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[boxesforsys]

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[madwildcrunchy]

kiss kiss Fall Into The Tomb,aka The Locked Tomb OHSHC AU (skull versions below) (i do not apologise)

[coatas]

some of my favorite characters! it was hard to choose who to draw but this was really fun to do, i’ll probably do another one in the future :)

[the-fallen-collective]

me when I make a playlist about One Of My Exes but the playlist is actually a banger (time to turn this into OC lore)

[honeydippedfiction]

Joe x Angel Angst Prompt #42 “You Promised” with #14 “Don’t you dare walk away from me” with fluff prompt #35 “ I just want to be there for you.”

Whew this one is a lot… prepare your heartstrings (also takes place when they’re still engaged so pre-Zariyah era)

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#42 “You Promised”, #14 “Don’t you dare walk away from me” & #35 “ I just want to be there for you.”

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Angel adjusted the gold necklace resting just above the neckline of her sleek black dress—the same one Joe had picked out for her birthday last year during a surprise trip to New Orleans. She could still remember the way he’d stood behind her in the boutique mirror, arms wrapped around her waist, whispering that she looked like everything the world didn’t deserve.

Now, in the quiet of her hotel suite’s bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Flawless makeup. Confident eyes. The ESPN badge clipped to her waist was a reminder that she’d earned this. After years grinding on the sidelines, chasing quotes in freezing locker rooms, she wasn’t just reporting on college football anymore.

Tonight, she was hosting—live, in front of the country—at the College Football Awards.

It was everything she had worked toward.

The moment she’d dreamt about when she was pulling double shifts during grad school, when she was the only Black woman on set, when she was told to smile more and talk less. All of it led here.

And Joe had promised he’d be there. Not just as her fiancé, but as her partner. As her biggest supporter.

She could still hear his voice from the week before, warm and certain: “Babe, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve supported me through everything—now it’s my turn.”

But he had missed it.

Three hours after the stage lights dimmed, after the cameras stopped rolling and the congratulatory hugs faded into the background, Angel stood alone in the driveway of their Cincinnati home. Her heels dangled from two tired fingers, her arches aching, but that pain was nothing compared to the tight, bruised feeling in her chest.

The sky was a soft charcoal above her, clouds hanging low, the kind of Midwest night where the air tasted like rain even if it never came.

She took a breath, lingering at the driver’s side of her car, part of her still hoping—still foolishly clinging to the idea—that maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe he had made it home early and was waiting upstairs, half-asleep in his clothes, her segment paused on the TV. Maybe there was a good reason.

She unlocked the front door quietly, slipping inside. The familiar scent of pinewood and lavender greeted her. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the lamp beside the couch.

And there he was.

Joe was curled up on the sofa, hoodie loose around his frame, legs stretched out, his face bathed in the cold blue glow of his iPad. One headphone dangled from his neck. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, locked onto film breakdown, fingers tapping occasionally to rewind or freeze a frame.

He didn’t look up until the door clicked shut.

“Hey,” he said casually, glancing at her like she’d just come back from the grocery store. “How’d it go?”

Angel didn’t speak right away. She just stared at him. Her hand tightened around her keys.

“You weren’t there,” she said quietly.

Joe’s smile faltered. The guilt on his face wasn’t sudden—it had been there, simmering just beneath the surface. He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“Angel… I know. I—Coach called a team meeting last minute. There was new breakdown footage from practice, and he needed us to—”

“No.” Her voice sliced through the space between them, sharp and clean. “Don’t start with that.”

Joe’s brow furrowed. “I’m not making excuses. I just—”

“You promised, Joe.”

He sighed and set the iPad on the coffee table. “I swear, I wanted to be there. I was watching the time the whole meeting. But it ran long, and by the time I thought about leaving, it was—”

“Wanted to be?” she repeated, her laugh sharp and bitter. “That’s supposed to be enough now? Wanting?”

Joe stood, rubbing his hands down his thighs like he could scrub the guilt off. “Angel, come on. You know what my schedule’s like. It’s not like I was sitting here playing Xbox. This is my job. You knew this is what life with me was going to be.”

“Exactly,” she snapped, stepping closer. “It’s always your job. Always football. Always something more important than me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders drawn tight. “What’s not fair is standing on a national stage, my first time ever doing live television, with my heart in my throat, looking for your face in the crowd and praying you'd walk through the doors. Thinking maybe you got caught in traffic, maybe you were running late, maybe—maybe—you gave enough of a damn to show up. But you didn’t. Just like last time. Just like every time.”

Joe’s jaw clenched. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it.”

Angel blinked. Slowly.

Her voice dropped an octave, calm now. Dangerous. “I didn’t sign up to be a footnote in your life, Joe. I signed up for you. I thought we were building something together. But I’m starting to feel like I’m doing the building and you’re just passing through.”

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.

Angel turned sharply, walking down the hallway without another word. The sound of her suitcase rolling open and the zip of fabric felt louder than any argument.

Joe followed, pausing in the doorway of their bedroom, watching as she began throwing clothes into a duffel bag with a methodical, practiced rhythm.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight.

“To Monica’s.”

“You’re seriously leaving over this?”

Angel paused at the dresser, her hand hovering over the engagement ring that had once symbolized the future they were building together. She looked at it for a long moment—her finger, the precious metal, the diamond that had been a promise, now feeling heavier than ever.

Then, without a word, she took the ring off and set it gently on the counter. The sound of the band meeting the stone felt louder than it should have in the silence of the room.

She looked at him. Her eyes were tired now—not angry. Just disappointed.

“I need space, Joe.”

Joe took a step forward. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

That stopped her cold.

Angel slowly turned, her face unreadable. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“Angel—”

“No,” she said, yanking her arm back when he reached for it. Her voice cracked, but her stance held. “Until you can respect me—until you can treat this relationship like it matters—consider our engagement over.”

It hit him like a blindside sack. His lips parted, but no words came.

She slung the duffel over her shoulder, grabbed her keys off the dresser, and walked out. No tears. No dramatic pause. Just the sound of the front door clicking shut, quiet and final, as if the house itself exhaled in her absence.

Joe remained where he was, still trying to make sense of what just happened. His legs felt like lead, his hands trembling, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. Not now.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the house, like the softest slap of finality. No tears. No dramatic pause. Just the quiet, irreversible exit.

And then, she was gone.

Joe stood there in the silence, his heart pounding, his mind racing with all the things he should’ve said, should’ve done. The house around him felt colder somehow. The weight of Angel’s absence pressed in on him, suffocating the air. And there, in the center of their once-shared home, was the ring. The promise that had slipped through his fingers.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

The night air hit Angel like a slap the moment she stepped outside. Cold. Final. The door shut behind her with a dull click, but inside her chest, it sounded more like a door slamming shut on something sacred.

She didn’t even remember getting into her car. Her hands moved on autopilot—key in the ignition, seatbelt pulled, drive. The streets blurred as she drove through Cincinnati’s quiet neighborhoods, the city lights casting shadows across her dashboard.

And still, no tears.

Not at first.

It wasn’t until she pulled up to Monica’s apartment complex—a beige three-story building tucked behind a row of oak trees—that the adrenaline wore off. That’s when her breath caught in her throat. That’s when the first sob ripped out of her like it had been waiting all night.

By the time she reached Monica’s door, she was trembling. Her fist knocked harder than she intended, but her control had slipped. All of it had slipped.

The door opened within seconds. Monica appeared in plaid pajama pants, a bonnet secured over her tight curls, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and a face mask half-applied. Her eyes widened immediately.

“Angel?” Her voice sharpened. “Girl, what the hell—what happened?”

Angel tried to answer. Tried to say I’m okay, or It’s nothing, or Can I crash here for the night? But the only thing that came out was a choked sob.

And then she broke.

Monica didn’t hesitate. She stepped aside, looping an arm around her best friend’s shoulders and ushering her inside like she was guiding someone out of a burning building.

“Okay. Sit down. I got you.”

Angel dropped her bag by the door and collapsed onto Monica’s couch, tears streaming freely now, her body shaking. Monica knelt in front of her, one hand holding Angel’s and the other reaching for a blanket from the armrest.

“Breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

Angel nodded, but her breath came in gasps.

Monica waited, rubbing her thumb over Angel’s knuckles until her breathing finally slowed. When Angel was able to wipe her face and speak, the first words came in a hoarse whisper.

“He didn’t show.”

Monica blinked. “What?”

“For the awards,” Angel said. “He promised me, Monica. He swore he’d be there.”

Monica sat back, her expression darkening. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Angel shook her head. “I kept looking at the crowd, thinking maybe he’d walk in late, maybe he’d surprise me. But he didn’t come. I got home, and he was just there. On the couch. Watching film.”

“You’re kidding me,” Monica said flatly. “Watching game film?”

Angel nodded, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Like it was just another Tuesday. No apology, no flowers, no effort.” Her voice broke. “And I—I just snapped.”

“Damn right you did.” Monica stood up, pacing now. “After everything you’ve done for that man? After all the times you’ve canceled things for him, traveled with him, bent over backward to support his ass—and he can’t show up for the biggest night of your career?”

Angel looked down at her lap. “I told him I needed space. That I was coming here.”

“You did the right thing,” Monica said without hesitation. “He needed to hear it. He needed to see that you won’t sit around waiting for him to finally remember you’re not just the woman in his house—you’re the woman who’s next to him, or supposed to be.”

Angel winced. “I told him to consider the engagement over.”

Monica stopped in her tracks. “Good.”

Angel looked up. “Mon—”

“I’m serious,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “If he can’t treat you with the respect you’ve earned, then he doesn’t get to wear that ring like it’s a badge of honor. You’ve always been more than someone’s fiancée. You’re Angel Carter. You don’t need a man who only shows up when it’s convenient.”

Angel wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, her voice small. “I still love him.”

Monica’s expression softened, and she returned to the couch, taking Angel’s hand again. “I know. And maybe he loves you, too. But loving someone means more than saying it. It means showing up. Not just when it’s easy. Especially when it’s not.”

Angel nodded slowly, her tears finally slowing, her body exhausted.

“Get some sleep,” Monica murmured. “I’ll make waffles in the morning. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had carbs and clarity.”

Angel managed a soft, tired smile through the ache in her chest. “I love you.”

“Love you too, babe,” Monica said. “And just so you know, if I do see Joe in the street tomorrow, I’m fighting him. That’s not a threat—it’s a premonition.”

That pulled a short laugh from Angel, a watery one, but real. It wasn’t healing yet. But it was the first breath after drowning.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

The first night at Monica’s, Angel barely slept.

She spent most of it curled on the couch under the weight of a fleece blanket and her own thoughts, staring at the ceiling fan slowly spinning above her. Her phone buzzed twice—both messages from Joe.

She didn’t read them.

She couldn’t.

The next morning, she awoke to the smell of cinnamon and the distant hiss of Monica’s waffle maker. She shuffled into the kitchen, hair tied up, hoodie draped over her petite frame. Monica handed her a plate and a side-eye full of sisterly concern.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Angel said preemptively.

“Didn’t ask,” Monica replied, pouring syrup like it was holy oil. “But I’ll listen when you’re ready.”

Angel spent most of that day in sweats, watching reruns of A Different World and only half-listening. Her mind drifted back to that moment in their hallway—Joe reaching for her like he could fix everything with a hand on her arm. The way his face had changed when she told him to consider the engagement over.

She hadn’t said it to be cruel.

She had said it because it hurt too much to pretend anymore.

By Thursday, her emotions had shifted. The anger wasn’t gone, but now it was folded beneath layers of sorrow and confusion. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart jumped. What if he was saying the right thing now? What if he wasn’t saying anything?

She didn’t check. Not yet.

Friday came with silence. Monica went to the studio for a podcast taping and left Angel with the apartment to herself. Alone, Angel found herself scrolling through old photos—tailgates at LSU, their first NFL Draft night, the weekend in Miami when Joe told her, “I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know you’re in it.”

She had believed him.

By Saturday, the air was heavier. Something about weekends had always made Angel feel closer to him. Their lazy mornings. Coffee in mismatched mugs. Her feet on his lap while they watched film or movies. The ritual of love, in quiet moments.

But tonight was different.

They had planned dinner at Joe’s parents’ house weeks ago. Robin was making her infamous shrimp étouffée. It was supposed to be the kind of warm, casual night they both loved—family, wine, a break from the chaos.

Angel stayed on the couch, her phone on silent beside her, as Monica made sangria in the kitchen. She couldn’t face Robin. Couldn’t put on a brave face and pretend that everything wasn't unraveling.

Across town, the Burrow house was quieter than usual.

Dinner was ready. The table was set for six, though only five were seated.

Robin stirred her wine and looked at the empty chair beside Joe.

“Where’s Angel?” she asked casually, not yet suspicious, just curious.

Joe didn’t meet her eyes. He poked at his rice and shrugged. “She couldn’t make it.”

Robin blinked, surprised. “That’s not like her. She’s never missed a family dinner.”

“I know.”

Silence settled over the table, but Robin didn’t let it rest.

“She okay?”

Joe swallowed hard. “We, uh… we had a fight.”

Robin set down her wine. “What kind of fight?”

Joe shook his head, still not looking up. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

“She just… needed space.”

Robin let the words hang there for a beat. Then, without a word, she reached for her phone, walked out of the dining room, and stepped onto the back porch.

She didn’t need to ask for Angel’s number. She had it saved.

It rang twice.

“Robin?” Angel’s voice came on the other end, hesitant.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Robin said gently, but there was a steel edge beneath the warmth. “I missed you tonight.”

Angel’s breath caught. “I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t come.”

Robin’s voice softened. “You don’t have to apologize to me, honey. But I would like to know what happened.”

There was a long pause. Angel considered dodging, softening the truth. But she was tired of pretending.

“He promised he’d be at the College Football Awards,” she said quietly. “He didn’t show. I came home to find him watching film like it was just another Tuesday night. And I broke.”

Robin exhaled sharply. “He didn’t show up for you?”

“No. And not just that night. It’s been building for a while. I feel like I’m standing alone in this relationship, and when I told him that, he got defensive. I told him I needed space… that I was leaving.”

Robin’s voice went cold. “And he let you?”

Angel didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.

There was a beat of heavy silence.

“Well,” Robin said finally, her voice rising just slightly, “you may not be my daughter by blood, but I love you like one. And I’m not going to sit back and watch my son sabotage the only good thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Angel closed her eyes. Her heart ached from the kindness, from the clarity of being seen.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Robin didn’t respond right away. But when she did, her voice was low, firm, and meant for one person only.

“I did not raise him to be this man. And if he doesn’t wake up soon and check into reality, he’s going to lose the only woman who’s stood by him through everything. And believe me, Angel—he knows it.”

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Robin stepped back into the house, the sliding door gliding shut behind her with a soft click. But the shift in her presence was anything but soft. The warmth in her smile was gone, replaced by a cool determination that made everyone at the dinner table sit up a little straighter.

Joe looked up instinctively. The second he saw her face, he knew.

He’d never been afraid of his mother. Not as a boy, not as a man. But right now, seated at the table like nothing was burning around him, he felt something close.

Robin crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Get in the kitchen,” she said.

A few glances darted across the table. Everyone else fell silent as Joe pushed his chair back with a scrape and followed his mother into the kitchen. He didn’t need a map to know where this was headed—he could feel the storm coming before she even opened her mouth.

Joe blinked. “What?”

“I said get up. Now.”

The scrape of his chair against the hardwood was the only sound as he followed her. Once they were out of earshot of the others—just past the pantry, near the fridge—Robin turned on him.

“I just got off the phone with Angel.”

Joe’s heart sank, but he kept his jaw tight. “I figured.”

Robin’s voice was low, sharp as a blade. “You figured? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he muttered, but it sounded weak, even to him.

Robin leaned forward, her eyes fierce. “Don’t you dare minimize this. You broke a promise to her. Not just any promise—a big one. Her night, Joe. After all the times she’s been there for you. After all the ways she’s had your back, stayed quiet, made space for your career, smiled for cameras when she wanted to cry. And you couldn’t show up for her once? She didn’t come tonight because she couldn’t bring herself to sit across from you and pretend like you didn’t break her heart.”

Joe’s stomach sank.

He opened his mouth, but Robin wasn’t done.

She raised a hand, and he immediately fell silent.

“No. You don’t get to talk yet. You get to listen.”

“Do you understand how lucky you are that that girl even looked at you twice, let alone stayed with you through everything? Through the chaos, the injuries, the relocations, the media—she’s been there. Constant. Loyal. Proud of you. Loving you out loud, in front of the world. I’m not saying this as her friend. I’m saying this as your mother. You want to be a franchise quarterback? A leader? A grown man who earns respect? Then you better start with the woman who’s been holding you down since LSU.”

Joe’s chest rose and fell, slow and tight. He’d felt guilt before—but this? This was something deeper. A sinking realization that he hadn’t just made a mistake—he had wounded something sacred.

“And you couldn’t be bothered to show up for her,” Robin said. “Her night. A night she earned, worked for, dreamed of. You left her alone in that room, looking for your face and realizing you weren’t coming.”

Joe’s shoulders tensed. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there—”

​​“Wanting isn’t doing,” she snapped. “She didn’t need you to want to show up. She needed you to be there. In the seat you said you’d sit in. Supporting her like she’s supported you through injuries, media storms, trades, and a schedule that devours every minute of your life.”

“Mom, I—”

“No.” Her voice dropped, quiet and lethal. “Joseph Lee Burrow.”

Joe froze.

That was it.

The full government name. Robin hadn’t said it since he was sixteen and wrecked her Camry backing out of the driveway too fast. Back then, he’d known it meant he’d crossed a line.

Now, hearing it again, as a grown man, the shame hit him in the chest like a linebacker.

“You didn’t just miss a dinner,” Robin continued, voice trembling now—not from anger, but from disbelief. “You missed her. And then, when she called you on it, you let her walk out that door instead of fighting for her. You let her pack a bag and leave. She told me she called off the engagement. Do you even get what that means?”

Joe’s throat was dry. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” she snapped. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be sitting at this table acting like you’re just giving her space. You’d be on your feet, in your car, at her door, doing whatever it takes to win her back.”

He looked down at the tile floor, hands braced on the edge of the counter. The image of Angel walking out—her bag over her shoulder, her eyes full of fire and heartbreak—played in his head like punishment.

“I didn’t raise a man who hides behind excuses or expects the people who love him to always be the ones bending. I raised a man who knows how to apologize. A man who knows when he’s wrong and makes it right.”

Joe’s throat tightened. “I know I messed up.”

“Messed up doesn’t even cover it, Joseph,” she said, using his full name now. “She left your house. She’s staying at Monica’s. And she told me to my face that she called off the engagement.”

He flinched.

Robin took a breath, softer this time. But no less serious.

“She loves you. But love isn’t a one-way commitment. And you are this close—this close—to losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you because you’re too buried in game tape to notice the person in front of you is drowning.”

Joe leaned against the counter, hand to his face. “I know,” he whispered. “God, I know.”

Robin stared at him for another moment, and then walked closer, her tone dropping to something gentler.

“I adore that woman,” she said. “She’s strong, she’s brilliant, she’s loyal. She chose you—not the NFL, not the spotlight. You. And you’ve got one chance, maybe two, to make this right before she walks away and never looks back.”

Joe nodded slowly, the weight of his mother’s words settling into his bones.

“Figure it out,” Robin said, pointing a finger at him like it was gospel. “Because if you don’t, she’s not going to be the one who regrets it. You will.”

Robin took one last look at him and let out a breath like she’d just set something heavy down.

“I raised you better than this. So act like it.”

With that, she turned and walked back toward the dining room, calm as ever—leaving Joe alone in the kitchen, heart pounding, shame burning like fire in his chest.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Four days.

That’s how long it had been since Angel left.

Each one stretched endlessly, heavy and hollow, the kind of days that don’t tick forward—they drag. The kind of days that make a man sit in silence and realize just how loud a quiet house can be.

Joe didn’t go back to the facility. Not after the fight. Not after the dinner at his parents’ place where his mother, with every ounce of love and fire she had, peeled back the armor he’d been hiding behind and forced him to look at himself. Really look.

He told Coach he needed a few days. Told the team he had something personal to handle. That was true, at least in part.

But what he really needed was her.

And she wasn’t answering.

Not the simple Hey. Not the full paragraph that started with I’m sorry and ended with I don’t expect a response, but I hope you know I love you. Not even the one that just said: I miss you.

Joe had always known Angel was special. Since the beginning. Since LSU. But these four days stripped away every distraction, every assumed “tomorrow,” every excuse.

He wasn’t losing some girl he casually dated. He was losing the woman who had rooted for him when he was a backup quarterback, who had defended him when no one thought he had an NFL arm, who had stood in the shadows of stadium lights so he could shine—without once dimming her own brilliance. The woman who made him, him.

And he had let her down. In front of the world. In front of herself.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

That fourth night, just after 9 p.m., Joe stood outside Monica’s condo building, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie. The spring air wrapped around him with a quiet chill—the kind that seeps past cotton, settling in your chest, reminding you that time keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

He shifted his weight on the concrete stoop. His breath fogged faintly in the porch light as he looked up at the door. From the outside, everything looked normal. Cozy, even. But inside those walls was the woman he’d spent the last four days aching for—and she hadn’t given him a single word.

He deserved it. That silence. And still, it hollowed him out more than any hit he’d taken on the field.

Joe exhaled once, a breath that rattled in his chest, and knocked.

The door creaked open a crack.

Monica appeared, bonnet wrapped tight, arms crossed, eyes sharp as nails beneath arched brows. Her sweatshirt read Don’t Try Me, and she wore it like a mantra.

She didn’t blink. “If you’re here to start drama,” she said flatly, “turn around now.”

Joe didn’t flinch. He nodded once. “I’m not,” he said, quiet and low. “I just… I need to talk to her.”

A long pause stretched between them. The kind of silence that measures character.

Monica narrowed her eyes, then sighed. She didn’t soften, but she stepped back just enough to let him pass.

“She’s in the back,” she said, tone clipped and cautious. “And if she tells me she wants you gone, I will personally help her pack your ego into a suitcase.”

Joe managed a small, broken smile. “Fair enough,” he murmured. “I understand.”

The condo was warm—light jazz playing low from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere in the living room, candles flickering from a side table. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus, cocoa butter, and the vanilla lotion Angel always wore at night. The familiarity of it almost made him dizzy. He didn’t deserve the comfort—but he took it in anyway, like a man gasping for air at the surface.

He moved down the hallway slowly, like each step mattered.

Because it did.

Every one of them was an apology. A plea.

He reached the end of the hallway just as she stepped out.

Angel stood barefoot in Monica’s oversized T-shirt, joggers hanging low on her hips, her curls pulled back into a loose pineapple bun. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes, the kind that didn’t come from makeup—but from not sleeping. From carrying too much.

She looked exhausted. And somehow, impossibly, still stunning.

Joe’s heart twisted hard in his chest. She was right there—so close—but he could feel the distance between them like an entire ocean.

He cleared his throat, voice low.

“I messed up,” he said.

Angel didn’t move. She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t cross the room. But she didn’t walk away either.

That was something.

“I told myself I could balance it all,” Joe said, eyes searching hers. “That football and us could live in two separate lanes. But that’s not how love works. You’re not something I fit into the margins of my schedule, Angel. You’re the center. You’re home. And I haven’t been treating you like that.”

Still nothing. But her arms fell from their crossed stance. Her fingers laced together in front of her like she was holding herself still.

Joe stepped closer, slow and careful.

“I keep saying I love you,” he said. “But love isn’t missing your biggest night because I was too wrapped up in game film. Love is being there. It’s showing up. And I didn’t. I didn’t show up for you—and that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”

Finally, Angel’s voice cut through the quiet—soft, steady, and sharp.

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to be taken seriously in this field?”

The words were simple. But they carried years inside them. Years of being questioned. Overlooked. Undermined.

“I do,” Joe said, voice hoarse.

Angel’s jaw tightened. “No. You think you do. But you don’t. I’ve stood on the sidelines in the snow, gotten talked over in press conferences, been told to smile more and speak less. I’ve had people call me lucky for being on air—as if I didn’t earn every second with sweat and receipts. That night… it wasn’t just about the award, Joe. It was about being seen. And I needed you there. Not as my boyfriend. Not as the NFL quarterback. As my person. The one who claps loudest, even when no one else is watching.”

Joe closed his eyes briefly, the weight of her words sinking into his bones.

“You’re right,” he said. “I failed you. I see that now.”

Angel looked down, blinking fast. Her arms hung loose at her sides now, like even holding them up took too much effort. When she spoke again, her voice trembled—not with anger, but with fatigue.

“You let me stand alone in a room full of people who didn’t expect me to be there in the first place. And you were supposed to be the one face I could find. The one person I never had to doubt.”

“I know,” Joe said, taking a tentative step forward. “I can’t fix the moment. But I can do better. From this moment on.”

He looked at her, bare and open, no defenses left.

“I just want to be there for you. Every time. No more excuses. No more ‘next time.’ You deserve more than promises. You deserve action.”

The silence between them stretched long—thick with history and hurt. And love.

Angel’s gaze lifted. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the kind you don’t cry because they carry too much. She looked at him for a long beat, like she was deciding whether to believe again. Whether to let him back into the soft, vulnerable places.

Then, quietly, she said:

“I don’t need perfect.”

She took a step forward.

“I just need present.”

Joe nodded, voice caught in his throat. “I can be that,” he whispered. “From now on… I will be.”

No dramatic music played. No world paused. It was just her—moving closer. Slowly. Until she was in his arms again, wrapping herself around him like she belonged there.

And she did.

Angel pressed her cheek into his chest and let out a breath that seemed to collapse four days of holding everything in.

Joe buried his face in her curls and held her like she was gravity itself.

No, it wasn’t forgiveness—not fully. And it wasn’t forgetting.

But it was hope.

It was us.

It was the start of something new, built from the rubble of everything they’d nearly lost.

In the hallway of a quiet apartment, beneath the hum of candles and the weight of a love still learning how to grow, Joe and Angel didn’t fix everything.

But they chose each other.

And sometimes, that’s enough to begin again.

Joe didn’t move right away. He just held her, arms wrapped tight like he needed the physical confirmation that she was real, that she was here, that she hadn’t slipped through his fingers completely.

After a long moment, she pulled back slightly—just enough to look up at him.

Her eyes were still glassy, lashes clumped from tears that hadn’t fallen. But her shoulders weren’t so tense now. The storm in her chest was settling.

Joe reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and slowly pulled something out—small, delicate, shining faintly under the hallway light.

The engagement ring.

He hadn’t let it out of his sight since the night she left. It had slept on his nightstand, sat on his kitchen counter while he ate cereal he couldn’t taste, pressed against the palm of his hand when he paced the house in the middle of the night.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice quieter than it had been all night.

Angel looked down at the ring, then back up at him. Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching.

She didn’t answer with words.

She held out her left hand.

Joe took it gently, like he was handling something sacred, and slid the ring back onto her finger—slow, deliberate, like a promise being made for the second time.

It glinted under the warm overhead light. And this time, it meant something more.

Not just love—but earned love.

He looked back up at her, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” he said. “Do I get a kiss, or...?”

Angel lifted one brow, her mouth twitching into the smallest smirk. Her voice was soft, but teasing.

“Don’t push your luck, Burrow.”

Joe huffed a laugh, the first real one in days, as she shook her head—but didn’t pull her hand away.

He didn’t lean in. He didn’t need to. That one look, that one line—it was hers. It had always been hers. And he’d take it gladly.

In that quiet hallway, no kiss was exchanged.

But the ring was back where it belonged. Her hand was still in his. And his heart—finally—was back in the right place.

They had a long way to go. But they’d go together.

And that made all the difference.

[voxslays]

ALASTOR MASTERLIST

⋆｡°✩ No one mourns the wicked,

No one cries they won't return. ✩°｡⋆

Whiskey and Wine | When a hyena-like sinner tries to hit on you—completely ignoring your rejections to his advances—Alastor is there to save the day.

Making Caramel Apples | On a crisp fall afternoon, you spend your day with Alastor, making caramel apples in the hotel kitchen.

Apple Pies | Alastor helps you with one of Charlie’s Halloween themed activities: baking an apple pie.

Gift-Giving | The reader gifts Alastor a simple thirties era radio for the holidays—a radio which ends up meaning more than they could ever imagine.

Adam and Alastor fighting over the Reader | Alastor and Adam fighting each other for the readers affections.

Hazbin Men as Dads | How the Hazbin Men would raise their children.

Mistletoe | In which; you kiss him under the mistletoe.

Secret Santa | What you get him for Charlie’s secret Santa.

Hazbin on Ice | What it would be like to go Ice skating with the Radio Demon.

Snowball Fight | How Alastor would react to you throwing a snowball an and getting into a snowball fight with him.

Alastor Altruist | How Alastor would react to holding his dying s/o in his arms.

My Resolution is You | What spending the new year with them would be like.

Full Moon | Alastor is hiding his seasonal rut cycle from everyone in the hotel, including you. Unfortunately, it isn’t very long until you find out what he’s been hiding from you.

Such a Tease | How Alastor would react if you walked in naked.

Alastor NSFW Alphabet | smutty NSFW headcannons for your favorite radio host and deer demon.

Little Flirt | When reader flirts a little too hard and pays the price…

Mon Chéri | While bored at an overlord meeting you decide to tease your husband instead of paying attention.

THE ONE [DISCONTINUED]

⤷ Alastor and Reader are forced into an arranged marriage in their early twenties—forced to live a lie while in public—but after a scandalous night together, they slowly start to care for eachother as they learn more about the other…or do they? (18+)

Nav. One Two Three Four

THE NIGHT I… [COMPLETED]

⤷ In an unfortunate turn of events, you find out your loving, charming, and charismatic husband is the famed ‘bayou butcher’, but before you can act, it’s already too late… (18+)

The night I lost you The night I found you

YANDERE ALASTOR [COMPLETED]

⤷ You and Alastor have been friends for a year, having built a strong connection quite quickly. One fateful afternoon, Alastor asks you to accompany him on one of his errands, where he spills his darkest secret…and some blood.

For a Fortnight The red means I love you~!

[outerwildsgeology]

Welcome to the Outer Wilds Geological Survey!

Founders of the Outer Wilds Geological Survey Mohs & Lari

Outer Wilds hosts a story like no other; one that spans eons and is pieced together across planets. However, you may not have noticed the subtler story beneath the one we know and love - the one told through the rocks that paint the world. What rocks occur where, their shapes, colouration, and orientation, can all give an indication to a broader geological history.

Here, we aim to survey the Outer Wilds and explore what the rocks say about mineralogy, volcanic activity, major historical and geological events, and even planetary formation! From the geyser mountains of Timber Hearth, to the labyrinthine caves of Ember Twin, to the floating islands of Giant's Deep - We plan on exploring all major sites of interest and come up with our best explanations of the geology and what it means for the history of the Outer Wilds solar system.

Investigating a collapsed in cave on Ember Twin; The Grove Shard, on Timber Hearth

This blog is run by @merrydock and @dekkiidan. We are both huge fans of geology (huge enough to have studied it and have professional experience in this field!). We just couldn't help but read the rocks of Outer Wilds to see what we could learn, and we hope to share our notes with all of you to inspire you to take a better look at the geology that surrounds you, too!

If you have any questions or comments, or just want to say hi, feel free to reach out! We love Outer Wilds and talking rocks and would be happy to chat. We encourage you to explore our blog on desktop, please utilise the nav-tab and explore to your heart's content!

[parkersbliss]

if the crows had instagram

pairing; kaz brekker x female!reader, crows x platonic!reader warnings: cursing, I think that’s it? slight ooc bc they don't actually have social media lmaoooo a/n: I love the usernames guys it's my favorite part Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

Liked by inejsknife, kuweimayo, and 82 others.

(Y/U/N) we take our job running the streets of ketterdam very seriously 😉

view all 19 comments

kbrekker please do consider this a formal threat to any of our rivals out there.

inejsknife we WILL take you out

→ gamblingaddict2 on a date?

→ wylanvanew to ur grace 🪦

→ (Y/UN) grave?

→ wylanvanew bro I’m dyslexic stfu

xoxonina guys i look soooo sexy after killing somone

→ matthias.helvar 🤦‍♂️

→ xoxonina 😻😻 I don’t hear an argument

→ (Y/U/N) u do look so sexy babe

Liked by actuallynickfr, thecounciloftides and 99 others

(Y/U/N) girls go to college to get more knowledge, boys go to Jupiter and get stupider 😘

view all 24 comments

wylanvanew @/gamblingaddict2 she’s talking bout u

→ gamblingaddict2 I didn’t get stupider

→ kbrekker Yeah, you got a gambling addition and that’s so much better. 🙄

→ kuweimayo OOOOH HE CLOCKED YOUUU 🫵🏼🫵🏼

→ xoxonina ain’t no way we get a kuwei comment before gta6

→ matthias.helvar You don’t even play gta?

→ xoxonina no one does ITS NOT OUT

→ (Y/U/N) we can just play gta with the carriages wdym

→ inejsknife y'all talking about gta when we should be playing assassins creed

→ xoxonina you play that everyday in real life inej 🤨

Liked by msgenya, wylanvanew and 192 others

(Y/U/N) late happy birthday post to the guy who has the whole city at his feet. may you grow wiser and we get richer 🩷

view all 38 comments

kbrekker Where did you get this photo.

→ (Y/U/N) 🤭 my collection

gamblingaddict2 HE SMILES???

xoxonina guys this doesn’t feel real

→ kbrekker It’s not.

→ (Y/U/N) it is

inejsknife kaz smiling before gta6?

wylanvanew nah this is fake af

→ (Y/U/N) as fake as ur dyslexia

→ wylanvanew omfg

matthias.helvar he doesn’t look so demon like here 🤔

→ kbrekker I AM a demon. 🙂

actuallynickfr yooo happy birthday my guy!! 🥳

→ kbrekker Thanks.

Liked by perhasel, jooooost, and 67 others.

(Y/U/N) the beauty of Ravka awaits...

view all 22 comments

inejsknife she’s so peaceful when she’s not threatening someone

→ (Y/U/N) stoppppp 🥰🥰🥰

→ matthias.helvar I don’t think it’s a compliment.

→ inejsknife no it is

xoxonina BABES COME BACKKK we miss you!!!

gamblingaddict2 no seriously @/(Y/U/N) Kaz is like SO mean now

→ kbrekker You’re all just stupider now.

→ gamblingaddict2 SEE

wylanvanew bring back gifts. expensive gifts. 😊

→ (Y/U/N) with what money?

→ kbrekker The money I pay you?

zo.nav CANT WAIT TO SEE U

→ (Y/U/N) I have so much tea for you

actuallynickfr we are so excited to host you!

gamblingaddict2 guys pls let her come back tho like kaz is gonna kill me

→ inejsknife ^ last night he threw a painting at us 😔

→ matthias.helvar he is angry without his misses

→ xoxonina he ate my waffle 😭

→ kbrekker will you all shut up

🏷️ taglist: @navs-bhat, @alexxavicry @thelaststraw3, @smol-book-nerd @pinksstrawberry @cwritesforfun @metzz @renaissancewhxre @guacam011y, @d-a-r-k-s-w-a-n @black-rose-29

[runningfrom2am]

the death of a doctor // LTPF

summary: with the snow heir on the way, your first son, your father wants to meet with you for the first time in years. your husband is not going to let that happen.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 1.4k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: capitol brat!reader, maybe slightly ooc coryo, idk i tried my best. use of poison with intent to kill, murder. also this takes place ten years after they returned to the capitol!

series masterlist // playlist

Your father is led through the extensive halls of the Presidential Mansion and out to the back gardens, into the rose garden where he is set to meet with you. Finally.

He's not met with you, and he should have anticipated that. His daughter, pregnant with her first child- a little boy, who should one day be heir to the President's fortune, born into a life of success and indulgences beyond imagination. Instead, he only sees his son-in-law.

"Please, take a seat." Coriolanus offers to him, a welcoming smile on his face as he gestures to the small tea table in the middle of the space. It was a fake smile, of course. Your father has seen it on the television or at events hundreds of times, but Coriolanus Snow would always try to be a good host- regardless of how much he loathed the guest in question.

"Thank you." Your father matches his polite grin, nodding to him before taking a seat. His eyes scan the greenhouse, taking in the abundance of roses and the patches of raspberry bushes that line the walls.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Coryo says proudly, carefully plucking one of the white roses from its stem to place in the centre of the tea table. "My wife takes good care of this garden, it's in honour of my Grandmother. They both love roses." He explains, not giving your father any chance to answer.

"It's lovely." He nods in agreement, watching as his son-in-law places the blooming flower in a vase on the table, sitting down himself and looking at your father expectantly. "Where is she?" Your father decides to get right to the point- no use dancing around it anymore.

"She's out." Coriolanus answers. "She's with Tigris. They're picking out colours for the nursery today."

"I was told I would be able to speak to her."

"I am capable of passing on a message."

Your father sighs, looking down and shaking his head. "Coriolanus, I appreciate everything you have done for my daughter over the years, I do, but that girl needs her family. Her parents. Especially right now. We just want to be able to support her during such an exciting and scary time."

"She has a family." Coryo defends quickly. He had never thought the situation to be scary, before. It was all excitement and parties and baby clothes and being together and enjoying the moments in which she carried his child. Suddenly, he's seeing it differently. His mother. His sister who was never even given a name. You were not free from that fate. He clears his throat. "And I assure you, she is well taken care of here. We have the best medical care the country offers available at the snap of my fingers." He says it more to remind himself.

"No, she doesn't." Your father argues, a smug smile tugging on his lips. She doesn't have him. The most renowned and desired doctor in the Capitol, in the country.

"She does." Coryo insists. "I know what you are implying, and I promise you are mistaken."

"I just want to make things right, Coriolanus." Your father adds. "I want to apologize so my wife can be there for the birth of her grandchild, so I can take good care of my daughter and ensure she is safe."

"She is safe."

Your father clocks the tenseness in your husbands jaw very quickly. "I know about your mother." His tone drops to make space for a fake form of empathy. "I knew her. She was an amazing woman and a wonderful mother. It's such a shame, what happened..." He ticks his head. "So easily preventable."

"Then where were you?" Coriolanus allows himself to lean into something more personal with the bitter question.

"I wasn't called. I wish I had been." Your father answers honestly. "Both of us know your family was in no position to pay for a doctor at the time, even with your father away working himself to death in Twelve."

Coryo chews on the inside of his cheek, looking down at the untouched drinks in between them.

"Maybe things would have ended differently for all of us."

"You speak as if you are some kind of angel." Coryo scoffs. "You still would have gone home from saving my mother and sister and beat your own daughter for being up past her bedtime, but you didn't come because my mother's life was worth nothing to you if you weren't going to be paid to save it." He picks up the teacup in front of him, taking a sip before removing it from his lips and looking down at the liquid. "My apologies, this one is yours. I asked for milk in mine." He says casually, carefully switching the cups. He can see it in your father's eyes he wants to fight with him on this.

"The war made it impossible to do any unpaid work, and like I said, I wasn't made aware of your mother's state. Besides, Y/N is my child, and you know nothing of what goes into being a parent. It is hard. You'll have moments of poor judgement and do things you will regret. You will make mistakes. That is all it was to me." Your father explains. "But I know better now. All I want is to help her."

"You don't want to help her." Coryo shakes his head. "I am telling you she has all the help she needs, and you are not needed. Your wife and son will be allowed in the mansion during the birth. It is my wife's choice when and if they will be allowed to see the child." He knew you would allow it, you occasionally had lunch with your mother and your brother found himself at the mansion quite often to use their library. They were welcome, he was not.

Your father takes a sip of his tea while he processes the information. "Is that her decision, or yours?"

"Like I said, I can pass on a message to her." Your husband replies, ignoring his question and popping one of the raspberries from the plate into his mouth and sitting back, hands placed patiently on his lap while he ignores the pain starting to bloom in his chest.

"Tell her..." Your father sighs. "That we love her, and we miss her dearly. And if she needs anything or feels unsafe, she can always come home."

"Unsafe?" Coryo asks, tilting his head with a slight, humourless laugh. "I know you don't care for me, sir, but I am the last person on this planet who would do anything to harm her. It seems you're not understanding that."

"I just want her to survive." Your father spits. "If you love her the way you say you do, don't you want her to be the one to successfully produce your heir? You would hate to have to find someone else, I know you would. Especially if the love of your life died in the same way as your mother, this time taking your child with her."

Coriolanus stands up abruptly, anger coursing through his veins alongside the poison as the chair slides back behind him. "You've never believed in her. Ever. Even now you assume that at the most natural struggle she will die. This is not about my doctors, it is about your ego and how little you respect your own child because of how you raised her. She has more fight in her than any woman I have ever met. You don't even know the extent of it."

"It's because I know her, Coriolanus. I..." Your father's voice trails off and he looks down at his shaking hands. He knows what Coriolanus has done, but there's nothing he can do to save himself now.

"You don't know her. You never have." Coryo argues. "You have never once reached out except to try and leach off of her success and my name. You couldn't care less if she lives or dies- you just want to be the one to deliver a royal baby. If you knew her, you would know that the last thing in the world she wants is to ever see you again."

He watches as your father's face goes ashen, the sentience behind his eyes disappearing. It brings a smile to his face. "You are a monster." He adds, and it's the last thing your father hears before he dies right there in your garden.

Coriolanus smiles in satisfaction, raising his hand and snapping for his security and his nurse to enter. Quickly, she reaches for his arm as he already rolled up his sleeve and she can inject the antidote.

"Dispose of him." He urges the security team, quickly pulling his red coat sleeve back over the injection site in his arm. "My wife will be home soon, this would be distressing for her. I need her as calm and comfortable as possible."

taglist: @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @klplynn , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @gloryekaterina , @andrewgarfieldsbitch , @queenofspades6 , @pepperonipastas , @ladybug0095 , @lunamothwrites , @sbrewer21 , @mus-tbe-a-weasley , @splxtscreen , @unclecrunkle , @karmaswitch , @coconut-dreamz , @nekee-lilac02 , @ooooglymoooogly , @riddlerloveb0t , @lovedbalances , @notyourwildestdream , @snowlandson-top , @too-lit-for-fanfic , @utopiakys , @deafeningballoonnacho , @roosterschanelslut , @chmpgneprblem , @cosmoetik , , @urvampgfsworld , @carolanns-world@nan-nie , @shakespearseclipse , @iovemoonyy , @notyoursweetheart-honey ,  @xyzstar , @eatpizzasass, @slytherinholland , @queenofshinigamis , @elodiebeau , @soulessjourney

[boxesforsys]

This x is a/the (main/primary) host userboxes! Click for quality

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {7}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: A short skip over the winter break and into 2024 season.. Warnings: 18+ only, fluffies WC: 2k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || 6.5 || Seven || SMAU || Eight

Christmas Eve 2023 - French Alps The air was still when you woke to a fresh dumping of snow on the mountain. The window provided a picture of tranquillity and the embers in the fire gave a peaceful glow to the dark wood walls. Charles had disappeared at dawn for a morning ski with Arthur and you squinted against the white glare to try and find them on the mountainside. 

You probably could have gone back to sleep if it wasn’t for the door crashing open and the sudden weight of a child on your legs. Penelope crawled up to the headboard with a squeal and jumped into your arms as Max just reached the bedroom door. 

“P, watch out for auntie’s tummy,” Max reminded. She now had to watch out for yours and Aunt Vicky’s tummy, since your sister had announced her pregnancy a few weeks ago. “Sorry, she slept the whole flight so she’s full of energy. I tried to get her to play with Luka but she wanted you.”

“That’s okay,” you said as she burrowed under the blankets and put her cold feet on Lando’s back. “Are you excited for Christmas?”

Penelope nodded eagerly while Lando slowly woke and you were grateful he was wearing a hideous pair of santa-themed pyjama pants. With even more children around for Christmas this year, everyone had taken to wearing pyjamas. It was good for moments like these, but bad for quick access when you were spooning in the night.

“Papa let me open some presents early!”

Max disappeared out of the room with a wave, heading back to his suite with Kelly down the hall. The small mountain retreat had been completely rented out for another combined family holiday and at the rate the Norris’, Leclerc’s and Verstappen’s were procreating, an entire resort would be needed to host you all next year. Your bet was on Max and Lorenzo becoming fathers next. 

“How exciting! And what did you get?”

Penelope held out her arm to show a mermaid inspired charm bracelet. “That’s beautiful!”

“It’s got Ariel!” she exclaimed, pointing to a red haired mermaid as she bounced excitedly. 

“Is that an earthquake?” Lando asked as he scooped the little girl up into a hug. “No, it’s little P. Why are you waking your favourite uncle up so early?”

“You’re not my favourite,” she said with a fit of giggles.

Lando hung his head and shook it with fake sadness. “Kids are brutal.”

“Kids are honest,” you corrected before kissing his pout away.

“Gross,” P said as she screwed up her face and started to climb off the bed to find ‘Maxie’. She did a sudden u-turn and scrambled across the bed to gently touch your stomach before leaning closer and whispering, “Bye-bye, baby. Love you.”

She was gone again, this time the door swinging shut as she left with no farewell for you or Lando. He let out a little chuckle as he pushed you back into the pillows and drifted down the bed, taking the blankets with him. 

“Hello, baby,” he murmured softly to the bump. At just more than half way along your bump could no longer be mistaken for overindulgence or bloating. “You are looking lovely and round this morning.”

“Wow, you really know how to sweet talk a lady,” you chuckled as you combed your fingers through his hair.

“Shh, I’m having a conversation with my daughter, no eavesdropping,” he warned with a smirk before brushing your shirt up and pressing a kiss to your skin before continuing his conversation. The moustache and shaped beard he was slowly but surely growing thicker tickled with each whispered word, the movement of his lips dragging the coarse hairs over your sensitive skin until goosebumps prickled. 

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he said with a smile as the door creaked open and Charles walked in with wind-kissed cheeks. “I just want to hurry up and hold you.”

“Patience, mon cher,” Charles said with a grin, depositing the second layer of cashmere he had worn under his ski jacket on the coat hook. “It’s only four more months.”

Lando groaned at the reminder before shifting on the bed to make space for Charles. 

“Anything you want to add this morning?” you asked. 

You reached for the hem of the shirt, ready to pull it down if it was a no when a knock had you freeze. No, it wasn’t a knock. The thud hadn’t come from outside, but inside. You dropped the shirt and stared at the jut of your hip, right where the skin went soft as it stretched up to your ribs. That soft tissue bulged ever so slightly as you felt the strange sensation of pressure and it drew a gasp that shocked your boyfriends.

“What? What is it?” Lando asked, his voice thick with concern. 

“Give me your hand,” you ordered, already reaching for one of each as you placed them on the spot. “Shhh, just shhh.”

You felt it again and Charles exhaled a shaky breath that ended in a joyous laugh before grabbing Lando’s hand and shifting it slightly. 

“Wha-”

“Shh,” you urged as Charles pressed a finger to his lips. The silence grew and everyone held their breath, waiting.

The air wooshed from Lando with an exclamation, “No fucking way!” His eyes grew wide and he stared at his palm as if the imprint of his daughter’s foot was permanently held on his skin. “Holy shit! She…she…kicked.” 

Charles wrapped an arm around Lando as their shimmering eyes met yours. Pure happiness saturated the room, spilling out into the hall as the door opened and Oliver appeared a little worried. “Everything okay? I thought I heard Lando screeching.”

“Everything’s perfect,” Lando grinned, ignoring the joke he had heard since hitting puberty. 

“She just started kicking,” Charles explained with an equally bright grin, while you danced your fingers along your side, trying to tickle her foot. 

“Core memory unlocked, huh?” Oliver laughed at his brother’s eagerness, remembering the first kicks with his own daughters. “Breakfast is ready when you are.”

“Thanks, we’ll be there soon,” Charles said as Oliver closed the door again.

“Do we have to?” Lando asked as he curled back down and stared at your stomach intently. “I could watch this all day.”

“You can stay but I am hungry, and she is now shy,” you teased as you pulled your shirt back into place and climbed out of bed. With a groan he followed you to the walk-in wardrobe, just like you knew he would. 

“Is the powder good?” Lando asked Charles while they changed into some casual day clothes perfect for the warm interior of the retreat.

“It’s perfect,” Charles all but moaned, it was hard to believe they were talking about snow but both of them loved to ski. “Arthur wants to head back out after lunch.”

Lando looked at you and you waved a hand. “Sheesh, babe, I’m not your keeper. You can go if you want.” 

Lando hated being away the most, not that Charles enjoyed it, but there wasn’t the same level of separation anxiety that Lando had. “I don’t want to leave you here on your own.”

“On my own?” you laughed and slipped your feet into some simple flats before heading to the door. As soon as it opened the cacophony of everyone congregating in the great room down the hall spilled into your room. “I couldn’t be on my own if I tried.”

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, maxvertappen1, maxfewtrell and 1,382,589 others yourusername This kid scored the gene pool the lottery. Merry Christmas from my family to yours.

Round One - Bahrain 2024 Fuel fumes drifted up from the pitlane to the balcony you stood upon as the start of the season's first race grew closer. It was strange to look down the entire length of billboards and see no new faces among the driver line up. Fernando still filled the garage beside Lance, but you held no resentment for your replacement. He was making the most out of an opportunity and it almost gave you hope that even after leaving Formula 1, maybe - just maybe - there was a way to get back in. 

Next year would be interesting with so many contracts up for renewal. It was a chance to see new faces on the grid, or perhaps some old faces returning if rumours were to be believed. You wouldn’t mind seeing Sebastian make a return. For the moment, everyone was still too busy talking about Lewis and his move to Ferrari to give much thought to the other shocks that might come with the disruption. The open seat at Mercedes was going to be sought after by every driver stuck in a midfield car. 

“You look deep in thought.”

You broke away from staring at the starting lights to accept a cup of herbal tea from your mother. “Just thinking about how the grid will look next year.”

“Gotta get through this one first,” she reminded. “Speaking of…it’s going to be hard having a newborn at home with those two away so much.”

“I know,” you sighed, resting your arms on the balcony rail as you blew the steam from the mug. The wall calendar at home was already marked with the first half of the season, all the nights Lando and Charles would be away circled in red ink. It had been collectively agreed that flying with a newborn wasn’t a great idea so you would only attend the races you could drive to until she was at least three months old. “This year’s calendar is fucking intense.”

“I want you to know you can call me day or night, sweetie, and I’ll be on the next plane.” She reached for your chin and turned you to face her as your throat clogged with emotion. “I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to do on your own, you saw it firsthand.”

“You’ve got your own life, I don’t want you to drop it all for me.”

She laughed softly and wrapped you in a careful hug. “You’re my daughter, you are my life, my granddaughter is too.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled and wiped your eyes, seeing the cameras in the pitlane pointed your way. “Gah, you made me cry. Now I’ll be on fucking Drive to Survive. I can already see the subtitles ‘Y/N crying as the season starts without her’. Wankers.”

Your mother narrowed her eyes at the camera and flipped them off, making you choke on a laugh. “So much maturity for a grandmother.”

“Yeah well I have been wanting to do that for a while, and I figure I can’t get you fired since you’re unemployed.”

You shared a grin and thought maybe you had more in common than you realised. You thought your fight came from Jos but now you saw a flash of it in her protectiveness and your chest warmed.

“I’m not unemployed, I’m a Lady of Leisure.” You laughed at the roll of her eyes before adding. “I might even get a Birkin for a push present to complete the initiation.”

“What the hell is a push present?”

“It’s a present a new mother gets for destroying her vagina pushing a baby out.”

It was her turn to choke on a laugh. “That’s a thing?”

“Apparently so.” 

“Does the baby not count as a gift?”

“Hmm, maybe you should go ask them?” you said as you jutted your head to the plethora of influencers walking around the grid taking selfies with everyone. She wrinkled her nose at the idea, quite content to stay out of the fray like you.

“No, thank you. Oh, there they are.”

You scanned the crowd and saw Max, Charles, and Lando walking out to the grid together, their heads huddled close as they tried to hear each other over the crowd. They made a beeline to the strips of red carpet and Max stood between the other two as they took their places for the national anthem.

“Looks like the podium lineup to me,” your mother whispered.

You chewed your lip and hoped the data from testing was as promising as it looked for McLaren and Ferrari. But you could never tell quite how much of it was real with the strategies and sandbagging. “I hope so, my boy’s need a good start this year.”

Click here for the next part.

[bruisedboys]

★ MAL’S 8K MARVEL MARATHON !

welcome to bruisedboys’ marvel marathon! to celebrate 8k followers I am hosting a marvel themed celebration! all are welcome to participate, you can find the events, rules, and characters below. REQUESTS CLOSED

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the rules!

— send in an event + a character from the lists below. please only send me requests for the characters listed

— please stick to one request per ask! however you can send in as many asks as you like

— no smut requests please! all my regular rules still apply

— I may take time to answer your request/may not be able to answer it at all. I can’t guarantee I’ll get to every single request but pls know I appreciate anything u send in x

the characters!

★ STARRING…

bucky barnes, bob reynolds, yelena belova, john walker, steve rogers, tasm!peter parker, joaquin torres, miguel o’hara, peter quill, eddie brock

+ bonus characters! james potter, remus lupin, sirius black

the events!

★ NOW SHOWING…

ENDGAME — send me a dialogue prompt from this list, this list, or this list, + a character from the list above for a blurb!

VENOM — send me a kiss prompt from this list or this list + a character from the list above for a blurb!

THUNDERBOLTS — send me a prompt (eg. what pet names they’d use) and I will write you a short drabble/hc for each of the thunderbolts! (bucky, bob, john, yelena)

★ EXTRAS…

CIVIL WAR — send me a character + an aesthetic, au, trope, colour, or concept and I’ll make you a moodboard!

RAGNAROK — tumblr games! kiss marry kill, cast your mutuals, would you rather, etc.

hiii my lovelies, eek we hit 8k!!! thank you so so much, I actually cannot fathom that there are 8 thousand of you… but I’m so grateful you’re here and so happy to have you! I haven’t done a celly in ages so bear with me if I get overwhelmed lol!! thank you for all your support, love you all mwahhh xx

mutual tags ✉️ @cosmal @moonstruckme @wolvisms @inkdrinkerworld @oncasette @sunskisser @ellecdc @djotummy @amordixon @websterss @bradshawed @dearapril @spiderfunkz @underoospeterparker @fitzells @headkiss @lavenderslace @vampieteeth @bcyhoods @ddejavvu (love u guys infinity)

[entombed-theatrics]

In my mind the thing that differentiated the events of the locked tomb series and the hypothetical Harrow Nova version was one event

That Harrow and Gideon (by some insane chance) are exactly the same age

Exactly

By conception

Because it just so happened that right as the perfectly bioengineered embryo charged by 200 souls was conceived…

Another, more viable host for that energy hung in the ninth house airspace…..

And that’s how you get a necromantic Gideon Nav.

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER SIX | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 4, 714.

author's note: we are officially in the autumn court now. the vanserras have intrigued me for a such a long time and getting to write about them is so fun because I have so much creative freedom to portray and explore their complicated family dynamics. all in all, the song inspo says it best: take what you want, take what you can, take what you please, don't give a damn, ask for forgiveness never permission; it's in the blood and this is tradition. hope you all enjoy x

♫ tradition - halsey. nav. series. moodboard.

The shadowsinger brooded in silence as the golden carriage brought him closer and closer to his doom. 

Azriel was convinced that the Mother was playing a cruel joke on him. The punchline of which involved pretending to be betrothed to her, of all people. He had gone into this mission knowing that the odds were stacked against him as it were, but adding this ridiculous farce on top of everything else was enough to tip the shadowsinger over the edge. 

Forget stealing the scepter. Convincing an entire court that he was engaged to a female who was hellbent on making him her sworn enemy would be the most challenging mission the spymaster had ever faced. Regardless, he was determined to approach the task like he would any other — with a clear head and a foolproof plan. 

“I need you to tell me everything there is to know about the bride rite,” Azriel said. He hunched over, his dark wings barely fitting within the confines of the ridiculous ornate carriage he was currently crammed in. 

“How do you expect me to sum up the most complex and deeply patriarchal practice of the Autumn Court before we reach the Forest House?” 

Azriel bristled with annoyance. “Quickly and without complaint,” he said in a clipped tone. “Unless you want Beron to throw us out of his borders before we can even lay eyes on the scepter.”

The assassin scowled at him in return, but seemed to put aside whatever sarcastic remark she was dying to voice to summarize the bride rite. In essence, the tradition revolved around four events. A tea and luncheon hosted by the bride’s family, a tourney in honor of the engagement complete with joust and melee, a hunt that is meant to exhibit the groom’s ability to provide, and finally a betrothal ceremony held in the temple. The passage through the eternal flame, the assassin explained with a scoff, was a formal acknowledgement that the groom had deemed the bride worthy of marrying. 

The shadowsinger listened intently, ignoring the tension in the assassin’s shoulders and the obvious fury simmering in her gaze. Azriel couldn’t be sure who she was most irate with at the moment. Eris, for springing this news on them. Rhys, for not informing them of the arrangement in the first place. Or Azriel himself, who had nothing to do with this disastrous turn of events yet still managed to bear the brunt of her wrath. 

“We need a plan,” Azriel said when the assassin concluded. 

“Did you hear any of what I just said?” she asked incredulously. “The rite is the oldest tradition of the Autumn Court and for whatever deranged reason, the nobles and common folk hold it in the highest regard, which means there is no room for error. They scrutinize every couple with brutal efficiency and swoop in like vultures at the first sign of suspicion. Real couples are put through the wringer and many do not make it to the altar before the end of the rite,” she sighed in resignation. “Face it, shadowsinger. This entire thing is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Not if we come up with a compelling story.”

The assassin gave the shadowsinger a wide berth. “You’re not honestly suggesting that we go through with this?”

Azriel pursed his lips. “I have never backed out of a mission and I don’t plan on doing so today.”

“This is Beron we’re talking about. Stealing the scepter is one thing, but pulling this off would take nothing short of a miracle. Do you not think the High Lord will find it odd that we can barely tolerate each other’s presence?” 

Azriel shrugged. “I’m a spymaster, you’re an assassin. We’re both experts in lying and deception. Surely we can pretend to be betrothed for a few weeks.”

The assassin crossed her arms, seemingly mulling the idea over. Azriel was well aware that he was grasping at straws, but it wasn’t like either one of you had much of a choice. You needed to gain access to the scepter and this was the only way Beron would continue to permit your presence in his borders. Not to mention, the bride rite bound the High Lord to abide by the law of hospitality, which meant that Beron couldn’t inflict any harm upon either one of you for the duration of your stay. 

It was a cunning and calculated plan and it reeked of the High Lord’s plotting. Rhys had to have known how angry the assassin would be with him. The lengths his brother had gone through to ensure her safety sobered the shadowsinger. Promise me, Az, his brother had pleaded. Promise me that you’ll keep her safe. 

“I’m going to kill Rhys,” she muttered under your breath. 

“I’m sure Rhys had his reasons for keeping this from us.” As annoyed as Azriel might be, he knew Rhysand had good intentions. He just wished his brother filled him in on the plan beforehand. “Regardless, we’re here now and we need to find a way to get through it for the sake of retrieving the scepter.”

She sighed. “Right. What’s our great love story, then?”

“It’s best to keep it simple,” Azriel said, ever the pragmatist. “If we stick close to the truth, there’s a less likely chance that we’ll be caught in a lie.”

Azriel tapped his fingers against his knee, plots and schemes flashing through his mind. His shadows curled through his ear, whispering useful information. The memory of his first encounter with the assassin snagged his attention and he began to construct a plan with its foundation. 

“We met at the House of Wind when you were visiting for Winter Solstice.”

“When I knocked you on your ass,” she added with a satisfied smile. 

The shadowsinger fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You caught me off guard.” The smirk on the assassin’s lips agitated him all the more. “Despite the rather violent interaction, a spark formed between us.”

“So what?” she asked skeptically. “Beron is supposed to believe that I charmed my way into your leathers all those years ago and you only now decided to make an honest female out of me? It doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Azriel frowned. “If you would let me finish, then I’d gladly get to the point,” he responded testily. The corner of the assassin’s mouth twitched in amusement as she gestured for him to continue. “I didn’t pursue a romantic relationship because of the possible fallout it would cause with Rhys. You’re like a sister to him and he tends to be overprotective. But then Feyre freed us from Amarantha’s curse and when you returned home, I decided that I didn’t care any more. I pursued you, consequences be damned.” 

The shadowsinger watched as she digested the information. Truth be told, it wasn’t a love story that would rival those novels that Nesta loved to read, but given the circumstances, it was the best Azriel could do. The two of them had enough history together that could potentially overshadow the sudden decision of the betrothal. No one outside of the Inner Circle knew of their rivalry, except Eris apparently.

Azriel tucked that information away for later. He’d have to deal with it eventually. 

The assassin tapped her slender fingers against her chin, “You’re forgetting one crucial ingredient in any romance,” she said with a piercing gaze. Azriel raised a brow. He was fairly sure he’d covered the bases. “Chemistry. Devotion. Affection,” she listed rather sardonically. 

“That’s more than one,” the shadowsinger couldn’t help but quip. 

“Congratulations, you’re capable of basic arithmetic,” she shot back with derision. “The point is, people will expect passion from a betrothed couple and not the someone pissed in my soup expression that you so kindly bestow me with every chance you get.” 

The shadowsinger crossed his arms. “I am capable of treating you with civility.”

“Very convincing,” the assassin said with a snort. “It’s going to take more than civility to persuade the court. There’s a certain type of closeness one expects from those romantically involved. If we’re to go through with this farce, we have to commit. We’ll have to appear to be intimate.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in alarm, which made her roll her eyes in exasperation. 

“Don’t get your wings in a twist, shadowsinger. I’m not suggesting we have sex in front of the whole court. We just need to act as though we’ve at least seen each other naked, which might I add, your pervy little glimpse in my flat the other day should give you plenty of material to work with.” 

At the mention of the incident, Azriel found his imagination drifting to those giant wings tattooed on her back. He could’ve sworn that they had moved, fluttering against her skin like real Illyrian wings, but she had slammed the door in his face before he could further investigate. Azriel was curious about the magic. That was the only reason why he had stared. At least that’s what he told himself. 

The shadowsinger brushed the thought away. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I was merely admiring the tattoo.” His gaze met the assassin’s as he slid on a smirk that he knew would annoy her. “Besides, I don’t get a female naked unless I intend on finishing the job.”

As petulant as it was, satisfaction coursed through him as the assassin flushed and avoided his gaze. His smile spread even further when she cleared her throat, ignoring the comment altogether. 

“Just try to appear as though being in the same vicinity doesn’t physically sicken you.”

It was Azriel’s turn to snort. “Easier said than done,” he muttered under his breath. If looks could kill, he’d currently be six feet under. “I’ll manage. One more thing. If we’re to parade around like some grotesque circus act, you’ll need this.”

The shadowsinger fished around in his pocket before producing an enormous sapphire ring with a silver band. It was only logical for the court to expect a ring and seeing as this was the only one he kept on his person at all times, Azriel presented it with as much nonchalance as he could muster. 

How’s that for committing to the bit? he thought drily. 

“Where in the Cauldron did you get that from and why are you just carrying it around?”

The ring had a rather complicated history. None of which Azriel was particularly keen on explaining to the assassin. In all honesty, she was the last female he ever thought he’d be presenting it to. Not that anyone else had come close. 

He merely waved a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. For now, it’ll accomplish what it needs to.”

Azriel hesitated for a beat, his scarred fingers twitching at his side. There was a flash of recognition in the assassin’s eyes as she silently held out her left hand. He schooled his features into neutrality as he slipped the ring on. Curiosity danced in her gaze as she examined the enormous sapphire stone surrounded by a crown of sparkling diamonds. The ring fit perfectly on her finger. 

A pregnant pause buoyed between them before Azriel quickly withdrew his hand. The assassin’s skin was smooth and silky underneath his calloused palm, but if she was bothered by his scars, she showed no indication. The shadowsinger wasn’t sure if that unnerved or comforted him. 

“Remember, we’re madly in love.” Azriel said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 

“With this rock on my finger, I might even be inclined to be pleasant to you.”

The shadowsinger held back a grin. “You’ll have to do more than that, princess. I believe the words you used were chemistry, intimacy, and passion.”

The assassin rolled her eyes. “Like you said, easier said than done. Fortunately for you, I like a challenge.”

“I’d hardly call this fake betrothal a challenge. Weren’t you courted by a vampyr once?”

The mention of her past paramour piqued the assassin’s interest. Azriel wasn’t sure why he’d brought it up. Perhaps because it felt like another mismatched piece of the puzzle of her past. He remembered Serena bringing it up once, urging the assassin to invite the vampyr to Rita’s, but she dismissed the suggestion as though the idea of the male meeting her friends was absolutely absurd. She was notoriously guarded in regards to her personal life, even back then. 

Love is a luxury most cannot afford, the assassin had said. Azriel wondered if he was about to uncover the reason for her cynicism during this homecoming.

“I forgot all about Nikolai,” she said, wrenching him out of his thoughts. “He wasn’t all that challenging though. At least he knew not to argue with me.” A pointed look his way. “In any case, I don’t see how my dalliance with the vampyr is relevant, unless you plan on feasting on my flesh.”

Payback for his earlier comment. She really never let anyone have the last word. “You’re incredibly crude, you know that?” 

The assassin shrugged irreverently. “You brought it up. Besides, do you really think it’s a wise idea to dig up each other’s romantic histories?” Delight danced in her eyes as Azriel shot her a glare that would have withered the lush forest around them. “Let’s evaluate, shall we? We have a plausible story. A gorgeous ring. It’s time to establish some rules, as all fake relationships are wont to have.” 

Azriel raised a brow. “You say that as though fake relationships are a norm.”

His companion sighed in exasperation. “It’s a very common trope,” she explained as though Azriel was the ridiculous one. “Haven’t you ever read a romance novel?” 

The blank look he gave her was enough to answer. “Point taken. Anyways, all effective fake relationships abide by a set of rules, which begs the question. How comfortable are you with public displays of affection?” He winced, earning him a long suffering sigh. “A promising start. My people are known to be passionate. Hot blooded. They will likely suspect something is amiss if you flinch every time I come near you.”

“I know how to act affectionately,” Azriel said with a sharper edge to his voice than he intended. He took a deep breath, tried again. “I will play the part of head over heels, lovestruck idiot.” His mouth quirked. “Perhaps living in the same house as Cassian and Nesta will finally pay off. Either way, I’ll behave accordingly.”

“We won’t be sullying any dinner tables in the near future, but you seem to grasp the gist of it.” The double entendre did not escape his notice. “Though I imagine you’ve had ample opportunity to practice during this past lonely winter.”

“Not nearly as lonely as you think, princess.”

“Your hand doesn’t count, shadowsinger.”

“Then neither does straddling that lordling,” he said with a knowing glance. The assassin balked at the statement, narrowing her eyes. As unwise as it may be, Azriel enjoyed baiting her more than he should. “I’ve known you long enough to notice the pattern, Thorne. You never take lovers during an active mission. It’s been months since Rhys sent you to the Western Isles. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been a bit cagey lately.”

To his absolute amusement, the assassin’s face flushed with heat. “Now who’s being crude?”

“Deflecting only confirms my suspicions.”

Not to be outdone, she crossed her arms and huffed with indignation. “Who and when I fuck is none of your business.” 

The grin on Azriel’s face grew wider. “Is that any way to talk to your future husband?

“Sleep with one eye open, shadowsinger.”

“With a fiance like you? I’d keep a dagger in bed, princess.” 

The assassin retorted with a vulgar gesture just as the carriage shuddered to a stop. From the small window, the looming shape of the Forest House filled the landscape. Azriel thought he saw a trace of apprehension mar her expression. 

“Just follow my lead and this godsawful plan may just work.”

The shadowsinger nodded emphatically. “Lead the way, my lady.”

In the twisted maze of the Forest House, you felt lost. 

As the carriage rolled up to the behemoth structure looming above the jewel toned trees and rushing waterfall, Azriel stared in awe. There was a time when your younger self mirrored the shadowsinger’s astonishment, full of curiosity and excitement as you first walked through the house upon your first visit, but those days were long gone. 

In the present, the high beams and curved archways jutting out from the steep hillside drew sinister shadows beneath your feet, illuminated by the torches lining the granite walls. The Forest House felt cold, empty. Devoid of the warmth that once colored your childhood. It was strange to think that the place you once called home now greeted you like a stranger. You didn’t take it personally. You never belonged here in the first place. 

You didn’t belong anywhere. 

Up ahead, Eris led the way through the portcullis. You walked in silence as the sentries marched into the fox’s den. Curious glances landed briefly at the sight of you and Azriel strolling side by side. The pairing definitely turned heads — the exiled priestess and the shadowsinger. Villains in their sight. You certainly looked the part in a scarlet corset dress that matched the fiery tone of your hair which trailed behind your back like ringlets of flame, covered by the cloak of the onyx hood that obscured your face. 

In similar fashion, Azriel was clad head to toe in his Illyrian armor, the dark leathers accentuating his muscled form and embodying the threatening aura of one of the most feared warriors in Prythian. Those powerful wings of his flared slightly at the attention of the court dwellers, whose eyes widened in fear and shrunk back to let you pass. 

At the center of the Forest House, the great hall glittered in all its opulence. The ceiling was enclosed by a glass dome that scattered shades of gold, ruby, and topaz across the polished surface of the mahogany floor. A scarlet carpet embroidered with golden leaves paved the way to the High Lord’s seat of power. Perched on the rosewood throne, the High Lord surveyed you with hateful eyes as you strode up to the dais. A golden wreath of leaves rested on his temple like a crown while his cold stare greeted you like a ghost from the past. 

Eris stooped low, crossing his arm over his chest as a sign of respect. Beron gestured for his eldest son to rise. Your cousin took his place behind his father’s throne while the court herald ushered you forward. 

“My lord, I present to you Lady Y/N Thorne and her betrothed, Azriel the Shadowsinger of the Night Court.”

As if on cue, you curtsied before the male. To your surprise, Azriel didn’t miss a beat and bowed gracefully as though he had been drilled with the same court etiquette lessons as you had when you were a child. 

“My prodigal niece comes to return,” Beron greeted with a predatory smile. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d haunt these walls again, Y/N.”

Beside him, three red haired males sneered with mild amusement. Your treacherous cousins. Avoiding their gazes, your focus turned upon their patriarch. 

Beron Vanserra appeared as he always did — vain, cruel, and proud. His brown hair and rugged beard were peppered with a few white streaks, the only sign that he was well over five centuries old. You immediately noted the missing presence of your aunt, but didn’t dare inquire of her whereabouts. Perhaps the Mother granted you the small mercy of sparing you the pain of a public reunion.

“My lord, it is a pleasure to be welcomed into your court.” 

The whispers that swept through the room made your palms itch for your blades. Courtiers and servants alike gaped at your presence as though the Cauldron itself spit you out at their feet. You could feel their stares directed at the bloodstone that hung around your neck rather than your temple. A reminder of your unfinished training. 

A hush fell over the crowd as Beron raised his hand. “A court that you seem eager to return to, it seems. When Eris told me of your intent to visit, I was surprised to say the least. It’s been nearly three centuries since your absence.” 

Three hundred and twenty seven, to be precise. But who was counting? 

You plastered on a saccharine smile. “We were long overdue for a family reunion,” you cooed sweetly, leveling an icy stare at your kin. “I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on.” 

The three males had the good sense to appear wary. Though they were unaware of the true extent of your power, your cousins knew enough to avoid getting on your bad side. The presence of Azriel beside you seemed to reinforce the threat you posed to this court should they give you reason to unleash your magic.

“Starting with your betrothal,” Beron said as he inclined his chin towards the shadowsinger. “An interesting match, given the stark difference in your stations.” 

The snide comment made you bristle. You and Azriel may not get along, but the thinly veiled jab at his lack of noble parentage rubbed you the wrong way. Never mind that his cruel father was an Illyrian lord in his own right. In Beron’s eyes, illegitimate offspring were beneath the nobility he hailed from. Especially if the child wasn’t publicly acknowledged, just as you weren’t. 

The rage you kept hidden away coursed through your veins, causing you to ball your hands into closed fists. Keeping a neutral expression was proving harder than you expected. Luckily, you were spared from having to respond as the male beside you spoke. 

“I consider myself lucky to have caught my lady’s attention and even more so to be able to accompany her to the court she once called home.” 

Azriel’s hand slipped to the middle of your back. A casual show of intimacy as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The anger clawing within you dissipated as Beron carefully surveyed you. The High Lord appeared to be assessing his next words carefully. 

“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” he proclaimed with little warmth. “The law of hospitality binds me to be a gracious host, so long as the two of you remain gracious guests.”

Make one false move and you’re free game, the High Lord’s unspoken threat seemed to challenge.

The shadowsinger gave him a curt nod, meeting his gaze with the promise of violence. The two males stared at one another. Your uncle sizes up the Illyrian warrior, whose cold exterior gave nothing away. Blue siphons thrummed menacingly through Azriel’s armor and only then did Beron relent, remembering exactly what the seven stones contained. The well of power that surged through them. 

“Very well then. Eris will escort you to your lodgings so you may have time to settle in. A carriage will be sent to bring you back to the House so you and your betrothed may join the rest of the court for the afternoon luncheon.”

Beron didn’t wait for a reply before rising from his throne and waving a hand in dismissal. The courtiers lingered, shooting curious glances your way before scurrying off to attend to whatever miserable business they had in the Forest House. 

“Well, that went about as well as I thought.” Eris exclaimed with a grin. 

His brothers peered over his shoulder, their scornful gazes burning holes through your skin. The middle one and the most cruel out of Beron’s sons, sneered in disgust, but stopped short at the reprimanding glare of his eldest brother. With a single foreboding glance, the three males retreated into the main hall. At least your cousin seemed to be in control of his siblings. 

“Let’s take the long way, shall we?” He announced, nodding towards the opposite corridor. 

You could feel your body freezing up at the thought of walking through these horrid halls once again, but you forced yourself to take one step after the other. Azriel discretely glanced at you, hazel eyes flickering with some unknown emotion. 

The walk through your former home dredged up a mixture of good and bad memories. Eris led you to the uppermost level where the atrium enclosing the indoor garden revealed a stunning view of the cloudless sky. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass, coloring the marble fountain with the brilliance of polished jewels. This place had once been your safehaven and many days were spent lounging by that same fountain with Eris and Lucien, all three of you hiding from your governess and her overzealousness. Back when you were still allowed to sit in on your cousin’s lessons.

Two figures sat side by side under the shade of the enormous oak tree now, straightening when they sensed your presence. Alyanna’s daughters, Fallon and Astor, greeted your approaching party with low curtsies. The fair haired twins were dressed in fine clothing and appeared healthy, but the pallid coloring and blue tint under their eyes told you enough. Being away from home was eating away at them. 

“Lady Thorne, please forgive us for our absence during your arrival,” Fallon said. The taller one of the twins inclined her head with an apologetic expression.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you replied with a warm smile, kissing each of them on the cheek in customary greeting. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t visit sooner. Look at you two, I’m sure the males of this court are eating right out of your hands.” 

The twins blushed, their bright cerulean eyes twinkling with delight. “Everyone has been very accommodating, especially Lord Eris.” 

“Now, now, I thought we had an understanding,” Eris drawled smoothly. “I was under the impression that we’ve moved past the presumptuous titles, have we not?” 

Fallon flushed. You forgot how easily Eris wielded his charm. It was as sharp and dangerous as any sword. “We have, Eris.” 

You raised a brow at your cousin, but refrained from commenting. The younger of the sisters fawned over the sapphire stone adorning your ring finger. The jewel reflected the sunlight streaming through the marble pillars, nearly blinding you with its brilliance.

Astor glanced shyly at Azriel. “Congratulations on your betrothal.” 

The Illyrian warrior curtsied gracefully and you could have sworn that the priestesses sighed in appreciation. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

Fallon suppressed a giggle, but straightened at the sight of a High Fae female beckoning them over. You didn’t miss the way Astor’s smile faltered. 

“My sister and I must return to our lessons, but we hope to see you again.” 

The twins enveloped you into a hug while Fallon not so discreetly whispered, “Handsome and well-mannered. You did well, Y/N.” 

The grin that tugged at Azriel’s lips told you that he heard every word. After bidding the twins goodbye, you turned your attention towards Eris.

“Who was that?” 

“Ismilda. One hell of a female. She makes our old governess seem like a saint in comparison, but she is under my employ. As long as the twins are with her, no one will deign to trouble them.” 

You frowned. “See to it that Ismilda provides them chrysanthemum tea in the evening. The twins don’t appear to be sleeping well.” 

Eris nodded, his gaze flickering to the corridor beyond as though he was assessing why he’d missed a sign that you so clearly picked up on from a single interaction. 

“I meant what I said before,” your cousin added. “No harm will come to them in this court.” 

A surge of emotions coursed through you. Anger coated your tongue, leaving a bile taste in your mouth, but disappointment weighed even heavier than the simmering rage. The words Eris casually tossed around sounded too familiar for comfort.

“Do not make promises you can’t keep, Eris.” 

The red haired male opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he had the chance to speak. “I remember the way back to the carriage.” 

With the curt dismissal, you left Eris standing in the atrium. Hot on your heels, Azriel remained silent while he followed you through the lower levels of the Forest House. 

For once, the shadowsinger was smart enough to stay silent.

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel @onebadassunicorn-blog @acourtofbatboydreams @marina468 @ly--canthrope

[syscultureis]

Host culture is 'I don't want to leave front that feels like a bad thing I should be able to handle everything on my own' (/nav)

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[inbabylontheywept]

Tactical Sulking

The human ship started the conversation by dumping all of its magazines into blackhole Kepler 92A. The PDC depleted their reserves within two minutes and the spinal mount took about twice as long. It would have been an impressive display of firepower if the Attali didn’t know for a fact that even a direct hit from any of the rounds would fail to punch through their hull. 

So instead of worrying they watched with the kind of morbid fascination that adults get while watching a child have a tantrum in public. They watched the ship light up, shitting ton after ton of tungsten coated iron into the corpse of a dead star until at last they ran out of ammo. Then and only then did the Attali send a second message over:

Are you quite finished? 

The response came back immediately. 

Gimme a moment, I’m just finishing a little math problem. But yeah, if it’s urgent, I can talk to you. What’s up big man? 

The Attali barely spent a second parsing over the message. They’d seen human bravado before. 

We sent you a request to surrender, acknowledging that none of your weapons are strong enough to pierce our hull. You opened fire on a blackhole for about five consecutive minutes. Tantrums and sulking do not impress us. 

The human ship took a moment to respond. 

Well, that’s a pity. The two things I’m best at are tantrums and sulking. The third is juggling, but in zero-g that’s… well. Easy. We could host a little talent show here though, if that would impress you. 

Are you going to discuss your terms of surrender, or are we going to have to kill you?

There was a longer pause before the ship replied back.

You know, a minute or two ago, that would’ve been a very scary threat, but you’ve got about ten seconds before shooting us becomes a mutual suicide. We’d strongly discourage that route. 

The Attali commander actually rolled his eyes. 

It’ll take a minute to charge our capacitors. I can promise it won’t be painful. Your bullshitting is a credit to

The message was cut off as a swarm of something ripped through the lower quadrant of the ship. The targeting sensors lost their minds - the projectiles were coming out of the blackhole. 

What the fuck. 

Main thruster was down, as were the nav lines. He had enough presence of mind to direct the side PDC, using recoil to push out of the line just in time to avoid the brunt of another burst of fire. A standard human ferroslug was caught by the lidar, but it was moving so close to C that instrument error was putting it at superluminal.

A second burst of mini rounds blew past the ship. They didn’t catch the brunt like they did the first time, but the stragglers in the burst tore through what remained of engineering. Casualty estimates in that quadrant went past 60% as the capacitor bank blew out, shorting out the main power conduit to their weapon systems. 

Without even PDC recoil to steer, they’d have been trapped, forced to take barrage after barrage of mysterious black hole bullets, if the human ship hadn’t taken the time to intervene. 

It rammed their craft. 

It was not a combat ram. It was a 15 mph collision that gradually turned up the gas. The little human ship chugged along, nudging the Attali cruiser out of the way, avoiding the next barrage by a mere 500 meter gap. 

It shouldn’t have been possible for a ship to look smug, but it did. 

The Attali sent the first message over. Telecom still worked. Life support was running on fumes, but of course the luxury systems were fine. 

What the hell was that? 

Gravity assisted munitions, the human ship replied immediately. The Attali captain had the damndest sense that they’d typed that in minutes ago and were just waiting to hit the send command. 

He took a moment to parse that.

The bullets weren’t being fired into the blackhole. They were being fired very, very close to it. Enough to slingshot around with stolen momentum. 

It was a stupid, stupid trick. And yet. 

What now? he asked. 

Well, the human ship replied. It was awful nice of you to not just kill us on sight. I suppose we could return the favor. Feel like surrendering today? 

There was a long, long pause from the Attali ship as the captain attempted to swallow his pride. The task was not made easier when, a few seconds later, another message came in. 

Chop chop. Tantrums and sulking do not win wars. *Exceptions may apply.*