadows wild around him. His eyes locked onto you, fury and desperation swirling within them.

“You said your mate wasn’t interested,” he ground out, his voice like shattered glass. “Well, I am fucking interested.”

Time seemed to stop.

Azriel’s voice rose, a tremor in his tone. “I wish the bond had snapped earlier, before all this. But I’ll be damned if I watch you marry another male when I’m standing right here.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet as Azriel’s words hung in the air. You stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to move. His wings, the embodiment of his fury, flared behind him as his gaze bore into you, wild and unrelenting. He was waiting for you to say something, to react, but your mind was spinning.

You heard Eris shift beside you, but your eyes were still locked on Azriel’s. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. After all this time, after all the signals you thought you had misread, he was standing here, confessing... what? That he was your mate? That he had known?

“I... I don’t understand,” you finally managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Azriel took a step closer, his shadows curling anxiously around his feet. “The bond, Y/N. It snapped. Just now. I didn’t know... I didn’t realize... but I can’t let this happen. I can’t let you marry him.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the weight of everything pressing down on you, making it hard to think. Your mate. Azriel was your mate. A part of you wanted to feel relief, to feel joy, but all you could feel was fear. Fear for Prythian, fear for the consequences this revelation would bring.

“You said your mate wasn’t interested,” Azriel repeated, his voice breaking slightly. “But I am. I’ve always been. And now that I know... I can’t lose you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, your eyes flickered to Eris. He stood there, expression unreadable, though his amber eyes held a strange mix of emotions. There was no anger, no fury—just a quiet understanding, and perhaps a trace of sadness.

“I have to do this,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Azriel.

“No,” Azriel said, his voice hot, desperate. “No, Y/N. Fuck Prythian, fuck this alliance. I don’t care if the entire world burns down—none of it matters if it means losing you.”

The force of his words knocked the air out of your lungs, and before you could stop yourself, you were surging forward, crashing into him. His arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, and his lips met yours in a kiss that was all fire and fury and desperation. It was as if the world had indeed stopped, and at that moment, all that mattered was the feeling of his mouth on yours, the taste of him, the bond snapping into place so forcefully that it left you both breathless.

When you finally broke apart, you stared up at him, your heart racing. This... this was real. The bond was real.

But as the haze of the kiss faded, reality came crashing back in. You could feel the weight of the court’s eyes on you, feel Eris’s presence behind you. Slowly, you turned to face him.

Eris stood tall, his expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking the sadness in his gaze. He let out a soft breath, his lips quirking into a wry smile. “Well... I’ll be damned.”

You took a step toward him, guilt twisting in your chest. “Eris, I am so sorry—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off gently. “Don’t. You don’t need to apologize. I knew something was off, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I just... I had hoped, for once, that I could have something for myself.”

Your throat tightened as you watched him. He was still so composed, still so regal, but there was a depth of pain in his eyes that made your heartache.

“I saw a future with you,” Eris continued, his voice quiet. “A good one. Even now, I selfishly wish that Azriel would have realized his bond too late, but...” He shook his head, giving you a sad, lopsided smile. “But  I want you to be happy and clearly, you are.”

You took another step closer, your heart aching with the weight of what could have been. “I’m sorry, Eris. I never wanted this to happen... not like this.”

He nodded, the smile still lingering on his lips, though it was tinged with bitterness. “I know. But it’s not your fault. Mating bonds work in strange ways.” His eyes flicked to Azriel, who was watching the exchange with a guarded expression. “Leave it to the Illyrians to always steal my bride.”

The comment was meant to be lighthearted, but the pain laced in his tone was unmistakable. And then, with a final glance at you, Eris gave a small, respectful bow. “Maybe in another lifetime,” he murmured, before winnowing away, leaving you standing there with a strange emptiness in your chest.

The court had dispersed by the time you and Azriel returned to your apartment, the weight of the night settling over you both. The silence was thick between you, the bond still thrumming with energy, still raw and new.

Azriel was the first to break it, his voice soft but full of unspoken emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You met his gaze, your heart aching. “Because I didn’t think... I didn’t think you’d want this. You’ve always been so close to Elain, and I didn’t want to come between that.”

A flicker of something dark passed over his features. “Elain and I... that was never real. It was just... a projection, a fantasy of something I thought I wanted. But you...” His voice softened, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “You are what’s real. And I was too blind to see it.”

Your breath hitched at the tenderness in his touch, the intensity in his eyes. “Azriel...”

“I love you,” he said, the words falling from his lips like a vow. “I love you, Y/N. I have for a long time, and I’m not going to waste another second.”

You surged forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that was softer this time, but no less powerful. The bond flared between you, stronger now, more certain, and as you melted into each other, you knew—this was where you were meant to be.

The rest of the night was spent in a blur of whispered confessions, stolen kisses, and the quiet realization that, despite everything, this was your future.

Azriel was your future.

And as the stars twinkled outside your window, you knew you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A little note from me, kind of an acknowledgement too:

First and foremost, I am so sorry for taking this long to finish this. Apparently thinking of the story alone isn't enough. I can't believe I actually finished it, despite it being short (I don't think these characters could handle any more angst).

Thank you for all the love I've gotten for this fic, especially because this is the first fic I've made public. It means so much to me!!

And finally, my thoughts on Y/n and how the story ended.

This is a fanfic I've been thinking of ever since I read the ACOTAR series and it has been years since then. So yeah, I am a bit disappointed to see the reader making shitty, impulsive decisions, I am sorry if it gave you the ick.

I fell for Eris even more if that was even possible while writing this part. He deserves everything and more. My poor baby, I am so sorry for what I did to you. I wish I could make it better, I actually thought of making Y/n use her powers to lessen Eris's pain or at least make it a bit more tolerable but I felt it would be wrong to him.

I really hoped I could write an ending where Eris would not be hurt but I don't think this story could end in any other way. A tragedy, really. Eris and Y/n would have been the bestest of friends before anything. I'd like to believe it could still happen, platonically at least.

Anyway, I'll leave this to you now, again, thank you so much for reading!!

Taglist: @sidthedollface2,  @a-courtof-azriel,  @whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog ,  @acourtofsmutandstarlight ,  @katherinejess , @landofpetrichor , @isa1b2h3 , @anuttellaa , @cherryinsalemverse , @i-am-infinite , @myromanempiree , @sheblogs , @impossibelle , @fuckthatfeeling , @lilah-asteria , @rinpoststhings , @rcarbo1 , @t0uch-starved-h0e , @olive-main , @crossfandomslut , @melmo567 , @crazylokonugget , @sinfully-yoursss , @oucereeng , @annedub , @evangeline-xo , @sspookz , @thecraziestcrayon , @tele86 , @mal-adaptive-dreams , @mybestfriendmademe , @hannzoaks , @x1305 , @vanserrasimp , @whyshouldihaveanam3 , @smutslut05, @theravenphoenix26 , @moonlwghts , @noisyinfluencerstrawberry , @saltedcoffeescotch , @laughterafter , @lazypostfandomer , @weekendlusting , @feiwelinchen, @ivy-34 , @littlepippilongstocking , @iluvyewman-blog , @badgerstorms-art , @agirlwithwifiandalaptop , @the1harmony , @mp-littlebit , @xtreme-shipper , @knittedchapters

[demifiendrsa]

Netflix has revealed the episode titles for the second and finale season along with a bonus standalone episode:

Volume 1 (July 3, 2025)

Chapter 1: “Season of Mists”

Chapter 2: “The Ruler of Hell”

Chapter 3: “More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold”

Chapter 4: “Brief Lives”

Chapter 5: “The Song of Orpheus”

Chapter 6: “Family Blood”

Volume 2 (July 24, 2025)

Chapter 7: “Time and Night”

Chapter 8: “Fuel for the Fire”

Chapter 9: “The Kindly Ones”

Chapter 10: “Long Live the King”

Chapter 11: “A Tale of Graceful Ends”

Special Bonus Episode (July 31, 2025) Chapter 12: “The Sandman Presents: Death: The High Cost of Living”

[livefromthedas]

That Time Flirting Accidentally Worked

By ClickClickBoom

(Also here on AAO3)

Chapter 2: The Pnemoix

Summary:

Rook Ingellvar, a dumpster fire amongst Mourn Watchers, manages to fall face-first into dating one Emmrich Volkarin.

Nice.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

It was a little hard at first, being surrounded by such opulence when Rook knew as well as anyone how sorely so many people were suffering in the same breath. Venatori had overrun the streets of Minrathos. Ancient artifacts of varying degrees of calamitous power were taking lives in Arlathan Forest, and the Antaam had an iron grip on the daily lives of citizens in Treviso. Never mind whatever brutish machinations the Evanuris were planning to unleash next.

But Navarra City stood strong, as bustling a lavish gem and the seat of their nation’s powerful elite as ever. Art and culture bejeweled the landscape in all directions. Even more so, the city dazzled at night, as bone-chillingly dark and cryptic as it was beautiful.

When questioned about their unusually quiet stroll from the Necropolis Eluvian to the threshold of the Pnemoix, from which, unsurprisingly, a line of patrons spilled out of the door patiently awaiting their reservations call, Rook admitted, a bit bashfully, her guilt over the genuine delight attempting to overtake the the degree of seriousness she knew their responsibilities entailed.

Compassionate as ever, Emmrich smiled. Gilded fingers gestured thoughtfully to usher her inside as the maitre d’ called for the reservation of one Emmrich Volkarin.

“My darling Rook,” the Senior Necromancer crooned at a volume meant solely for her, “If not for exactly this, whatever are we fighting for?”

——————-

The Pnemoix was Navarran pageantry at its finest. Part fine dining experience, part elaborate performance art, it was not entirely unlike stepping into a smaller, darker, more sensual version of the Fade. Spirits and the necromantic arts, live music and a whole host of finely dressed Navarran well-to-do’s mingled.

Rook, for once fully doe-eyed herself, couldn’t help but ogle the theatrics with an enraptured sort of joy, the small orchestra filling the space with notes as delicious as its menu. Wisps lit much of the venue alongside the palpable shimmer of magic that crackled in the air.

Emmrich had been grinning the whole while, clearly proud over just how breathless his company was over the experience.

“Wine for the both of us if you would, dear boy. Ah, and blood orange salad to start?” He shot Rook a glance, her favorite hometown appetizer still fresh in his mind.

Rook had smiled and nearly nodded to confirm as a menu was passed her way, when - - -

“…Professor?”

Emmrich’s brown eyes went wide in a rare moment of diffidence - Not for the first time where where Rook was concerned, she mused, thanks to a handful of less than subtle and a little more than crass flirts lobbed his way over the past many months - but his propriety was recovered as quickly as ever.

“Augustus Durchdenwald!” He declared with charming enthusiasm. The young man, who had momentarily frozen amidst passing Emmrich a menu and barely looked old enough to hold down a job, seemed to shake off some of the awkwardness of discovering his aging professor on a date by sheer will of the Senior Necromancer’s delight, “My dear boy, how are you? How has the semester treated you so far?”

“Oh… good, good. Thank you, ser,” The teenager managed, “I’ve been able to start field work a semester early, just this week.”

“Rook, darling, Augustus here was easily one of my top students just this past semester. Remarkably astute for such an early grade,” Emmrich boast.

Augustus went beet red and probably would have disappeared into his doublet if he could. It struck Rook in that moment that Emmrich seemed far more focused on assuring Rook herself felt comfortable in the situation than the young man squirming beneath such praise.

Rook stifled a chuckle, sounding not unlike the Professor as she afforded the boy a cordial nod, “Charmed.”

“The Shakshouka for me, if you would,” Emmrich was quick to order his meal, “Rook?”

“Navarran Curry,” Rook replied.

“Right,” Young Augustus scrambled to recollect his menus and gave a quick, courteous bow, “With you shortly. Good evening, Professor. Uh… Ma’am.”

The young master Durchdenwald disappeared as quickly has he’d stumbled onto the scene.

“Given the chance,” Rook teased, trying and failing to stifle a laugh in the moments that followed, “Do you think he’d have preferred death by a thousand cuts, or a public hanging over absolutely anything that just happened there?”

Emmrich’s eyes glistened with barely stifled bemusement of his own, “Dear boy. Let us hope his recovery is swift.”

His tone managed to be *just* serious enough to shatter Rook into a fit of laughter.

——————-

The crown jewel of the Pnemoix’s festivities for the evening was a sweeping gallery show featuring fine art - Mostly sculpture - that seemed to blur the lines between physical materials like glass and stone, and very real, raw magical energies. Built around the theme of dragon slaying and its integral importance within Navarran culture, each sculpture's energy illuminated its glass components like molten fire despite remaining cool to the touch, and its light undulated around the space like the auroras seen in the skies to the north.

Rook was enraptured with the display - She’d never experienced anything quite like it. It struck her that she spent so much time studying the ancient and the arcane of Navarra’s distant past, that she rarely bothered to poke her head up and see how creative minds chose to express their experiences today, and she mentioned as much to Emmrich.

“I had hoped you would enjoy it so,” Emmrich smiled, before adding with a sweet sort of seriousness, “If our journey together thus far has reminded me of anything, it is that one must remember to look up from time to time, my darling. There are boundless experiences to be had outside the comforts of solitude and books.”

“Professor Volkarin, did you just tell me *not* to read?” Rook couldn’t resist teasing.

“Oh, Never,” he assured, mischief glinting in his eyes. A warm gloved hand faell to the small of her back as he guided the pair of them along to the next luminous display of artistry, “Books tend to travel remarkably well, after all. Or so I’m remembering for the first time in a very long while, thanks to you.”

“This is a new leaf for me,” Rook grinned, wrinkling her nose in a way that she, only recently, realized made something about the spark in Volkarin’s eyes go just a hair shy of feral, “Rook Ingellvar - The *good influence.* I dare say the late headmaster would never believe it.”

At Emmrich’s raised eyebrow, she laughed, admitting, “I really did give that poor old man hell for a couple of years, there.”

“Your reputation did proceed you, if I recall,” he agreed, trying to look serious but once again failing just enough to bait a laugh from his lovely companion. “And it is remarkable, Rook. To see how far you’ve come.”

Rook went surprisingly somber at that, a tinge of shame worming its way into her typically unshakable confidence, “Emmrich, love… I’m less than a year off from what was essentially a soft banishment from the Necropolis. I’ve the destruction of two undead nobles on my record, and enough pissed off patrons to make sure it could take years - If I’m ever able to reintegrate into the order.”

“Yes, as you’ve told me,” Emmrich said evenly, “At length. And I maintain that between what you have explained to me in confidence, and based on the intuitive competency I’ve seen you display every step of the way thus far, that I have every belief you acted in a way best befitting the moment.” He slowed his pace to a stop, the pensive woman on his arm stilled with him, noting softly, “You are no longer a child struggling to find a place to be, my dear. Surely you see you are so much more.”

Rook found her hand fluttering to press warmly upon his chest. Something in his gaze just then made her suspect he’d needed to hear those very same words, once. Perhaps not that long ago.

It was unlikely to the point of absurdity that Emmrich would have dared kiss her in such a wildly public space - certainly not so soon, and not in a social gathering a stone’s throw from the Necropolis, where half a dozen patrons and the majority of the staff seemed to know him by name. But, quick and chaste, her tiptoes afforded her a kiss to his cheek before he ever saw it coming.

It was the first time Rook was quite certain that, despite the mottled light and deep shadows of their surroundings, she ever saw the Senior Necromancer blush.

Notes:

Shit, they're cute.

Also, Gallery shows making for a hot date is a hill I will gladly die on.

Thanks for reading, you beauties!