#winter solstice writing event

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Sometime Dreamers (crossover fic)

Summary: Doctor Who/Sandman crossover, 2nd person femme/female reader (though it's very vague through most of the story)

A/N: Launching this monstrosity as part of the Winter Solstice Writing Event even though I spent the morning puking and wrestling with a piece of toast. The Sandman elements will integrate in upcoming installments, I swear. *Eyebrow waggles* Interactions help me shout down my depression and get bits out faster! Love you all, and thank you for your support!

1.

The extraordinary finds you on an ordinary walk.

The sky’s all grey clouds and rainy breezes, even when the forecasters insist it’s blue. Half of the year’s leaves crunch underfoot. Half still give you a reason to look up and marvel.

Really, everything’s fine, even if you’re tired, too tired, worryingly tired, and you’re too wrapped up with thoughts of the House to pay attention to your feet, and you should get back to your latest assignment, or maybe –

“Ooof.”

Brown fabric in your face, your sneakers tangling with his – a full-on collision in front of god and everyone. The man’s so skinny you could’ve dodged fifty ways around him. Instead, you’re wrapped around each other in a bid against gravity.

You look up into brown eyes full of questions. Pretty. And sad. And distracting. You’re still touching, and it’s time you did something about that.

“I am so sorry.” You sort out your feet first, reclaiming your balance before abashedly releasing the fistful of trench coat you’d snared. Then you catch yourself trying to smooth away the wrinkles. Shit. Well. Too late to keep your hands to yourself, but you fold them behind your back anyway, smiling to convince the stranger you’re entirely harmless and definitely weren’t coming on to him, and damn you’re spiraling again. Time for more caffeine. Past time. The walk’s left you tired. You’d hoped it would finally energize you past the malaise hanging over the House. No such luck.

“Oh, no. My fault entirely.” He smiles with his teeth, and it’s definitely a lie, but at least he’s being nice about it. “I never watch where I’m going. But if you wouldn’t happen to – Are you feeling alright?” His whole face wrinkles around the thought, sharpening to pierce your thoughts. He looks in one of your eyes, then swings to the next, mumbling as he reaches in his coat.

“I’m fine. No harm done. You?”

He pulls out a whining device and shines its blue light in your face. “No, that’s not what I mean at all. You look awful.”

After months of obsessive dreams and a lethargy you can’t shake, yeah, of course you look awful. You have a mirror. You had a first-row seat to watch the shadows grow under your eyes. It isn’t even something your roommates dare bring up, because they have their own bruises and drooping smiles. Trust the pretty stranger to be an asshole, though.

Using the side of your hand to guide the buzzing light away, you clear your throat and ask, “I wouldn’t happen to what?”

“What?” He returns the light to his pocket, fishes out a pair of glasses, and squints at you again.

“You were going to ask me something.”

“Oh, right. Yes. Well. I guess you would happen to. You sort of already have, or do, not sure yet. Nice to meet you, by the way.” He thrusts out his hand and grins again, trying to wipe the slate clean and yank the wool over your eyes, like this was a perfectly normal introduction. “I’m the Doctor.”

You accept the handshake but only offer your first name. He repeats it, beaming and glancing around like your name might appear in print on the side of a building.

“Live around here, then?”

Ah, nah. Too far, too fast. He’s not pretty enough to die for. Even though you don’t live alone, common sense screams against telling a strange man where you live.

“I’m just out for a walk.”

Nodding, slipping his hands into his pockets, he accepts the refusal. “Nice place for a walk.”

Thank all fuck. He has tact if not manners. “Very. And it was nice bumping into you, but I’d better continue on mine.” You pass, spin on our heel, and take a few steps backwards. Maybe he was going to ask you for directions, and you don’t want to leave on a sour note, because the poor man might just be awkward. “There’s a lake if you keep going that way. And if you cut through the empty lot there’s a little woods. Or just follow the road and you’ll find some pubs and shops and things. If you’re lost or thirsty, I mean.”

“Oh,” he smiles, “I love a little woods.”

Strange, definitely strange, but fun. So long as he doesn’t follow you home and murder your in your sleep, you’ll work a story around those deep, sad eyes. You’ll dream up fabulous, new worlds for those well-worn Converse to wander. “Good to meet you. Sorry I was a bit of a road hazard.”

“Mutual. The hazard was mutual. Enjoy your walk.”

You face away and continue in the opposite direction. When you reach a good corner you peek over your shoulder, but he’s gone. It’s a relief, if a little sad. The end of an odd little tale, and the end of the story is always the worst part, even when it’s happy.

It’s another two miles back to the House. Your feet carried you far away, but your mind is still in your room, turning over fragments of inescapable scenes.

Mind and body meet on the doorstep. You come back to yourself, vaguely aware of how shaky your legs feel as you put your key in the lock and push through into the entry way.

Art crawls over the walls, growing across the ceiling. Decades of creatives moving through have left their mark in every imaginable way, and the lot you live with are busy adding their own. Jeremy’s painted a starling over the hallway mirror, and Blithe Sharpied her band’s logo at the foot of the stairs months ago.

Despite the chaos of the House’s interior design, it’s dead quiet. Where is everyone? In bed, probably. Asleep or wishing they were. They’re all under the weather, too, and if they have the energy to get up and be productive, they can only work quietly.

Blithe’s guitar hasn’t serenaded anyone in the wee hours of the morning for weeks, and you’re sure she’s missing rehearsals. Trevor hasn’t been to an audition in just as long. And Jeremy, well, he was always a bit quiet. He liked to keep his headphones on while he painted, and the biggest racket he ever made was when he knocked over the tray with his palette and brushes.

But none of them had ever been so lifeless. Jeremy made the old house’s creaking boards sing in the odd hours as he went from the attic to the kitchen for tea or biscuits. Trevor should be laughing on the phone with someone. Blithe should be composing new music to transcribe on the walls. No one seems like themselves, and all the doctors could do was mumble about stress and lifestyle choices.

But at least you’re home.

You’re tired.

You’ll just have a little nap before you put the coffee on.

You make it as far as the couch.

Then the fatigue swallows you, and thought unstitches from reality as you fall into the ratty floral print. Loose threads of memory follow you down, the rhythm of your walk echoing in your feet, and you find green grass sprouting from your imagination. The dream smells like summer, and droning rattles in your ears.

It’s another story. The same one you keep slipping into when you sleep. Growth, and death, and the thing that sits between lurking underground.

A hill.

A door where there is no door.

Old magic pulling bits of you inside, tattering the edges of your fingers as they steady you against an oak. Skin, fingernails, and tendon shred away like burnt paper, pulled towards the point of entry that doesn’t exist.

Under your palm, the wood groans and flexes, breathing, or pulsing, alive in ways you’ve always suspected trees are but can’t articulate. It’s all impressions here, and it’s pulling you in. The tree has more life than you do. You’re feeding the green, green grass and the hill beneath without growing into it, and that must mean you’re –

Awake.

Consciousness physically jerks you out of the dream, and a muscle seizes in your neck.

“Fuck.”

What’s happening? Did you jump scare yourself? As you try to rub the angry spot over your shoulder, the sound that roused you comes again.

A knock at the door.

Rolling your head to pop the bastard muscle back into compliance, you get your feet on the floor.

But the dream. You need to write it all down.

There must be a scrap of paper around here somewhere. A stubby pencil on the end table and an out-of-date band flyer come to hand. They’ll do. But as you scratch down words to shape the sensory madness of your wandering dream, the knock comes again, and you swear, stumbling to your feet.

“Damn it.”

You abandon your work and make your way to the door, pulling it open without checking who’s waiting on the other side. It creaks open as you glance down to make sure your feet are clear, and you look up to find the storied brown eyes from your walk.

“Hello again!”

He shoots the same, big grin, like this is not at all strange and really you should all remain calm while he stops in for a cup of tea.

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Winter Solstice Writing Event and Teaser for Bloodhound

Woohoo! A teaser for Bloodhound and another piece for the Solstice!

For context, this is a 'Ghost x reader' where the reader is running away from a private military facility, called the Foundation, which makes 'Black Widow-'like soldiers out of girls they kidnap and lycanthropic bioweapons to watch over them.

Phillip Graves has unfortunately become one of those shapeshifting soldiers and is tasked with retrieving the reader and one other target. He's been put in a team with soldiers like him, along with two child-soldiers to help. He's also managed to find Valeria, an ex-employee of the Foundation, and get her to do some of the work for him.

Warnings: Strong language and violence!

Her resolve was breaking, crumbling away like sand through her fingers. She was faltering, stumbling over a root as she dragged her body to continue on. Valeria looked behind to see she had lost sight of the base. Slowly, she returned her gaze to what was in front of her: the vague path back to their camp.

She had cast that awful mask aside, leaving it to be found at the edge of the base, where the back of that dilapidated building met the woods, hoping you’d find it and that it’d light a fire under your arse.

A life taken was, in her eyes, better than a life doomed. At least, with murder, there came some form of closure. Some form of a definitive… end.

How long until it would set in? Until he’d unravel and consume them all?

Consume you?

She prayed that the anger she had seen in your face, as she had grabbed a fistful of your hair, bringing your bloodied visage to look upon hers, meant you had it in you to fix this. There was a good chance you’d reject Ghost and flee the moment you discovered his newfound nature. And… you’d be right in doing that- you know, to kill him before he’d get into their hands. Valeria hoped you’d stab him with a silver stake in his sleep or do her the kindness of making him scream. Oooh. Something inside her giggled with sadistic joy at the thought of an Arcadian Son screaming in agony at the hands of a lamia. What a triumph that would be! An arrogant man with strength he didn’t deserve nor need, squirming about at the feet of a trafficked child. Valeria hungered for that, and she had found a substitute in reigning supreme over the Las Almas Cartel but, now that she thought about it, it wasn’t the same. It was play. It was her living in a fantasy, rehearsing all the things she wanted to say and do to her overseer. There were many people that sat at the back of her mind, giving voice to her innermost doubts and fears, whom she wanted to see burn by her hands, and he was one of them. That heartless fucker who managed to worm his way into her very being, one who she’d still want to see in awe of her, to feel a swell of pride as she’d slit his throat.

Every Arcadian Son was the same. Every single one. They all did nothing but hurt, exploit, and terrorise. Throwing around their gifts without a care in the world and making sure everyone was constantly feeling their anguish, their pain.

But what about mine?! What about my pain?!

She trudged on, doing her best to halt the tears pooling in her eyes. In an ill attempt to self-soothe, Valeria found her arms slowly snaking around her, her body pulling her into an embrace. It stung as the cartel queen felt a tear trickle from her eye, rolling down her nose, clinging to the end. Then another, and another, and another once more. Valeria wanted to beat someone half to death. She wanted to feel powerful again, toying with people. She had thought that all these years she had spent on herself, spoiling herself rotten with an underground empire and plenty of men to crush beneath her boot, she had grown. And yet, here she was, a sobbing, snivelling mess, nothing more than a weak, little girl.

Little girl.

“You wouldn’t have existed if it weren’t for me.”

Little girl.

“I will always be with you.”

Little girl.

“You will always be scared of men like me. You will always be scared of men.”

The way those words had been uttered to her, all those years ago, with no anger, no emotion behind them, uttered like cold, hard facts. As if she was made to be a certain way. As if she couldn’t escape her nature. As if she was destined to be a caricature, an idea of a person. It was as if everything Valeria had ever done had meant nothing, because all this she had created, had accumulated, had achieved, was merely boiled down to a response to him. Essentially, Valeria realised that she was and would always be nothing more than his lamia.

A quivering breath escaped her, and she became still. Glossy brown eyes stared into the middle distance.

She could have said no, died in defiance.

And yet, she obeyed.

How far was she from camp?

“Valeria?”

Quick as a whip, she snapped back to reality and saw Graves, directly in front of her, standing amidst the shrubbery. His posture indicated he was concerned, slightly leaning forward, one unsure foot put in front of the other, hands hovering in place, shaking with slight trepidation. To him, she didn’t look well. Something about her indicated she wasn’t entirely here and as for her slightly unkempt armour and bloodstained face, Phillip feared she wouldn’t be able to give a decent report.

Still¸ he sighed, no harm in tryin’.

“Valeria?”

“You disgrace the army.”

Every single fucking man she had ever met had, in some form or the other, left a nasty mark on her. Every. Single. Fucking. One.

As she watched Phillip approach her, with a patronising dose of caution, her lip curled.

“I want the missiles. I want the target. And I want Hassan. And you’ve got ten seconds or I’m going to show you the difference between military and me.”

Phillip Graves was feeling sorry for himself now, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be back to his usual self, or perhaps even worse.

“Valeria?”

“What?!” she snapped.

“Have you delivered the package to the target and…”

She could tell he was looking her up and down.

“… Did the renegade do that to you?”

Valeria wasn’t fooled by his softened voice. She took a disgusted step back as he took one towards her.

“What do you think?” Valeria sighed, making to brush past him and collect her things at camp so she could leave this promptly.

He grabbed her, hard, by the wrists. She looked at him like he wasn’t even human, her eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, a face depicting someone who was taken aback by not a man, but an animal.

“I need a full report of what happened,” he spoke to her like she was a mere child.

She looked at him, trying to find his eyes behind that blank visor. Although there really wasn’t much of a height difference between them, she felt as though he was consuming her whole field of vision. Angry tears should have told him enough, but it was evident that he wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Let me go.”

“I need a report.”

“Let me go.”

“You can have your tantrum afterwards, Garza. I need a report. You do realise that this is technically a mission-”

She pulled away, trying to break free of his grip, but to no avail. Over his shoulder, she could see the tantalising shape of camp. Valeria wriggled, demanding to be released. Phillip’s grip only tightened.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

STOP!

Valeria kicked him, screamed at him and, in a moment of brief freedom, before he’d trap her in his embrace once more, she hit his armoured chest. Again, and again and again. All that came out of her were shrieks and curses that sounded as though they had been trapped in her gullet for centuries. She punched and punched his chest, fighting to break free from his grip as he reestablished control. Graves supposed he’d let her have her moment for a few seconds, however, he soon grew tired of her hysteria.

“Valeria… Valeria, will you just… Val-”

He sighed.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REPORT!” he roared.

Then, Phillip fell silent, as if surprised by his own voice. He sounded a lot worse than he did when she last spoke to him, merely hours ago.

Valeria glowered at him but did as he said, regaining composure. She was breathless, panting as her whole body rose and fell in time with her stifled gasps for air. Her hands were raised in front of her, held in place by his, almost framing her face.

“The renegade was there. They saw me. And as for the target… Riley’s received the package.”

He eyed the woman, seeing if he could smell any lies on her. However, it seemed she was telling the truth. Phillip let go of her hands and watched them drop to her sides.

“Clean yourself up and go log it on the lexicon-thingy. I received a call from them not too long after you left. They said they want to hear it from you.”

She pushed past him, wiping away the salty water on her lips with the back of her hand.

Dawn would be approaching and with it, heaps of planning for the final stage. They hadn’t been here for long, but to Phillip, he felt as though he had aged aeons. A sliver of him had just made its absence finally known, having spent the past few days teasing him with its liminal existence. Absentmindedly, he rested a hand on his chest, picking at the crevices of his armour as he stared off into the middle distance. He wasn’t the same. He’d hit rock bottom and now had to get on with things despite it all because he didn’t have anything else to do but that. Never had a man truly encapsulated the word ‘undead’. Phillip Graves in a sense had died in Las Almas, in that tank, at the hands of John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, but he hadn’t been reborn or redeemed in any way. The man was a soulless continuation of the previous iteration. Although he knew the inescapable reality of his situation, he couldn’t fathom it: particularly the fact that he was alive. This didn’t feel like being alive, though. He was simply… going through the motions. There was no agency here. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he did have some agency which led him to the decision he had been procrastinating on making.

The matter of the girls.

***

“What?!” 72’s voice cracked; her indignation just barely being contained. “What do you mean we can’t go?!”

Phillip winced a little, trying to find the correct footwork needed to get around the girl and get on with his life. Much to his chagrin, though, the young lamia firmly placed herself in front of him, blocking his path with her feet squarely placed hip-width apart and her arms crossed. She had an aggravating scowl on her face as she looked up at him.

“Kid…”

“Kid?” she scoffed.

“72,” he sighed, pausing for a brief moment to collect his thoughts, “you and 23 need to stay put. For your own safety. You know, I’m doing this for your own good.”

“We’re supposed to be working,” she growled, “We’re supposed to be on a job.”

Phillip noticed the way her brows lowered, eyes narrowing, it brought about a sense of familiarity to him, like he’d seen that expression elsewhere but couldn’t quite place it.

Him.

Suddenly, he was aware that he was pulling the same face under his helmet.

“You’re going to be doing me a lot of favours by staying back here. So, stay.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, 72!”

She was taken aback by his raised voice, her lip trembling a little as her mind couldn’t make up whether she should be scared or continue to be angry. Graves rose to his full height no longer bringing himself down to meet her eyes, thinking that had done the trick.

He gently moved her out the way and walked past, feeling an odd sense of pride that he’d managed to avoid a teenage girl’s wrath successfully.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Phillip stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are you scared you’re going to hurt us?” 72 taunted, “I know that you were the one responsible for 23’s injury after we extracted the drug lord.”

He couldn’t… He couldn’t even bring himself to look at whatever smug grin she was probably pulling, knowing full well that it would send him over the edge. The last thing he needed right now was an excuse to lose it, especially when she was in the line of fire.

“You…” He could hear his voice had become gravelly once more, like it had done so when he’d yelled at Valeria. “… You, young lady, are skating on some mighty thin ice.”

“I don’t even need to read your mind to know you’re full of guilt.”

“72-”

“We’re here for you! We’re your lamias! You can’t just leave us here, they’ll find out we weren’t working properly, and they’ll do something about it!” she cried, throwing her arm out and vaguely upwards.

He turned to face her.

“I’m supposed to be dead. I was supposed to be in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere, not atoning for my fucking sins but here I am yet on another mission… with two children that I now have to make sure don’t get fucking killed because...”

“Because?”

“I’ve killed so many people. I’ve been a damn good contractor. But I draw the line here. I draw the line at children.”

“We’re not just children.”

“No, 72, you are and you’re in my care. I tell you what to do and you do as I say. That’s the fuckin’ deal. Got it?”

Her lips were pulled into a thin line.

“Got it?!”

She hung her head low.

“Yes, sir,” 72 said, resignedly.

He nodded to himself.

“Go into your tent and stay there until I come get you for food or whatever. If you need anything, you call me, and I’ll let you out.”

Tail between her legs, she sulkily walked back to her flimsy shelter. He watched her unzip the flap and crawl in, hearing the shrill sound of the zipper being angrily pulled along the teeth. Phillip found himself lingering a little longer, watching her silhouette greet 23’s in the warm glow of the hanging torch he’d managed to fish out of their bags for them when they first set up shop here.

Though it stung, Graves knew it had been the right thing to do. They weren’t built for the battlefield, and he’d got a glimpse of that when Valeria had been taken.

23…

His mind was still foggy on what exactly happened with her. As much as he wanted to ask, he feared it would either confirm his suspicions or leave him with only more questions. And so, Phillip had opted to wallow in his apprehension, hoping that once he’d finished this mission and hopefully be rid of them, he could either forget about his guilt or drown it in a fuck ton of alcohol like he used to.

Taken a heavy hit? Simply rock up to the nearest bar in the area and drink and drink and drink.

Having awful flashbacks to Al-Mazrah? Sip some tequila, then sip some more tequila… then keep sipping until you’ve somehow arrived at the next day with only faint recollection of how exactly you got here.

Phillip wondered if he could even get drunk anymore thanks to his newfound condition. Perhaps that’s why the rest of the Arcadian Sons seemed so… excessive, the senseless violence and enforcing of power kept them from acknowledging the tragedies that were their own existences. Maybe he should get with the programme.

No…

It felt wrong.

Then again, he’d most likely done just as bad before. Still, his previous transgressions never made him feel like this, even thinking about spilling blood made his stomach both churn and burn with hungry excitement. It would be giving into something, something that was steeped in sin.

He needed to get this job done and hope the Foundation would give him another one so he would have no time to be alone with his thoughts.

***

You took another pump of soap and rubbed it into your hands before bringing them under the tap once again. Warm water washed over you as you picked at your nails, trying to get the last bits of brown, dried blood which were stubbornly sitting in the crevices of your fingers. Eventually, you looked back up to see the red smeared across the lower half of your face, coming to almost a point, where the source was: your nose.

Damn it.

The blood was beginning to dry, becoming a nasty crust over your skin. You couldn’t help but stare at yourself- bloodied, bruising with tearstains to boot.

You thought about the lamia once more. You had been doing so for some time now, her face briefly gracing your mind’s eye with her presence. You wondered who exactly she was, not from an identity perspective but rather, you were curious about her intentions. It was just… why?! Why was she there? Why did she help you? Why help and still work for the Foundation? Why show such solidarity, tell you about the Arcadian Sons in the forest, undeniably a few kilometres away, and yet, still, presumably, enter to confirm your location?

Or was this all a ruse? No… it couldn’t be!

It wasn’t like you were going to wait around to find out, you were going to pack your shit and leave first thing in the morning. You swore to yourself that come dawn tomorrow, you were out of here.

You just hoped that the Arcadian Sons weren’t planning anything tonight.

They couldn’t be that fast, could they?

They could. They very much could.

Damn it.

You sighed, watching your reflection frown. All you really had going for you at the moment was the hope that some god above would take pity on your plight and have the Arcadian Sons miss their window of opportunity.

A long sigh escaped you as you rested some of your weight on the sink.

Ghost’s bout of nausea hadn’t been helping the overall atmosphere in the base either. He’d hogged the bathroom pretty much all morning, vomiting loudly. Soap had been lingering outside for pretty all of it, occasionally knocking on the door to ask the man if he needed the medic… to which Ghost would reply with, “No. Gaz is keeping ‘em occupied anyway. Besides, I think I just ate-” and then he’d get cut off by puking back into the toilet bowl.

You were curious about what exactly was wrong with him but hadn’t had an opportunity to even catch a quick glimpse of his state, with Kate and Price immediately pulling you aside to ask about the events that had transpired last night the moment you were out of the medical room. Alejandro and Rudy had also interrogated you but that resulted in them having more questions.

Bewildered was the word you thought best described the base at the moment.

A pit was slowly growing in your stomach. You were dreading what nightfall would bring. They were coming for you and there are only so many times you can escape the Foundation’s clutches before luck runs out.

You were glad you had packed your silver-plated knives and stake.

***

The clues at the bottom of her crossword were slowly blurring into one inky blob on the page. A pen, slightly shaking with mild anger, hovered over the third row spanning across the answer area. Usually, 72 would make light work of this, but today, she seemed preoccupied.

23 looked at her with caution from across the tent as she fiddled with the new compression bandaged Phillip had quickly slipped onto her slowly healing knee. The swelling had gone down a little, but it still looked sore. She watched, with increasing anxiety, as 72 grew more and more tense. Eventually, she caved and lashed out with a loud growl, throwing her pen to the side.

“You okay?” 23 asked with trepidation.

“Can you believe he’s making us stay here? Instead of, you know, letting us do our jobs?”

23 shrugged, turning to pick up her camcorder and searching for the switch as 72 continued her rant.

“Like, the Red Room clearly thinks we’re ready or we wouldn’t have been deployed, you know? His report is what’s gonna get us out of the Red Room and actually into a definitive pack. That we’ll stay in…”

She drew her knees to her chest, hugging the newspaper.

“… Instead of being passed from one packmaster to another.”

23 shrugged.

“Maybe he’s right,” the girl suggested, flicking through her footage.

72 grumbled.

“We’re going to end up paying for this. We always do,” she mumbled into the paper, “He thinks he’s doing the right thing but as soon as he mentions on the final report that we did nothing-”

“How do you even know he’s gonna say that?” 23 looked up at her with an exasperated expression, only emphasised by the blue glow from the device’s screen highlighting her features.

“Because he has to?!” 72 sat upright. “They’ll ask.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Why are you sticking up for him?!”

“I’m not!”

“You are! You’re on his side!”

If 23 had pearls, she’d be clutching them in response to such a false and heinous accusation.

“72, I’m not taking anyone’s side. We both know that he’s nice so he’s not going to do anything to get us in trouble, okay?”

“He’s the reason your knee’s fucked up.”

72 pointed at the bandaging on the girl’s leg. 23 cast her gaze downwards and to the side, covering the dressing with her hands.

“Are you scared of him? Is that what it is?” 72 asked, before bringing her hand to her forehead. “Oh my God! You’re scared! You’re doing as your told for once because you’re scared of him!”

“I’m not scared of him! Besides, it was my fault my knee’s screwed up, I was the one that tripped… It’s just-”

“Just what? Scared the big bad wolf is gonna eat ya?”

23 glared daggers at her.

“No, I’m not scared. I’m just being reasonable. Maybe, he has a point. Maybe, we should stay here.”

72 leaned back, her eyes narrowing.

“If I left and followed them to the base, would you let me do it alone?”

Silence fell upon them briefly, only the sounds of awkward rustling filled the tent.

“Well?” 72 asked impatiently.

“I mean…” 23 trailed off, scratching her upper arm idly as she thought.

“Yes or no!”

Kate’s fingers were interlocked, her hands tightly wrapped around one another, in a ball, resting on her head as she looked at the ground. Y/N was in their prime. They knew. She, on the other hand, clearly was losing touch and at an alarming rate.

“Fine!” the girl groaned, throwing her head back.

***

Price sat across from her, a steaming cup of tea sitting atop a small table was the only barrier between the two. He let out a sigh, the air whistling a little as it left his nose. His hands were comfortably placed on his lower abdomen, a contrast to his right leg, which jigged up and down, giving away his brewing anxiety. The captain was growing to resent this silence, waiting and wanting Kate to fill it because he couldn’t, he had no words.

The tense quiet was what was left of Alejandro’s panicked anger and Rudy’s unsuccessful attempts to quell it. He had shouted, paced, accused and demanded that Y/N needed to leave. Kate had stated that she could only let Y/N go once the contact had confirmed it was safe, and as much as she hoped you’d agree, you took Alejandro’s side.

You would leave come tomorrow’s sunrise and just hope that by the time you’d reach the border, the people Kate had been talking to would be there to greet you… like the angels at the Pearly Gates.

Marks of Alejandro’s outburst were everywhere in this room: the door only now just ceasing its swinging from when he’d stormed off, the slam of his fist still ringing in Kate’s ears, the scattered papers and the empty dossier precariously hanging off the table’s edge.

Price’s brown eyes looked over to the old electric fan atop one of the filing cabinets, feeling himself become engrossed in its soothing blanket of white noise as it whirred away, fighting to do its job.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken on Y/N.”

Quickly, he turned back to Kate.

“What?”

“We already have enough shit going on. Y/N… I didn’t need to add them to the list of our problems,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“No… No!” he implored, scooting his chair, trying to close at least some of the distance, “You did the right thing.”

She looked at him, her blue eyes intense, darting, doing their best not to give away her bubbling emotions.

“It’s difficult to see that right now. We’re here because Alejandro is allowing us to be here, he’s already jumping a lot of hoops for us.”

“And you’re doing the same Y/N. We don’t leave each other. Where would they be right now if you hadn’t found them?” Price asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Dead,” Kate stated, plain as day, “Or worse.”

Price’s eyes creased and his mutton chops rose as he gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Exactly. And besides, neither of you have screwed us over. They said it themself, the soldiers after them won’t come for us if we keep out of their way.”

“Usually, John.”

[ofsappho]

A Morpheus POV character study from treehouse by inlovewithanendless on AO3

-

Hey y’all! This is my final submission to my lovely friend @cuckoo-on-a-string ‘s Winter Solstice Storytelling event! If you want more fabulous stories to read tonight, please head to her blog and check out all the ones submitted.

I hear that the people have been asking for Morpheus POV in treehouse and I promise I have an EXCELLENT REASON why it hasn’t happened YET.

However.

In the spirit of the holidays.

I tried my hand at practicing writing treehouse!Morpheus POV and even though this character study is short, unedited, and not the best, I liked how it came out! So I hope you enjoy this tease at what the inside of Dream’s head will be like 😉

There’s no big plot spoilers, don’t worry.

Enjoy! And if you haven’t gotten the chance to read treehouse yet, I’ll link it so you can ❤️ happy holidays

She lingers on the edges of the gathered dust of his consciousness. Morpheus feels her in all that he touches; in the pale sunshine flowers that now bloom in his throne room, in the scent of strawberries and fresh cream plucked from the dreams of a child that loves with their whole heart. He would not have it another way, for to let her drift from his great awareness would be to let go of the reason why he makes his heart beat with corporeal blood.

He has never spent overmuch time on the particulars of this body Dream inhabits, at least outside of when his past paramours have wished to interact with it. Even when she is apart from him, he prefers to maintain a consistent skeleton, a circulatory system comparable to hers, an unchaining height. He cannot have her by his side for every moment, so consciously maintaining a new shape that matches the one she knows is one of many oaths of fidelity he holds even when she cannot be by his side.

Morpheus carries many titles. Infinite names exist for him in every language spoken and unspoken. Even in the forgotten ones and the one spoken before all of the others. But there is a special pride in carrying the title of belonging to her, and her belonging to him. He would stitch such titles into the fabric of his cape and carve it along the knuckles of his hands if he thought she would appreciate such a gesture.

She would not, for she loves his cape and his hands as they are, and thus Dream refuses to ruin them.

Ah, to be loved as he is! To be seen in his entirety and cradled because of such a thing, not despite it. Such a luxury would be worth entire worlds. He would trade countless souls and make bargains with the lowliest of creatures for her regard. And she gives it to him freely, the abundance of her love spilling from her eyes and her lips in a river that carved her mark in the canyon of his existence.

There is no end to the inimitable maw of his hunger for her. For the creases of her fingerprints and the pattern of her many-petaled irises and sweet, luxurious softness of her body. And the things he would do for her…

Unholy terrors and eternal darkness and blood enough to saturate every inch of every world in every galaxy in deep iron-tang crimson. A truly Endless nightmare that could devour until there was nothing left but her. Mutated beasts made from men at her command, flayed souls to fashion her as many cloaks as she wishes. The things he could do would turn her blood cold and her warm love to stone (and he will still do them if he must.)

But the mortal he adores loves her world almost as much as she loves him, or at least that’s what Morpheus would prefer to think, and so he preserves it.

[dorminchu]

Sorrow

This functions as a sort of “pilot episode” for Chapter(s) V & VI of Insult to Injury, but it can also be read independently. Hopefully it turned out okay.

Fandom: No Time to Die

Genre: Crime/Drama

Rating: T

Warning: Brief strong violence, childhood trauma

Summary: There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead.

i.

Eleven years spent in the care of various dyetskiye doma. A childhood left in the hands of the state provided clothes that never fit, a meagre education. Runaways rounded up, to be pumped full of sedatives, came back wide-eyed and unfamiliar. The older kids became enforcers.

The instructors commented on his good manners. He spoke when spoken to. He sat with his back to walls during meals, or at-rest, always with a door in-sight. He was smaller for his age and his face accentuated a boyish appearance he could not outgrow. A passing interest in floriology turned into the convoluted process of leaving messages in bouquets, which his classmates called “thoughtful,” first, then “sure, just like a serial killer” when pressed for acceptance.

After weeks of brooding over his copy of Medicinal plants and their use, 1977, borrowed indefinitely from the school library, he kept running into complications. Cultural disparities between symbolism and colour. Maintenance costs. And a level of ingenuity lost on those who attended the funeral, and saw only hydrangeas. Little more than a private joke, beyond the scope of his current ambition.

The children with living parents and clean clothes would point him out to each other. Or avoid eye contact when he looked over. No sense making friends with one of the kids from dyet-domovskii.

To avoid becoming a target, he had to make himself useful. Indifference was just another form of death. He did not go out of his way to cause trouble. Indifference was just a slower form of death.

Quietly transferred into the Suvorov Military School in Kazan. Comfortable with a rifle, behind a school desk. He talked so infrequently, concern with the medical staff that he had suffered some kind of developmental disorder during his adolescence. But without the constant threat from other kids, he was a diligent student. A decent marksman. He made acquaintances with some of the other boys, though preferred to work alone given the choice.

ii.

The year he would turn eighteen, a military recruiter came to their school looking for potential takers. He had a lame eye and spoke with a foreign accent, and introduced himself as Ziffer. After the briefing, the other boys commented to themselves on the smell of his cologne, his well-tailored suit.

Vadim stuck around to have a word. The man's handshake was languid. No doubt the only service he saw was from behind a desk.

“I understand you grew up in Moscow?”

“He transferred here in 1990,” said the instructor quickly. “Before that, he was in internat.”

“I see,” said the man. Vadim glanced out the window briefly to escape the look on Ziffer’s face. But the man’s voice was calm and understanding in a way he could not anticipate in the same way as a physical blow. “You’re interested in enlistment?”

Vadim stared at him. Men like Ziffer were very good at telling you whatever you wanted to hear. An illusion of friendship compensated for their end-goal. Somewhere down the line, each soldier outlived his purpose in one way or another. You died a hero for your country or in disgrace, but became a statistic all the same.

Vadim had no answer to give. Ziffer smiled. “You’ll be surprised what doors can open for you. That is, if your heart is not still set on vocational school. It’s better to stick to what is realistic, if you can.”

“The FSB.” The words were out of Vadim's mouth before he could think twice.

Ziffer met the instructor’s eyes briefly. Their understanding was lost on Vadim. “I’ll tell you what. I can put you in contact with an associate of mine if you are serious.”

iii.

The job took eight days by train. A chaperone posing as his uncle, accompanied him to negate outside interference. He received several odd looks through customs, but he let the chaperone do most of the talking anyway. He’d be staying in a hotel on the other side of the lake. Through the window he had a clear line of sight across Lake Altaussee.

Suitcase at the foot of his bed contained a CSA vz. 58 Carbine with a side-folding stock. In the closet—white parka, snow pants and black boots. Bulletproof vest to be worn over his shirt. In a carved oak box, a porcelain mask, intricately painted.

Vadim took the time to assemble and disassemble the rifle. Everything was in working order. He glanced briefly at the mask. A woman’s face upturned in a smile. It wouldn’t protect him from the elements. Craftmanship he’d only ever seen approximated in print.

Hours later, looking into the eyes of a woman who was already dead. The smell of stale bile and bleach permeated his senses. She did not plead for her life. She reclined on the couch and waited with a tired smile for him to finish what the alcohol could not.

The daughter was the only outlier. That day, she lost nothing but her innocence. In its place, an unwillingness to surrender. A good, easy life that did not require such capacity for violence suddenly realised. The look in her eyes imprinted onto his memory long after he left her standing before the front door, ajar.

It was a miserable hour’s walk around the lake. His jaw throbbed. As soon as he was in a secure location he disposed of the mask and set to treating his wound. The girl was a decent shot for a civilian. Shatterhand and Gruber had neglected to inform him there was an outlier.

Still, she hadn’t seen his face. That was his insurance.

iv.

By May that same year, Vadim was due to report to the local military commissariat, or voyenkomat, for assessment for military service. The list of summons came from every school and employer in the area. The number of applicants was not ideal, and Vadim never questioned his prioritised acceptance.

There were only a small number of professional non-commissioned officers (NCOs), as most were conscripts themselves meant prepare them for section commanders' and platoon sergeants'. The NCOs in turn were supplemented by praporshchik warrant officers, positions created in the 1960s to support the increased variety of skills required for modern weapons.

The Soviet Army's officer-to-soldier ratio was top-heavy in an effort to compensate for the military manpower base’s lower education and absence of professional NCOs. After World War II there had been a great expansion of officer education. Officers now were the product of four-to-five-year higher military colleges. Newly commissioned officers received only three days off per month. Morale amongst young officers was lacking.

There was talk of reform for the Russian military forces throughout the duration of his enlistment as well as afterward. A lack of success in the Afghan War reflected on the professional credibility of the Soviet armed forces. Several links with the Communist Party saddled the military with the inference of political corruption and incompetence. Glasnost only served to compromise the reputation of the military further. And so on, so forth. It was a seemingly endless amount of problems and a lack of manpower and coherence to resolve matters cleanly.

Vadim had seen enough during his conscription to solidify his tenet. He remained dependable and precise. An officer by twenty-four. He wasn't a prodigy, or prone to substance abuse. Reforming the military from the inside could take a lifetime or more.

So he fell back on contract work, whenever possible. Ziffer still had a handful of clients.

His last mission with the FSB was a matter of national security. He was approached discreetly by an informant, Zorin.

Gostan Safin, a former officer of the FSB who specialised in toxicology and eventually went on to form his own pharmaceutical institute under the guise of government-funded research.

Originally limited to state-sponsored biological weapon programs, after the fall of the USSR and under the threat of glasnost, their priorities shifted to meet the changing political climate. Ziffer and Gostan disappeared from the public eye.

A series of chemical attacks in Lithuania. The same components could be traced back from production in the same pharmaceutical facility on the Kuril Islands. Gostan had outlived his purpose. Now he must be eliminated for the sake of national security.

Vadim’s motive in this assignment had little to do with national security. He tracked down the target living in a small, well-kept house in Severo-Kurilsk. The man opened the door was in his late-forties and about as tall as Vadim himself. Strong posture that had declined slightly with age. “You must excuse me. I was tending the garden.” There was no dirt under his nails. Self-sufficient. Unassuming. A sharpness behind the eyes belied the lack of warmth in his voice. “Why don’t you come in, it’s too cold to stand out and talk.” He looked at Vadim’s uniform, paused. “You’re young for a senior officer. Have they shortened the training period? Or are they desperate enough to import junior officers into high-ranking positions?”

Still, Vadim said nothing.

Gostan excused himself to the kitchen for a moment. Vadim was studying the bookcase, the furniture, floorboards. His attention shifted to the kitchen window. He had come alone. There was a man in plainclothes on the other side of the road, dressed for the weather.

Gostan reappeared with a tea set, to which Vadim declined. “Your parents must be proud.”

“They’re dead,” said Vadim. “That’s what the vospitateli always told me.”

Gostan’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Vadim tensed. “I know you are an expatriate named Gostan Safin. You worked in the FSB’s Criminalistics Institute for twenty years. You’ve.”

He stopped just before the table. A photograph of a man and woman. Two boys and a girl. The woman had his eyes. The same expression. After twenty four years of speculation, a name to a face. His voice faltered, without permission. Jaw set.

Gostan said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Vadim flinched in-place. Blinking. “What?”

As he turned, Gostan was looking at him as if for the first time. Their eyes met; just a trick of the light. “You must have confused me for someone else. I hate to waste your time. Let me show you the garden, at least?”

The kettle left neglected.

The garden was just a patch of earth frozen over. A few industrial canisters of insecticide that hadn’t been in-use since the 1970s, preserved under tarp. They circled back around to the house. “If there’s anything else you would like to ask, I have nothing but time.”

The man in uniform was waiting by the front door. Vadim met his eyes briefly.

Gostan’s hand moved suddenly. In the same moment Vadim drew the silenced PB pistol from his hip and fired twice. The FSB officer fell dead. Gostan struck him between the shoulder blades, then again across the face in a slashing motion.

An animal in the shape of a boy now grown into a man. The same capacity for violence. Vadim drove his elbow into Gostan’s face. The frailer body jolted with the blow, staggered back with blood streaming down his face.

Vadim recovered the pistol. Shot twice before understanding the mistake too late. A dull pain spreading across his skin from the point of contact.

He began to cough. Retching on nothing. He collapsed into himself. The frozen earth did not open up and swallow him whole. He convulsed at the mercy of his ailing body. Denied the mercy of an easy death, clawing blindly without a destination in mind.

In the end, Zorin’s men collected him well before the authorities. They took him to a private hospital by helicopter, made sure he was stabilized. The medical records stated a bad case of food poisoning.

Vadim suffered for weeks. Lesions his face, down his abdomen, arms. Interior damage—dioxin poisoning. Peripheral neuropathy. Liver damage. After dedicating his life to serve his country, his reward was to suffer in a hospital bed until his body finally failed him.

Perhaps Ziffer saw something in him all those years ago, even if he himself did not. It was always going to come to this.

By some cruel twist of fate, Zorin had volunteered to transplant the necessary organs by way of a willing donor. Now, each day, he woke to a sky without purpose. He had no family or friends, nor piety. He did not speak a word to anyone. 

v.

Weeks passed into months before he was able to dress on his own.

During this time, Gostan and the operative were declared dead. The official story put out was that Gostan suffered a stroke. The other man had committed suicide. The facility in the Kuril Islands was seized by the FSB while Vadim was quietly discharged on account of his injuries.

Then, one morning he was informed he had a visitor. Actually, the man was looking for Lyutsifer Safin.

“Says he knows you personally.”

“You're mistaken,” said Vadim. “I don’t know anyone with that name.”

"Safin, is it?"

Vadim turned his head to the best of his ability. This man, he had never met before in his life clearly was under the opposite impression. “I assumed we would be introduced under different circumstances. But, this isn’t the end of the world.” He took a seat beside the bed. “The nurse tells me you are exceptionally strong-willed.”

Vadim said nothing.

“You may not recognize me. I’ve been watching out for you, ever since you took the job for Mister Le Chiffre. Now, Zorin insisted you were a lost cause, but I was very curious as to what you would do left to your own devices. It seemed a waste not to afford you the chance to prove yourself.”

Vadim lacked the strength to force him away. Grab a weapon. Do anything but lay there and wish for something sharp.

Vadim’s breath rattled out of him, involuntary response. Mourning the strength he lacked.

“The tricky part, if you can believe this, it was actually getting the right mask. I thought you would be a little more interested in its significance. Perhaps not. It’s an interesting myth, if you have the time to listen.”

As a captive audience, he could only lay there while this stranger amused himself with the sound of his own voice. A perversion of culture, serving as justification for a convoluted mission beyond reason. Cruelty for its own sake, provided no kinship with the mythos, no sudden moment of inspiration.

A cold, solid object slipped into his palm, the lithe hand squeezing around his own stronger than at first glance. “If you should ever consider independent work in the future, we’d be more than happy to take on a man of your skillset. I hope you make a swift recovery.”

The epiphany came to him after his new contact left. The ring cold in his palm. The surgeries paid for in someone else’s blood. Here was a means of leaving oneself behind in a more permeable way than an obituary. The only way to protect humanity from itself was to become the lesser evil. Sacrificing his military career to a moment of weakness—an opportunity for reinvention, whether intentional or otherwise, in the palm of his hand.

vi.

Even when he had recovered enough to be discharged, he was not the same man. Defecting to one of the most infamous yet well-concealed crime organisations in the world—at twenty six, he was the youngest of the group and answered to the name Lyutsifer by no choice of his own.

Operatives came and went with the encroachment of MI6. Each quarter at the Cadenza in Rome Safin sat beside the husband of the mark. Safin could not look him in the eye. He mourned a woman whom had never seen his face. The child left in her absence had grown into a pitiable misanthrope. A nameless, faceless target to be forgotten like any other, that could no longer be dismissed.

Now, each January, he made a visit to Döbling Cemetery and paid his respects with a different bouquet. Purple lilac — mourning — and white clover — think of me. White roses — devotion, silence, reverence for the dead. Peonies and stargazer lilies — for sympathy. Blue delphinium for dignity. Statice for remembrance. This year, blue hydrangeas — regret, a want of forgiveness — and white chrysanthemums — a token of grief. Bereavement and comfort.

He dressed in civilian clothes, wore a balaclava. The elements no longer an inconvenience but a crippling reminder of what he once took for granted. The local residents caught a glimpse of the pitted skin around his eyes, his hushed voice. Once again, they did not see the bigger picture.

After the lease expired on her grave, she gave up the right to an individual headstone. For ten years, Safin came and went unaccompanied until today. A man stood before the gravestone. Even before he turned, there was no question of his identity.

“Maddie?” White turned, glanced at the bouquet. A fleeting moment of realization passed over his face and was subdued just as quickly. “No, of course not. Last time she visited on her own, she was still going to Oxford—well, they were never close to begin with.” With a brief shake of his head he offered Safin a small, tense smile. “It’s a kind gesture. I’ll walk with you to the entrance.”

The snow crunched beneath their boots. Safin scanned the tree-line for an indication of a shadow. After so many years of solitude, he’d grown complacent enough to slip by as an anonymous enigma. Arrogant enough to attend the same meetings with this man.

“Back in the 80s,” said White, “I used to deal with a man named Gostan Safin. He was in the FSB’s Criminalistics Department and specialised in poisons. We cut him a deal to get out of country before the fall of the Soviet Union.” He paused. “The last I heard from him was at his funeral in 2004, the same year we elected a new operative. He also worked in the FSB. Border security.” Safin stopped pace. “And that facility, in the Kuril Islands? Blofeld took it over in the end. Now MI6’s new SIS thinks he’s got this Heracles weapon under control. All someone has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and we’re done for. Can you imagine? It would be a power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.”

There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead. Without the need for gunfire or typical poisons, Heracles was much more efficient.

White glanced over at him. Chuckled without any humour. “Just between us, Lucifer, I’ve never enjoyed holding grudges. The marriage was failing. When you get far enough up the ladder, the higher-ups will let you know their opinion in more intimate ways than firing you.” Safin stood there in the cold, cycling air into his lungs, wheezing on the exhale. “A job is a job, that’s all in the past. We work for the same man now. But, as a father—you’ve pulled my daughter into something she had no right to know about. That, I cannot forgive so easily.”

Safin didn’t need to speak. He turned slightly. Under the gloomy light of winter, White’s age became apparent despite his prior mask of stoicism. “You spared her life once. I cannot protect her indefinitely.”

The moment decided by his finger idle on the trigger. A level of compartmentalization, which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. Indebted by a fleeting act of mercy.

“You have my word.”

White smiled. “That is your insurance.”

a/n: Title comes from listening to the Pink Floyd track Sorrow a whole bunch while editing. The name Vadim is incidentally given to one of Safin's brothers in the newspaper article from the film. The correlation wasn't planned, I just liked the flow of Vadim Gostanovich, but it's pretty serendipitous, eh?

[audreyscribes]

PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS [BONUS!]

🔥 HESTIA: Goddess of the Hearth 🏠

author's note: I had a sudden idea about writing some headcanons Camp Halfblood demigods being claimed and what it's like for each respective god and cabin, followed by a small blurb afterwards. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog! The order is not in order of the cabin numbers. [PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS MASTERLIST]

Alright bear with me on this take: The fact that Hades gets a cabin finally. Hera doesn’t have any demigod children yet still has a cabin because of propriety and based on principle, which makes her cabin essentially a temple, so why not the same for Hestia?  While Hestia may not have a need for a cabin or anything, but if the rest of the major gods have a structure, it might've felt uneasy for everyone that Hestia is the only one left that doesn't have one. So they erect one on the fact unless Hestia herself explicitly says she doesn't want one.

Hestia is the goddess of the Hearth and every offering/sacrifice offered to the gods, a bit of it always goes to her too. She also presides over the home and community.

Although this is mainly connected with h er Roman counterpart, Vesta, she has something similar to Artemis’ hunters but less aggressive and non-violent, called “The Vestal Virgins” who tend to the sacred fire in the Temple of Vesta. Essentially, you’re priestesses of Hestia. 

Any demigod, mortal who can see through the mist, or what have you, are allowed to become as Hestia’s priestesses, who follow the same oath of maidenhood, swearing off romance, and etc. It's not uncommon to have mortals who were sisters or cousins, to either to the mortal parent of the demigod, or the demigod themselves, enter as Hestia's priestess.

You help maintain the sacrificial fire that is set up at the campfire, at the dining hall, and later the one in the Hestia’s cabin/temple. 

It’s pretty straightforward. You do your duties that fall underneath Hestia’s domain, helping out with also maintaining the camp along with the Nymphs. Doing what you can for the community.

Children and those entering the household were blessed by Hestia, around the fire, showering them in nuts and figs. This also applies to any children entering camp at a young age or any staff members employed into Camp Half-blood. 

You help bless any new babies that are born in Camp Half-blood, or rarely brought forward by former camp members. Oftentimes, the babies are baby satyrs and you work together with the children of Hebe who help take care of them as a daycare situation.

On a sombre note: you also are in charge with the funerals, with helping prepare the funeral pyres, and each shroud. You put out the fire at their deaths and rekindle it once more.

Your place is also the place to be for cooking and baking. Hestia’s domain is the hearth, which was also used to cook, so the kitchen is also her domain. This leads to so much baked and cooked food, that is separate from the mountain of food cooked for the dining pavilion. You often then not have a never ending line of people asking for some goodies. Hey, all growing heroes need to eat! 

You also have to fend and cap off the satyrs. Your kitchenware are not safe.  

The Winter Solstices, Christmas, Harvest festival, Thanksgiving, all those kinds of days are your ALL HANDS ON DECK moments. So much food. So much preparation and decoration to do! You often employ other camp members to help out with the events from the cooking to decoration. Their payment? Little sneaky treats.

You wondered before how the sacrificial fire was maintained and taken care of before you all came to be. Sure it was technically magical/spiritual fire and a portion of it could’ve been taken from Mount Olympus long ago to Camp Half-blood, but still-

Then you see a little girl with brown hair and brown eyes helping tend to the fire. You weren’t sure but you all worked together with her until one day, you saw her eyes light up with fire.

You breathed in the smoke and heat of the crackling blazer. The fire was high and roaring yet despite the dangers of it, you weren’t afraid of getting burnt. Perhaps it is because you’ve been tending to the fire for a while now, so you were sure how close was too close. Or was it because you had a feeling this was Hestia’s fire and knew you wouldn’t be harmed by it as you serve in her name and domain. 

You had just finished up helping with the food rotation, and you were on baking duty. You and your other fellow members worked alongside the nymphs and dryads,  The table was laden out with food for the incoming hungry campers, and the sneaky hands of Satyrs. 

You poured the oil into the blazer and the fires roared even higher. You watch the embers fly up into the darkening sky filled with the sunset hues. 

“A wonderful fire” you heard as you turned. You saw the little girl with brown hair, and brown eyes right beside you , and you almost jumped into the fire. You weren’t afraid of getting burnt but surely jumping into the blazer would still be a big no-no. 

The girl giggled as you placed a hand on your beating heart. “Um…yeah, yes, the fire is wonderful” you stammered out a reply. 

The girl smiled at you and gestured to you to come closer. You did and she reached into her robe to pull out a treat. Your favourite treat. Your mouth watered and it smelled just right. 

“For you. Wonderful work (y/n), I hope you continue to warm others with our hearth” she said as you took the treat. You looked her in the eye and her brown eyes lit with fire. You widen your eyes, your body stiffening as you realise who you were talking to. 

Hestia gave you one last, warm smile, before she disappeared into embers.

[kindasleepywriter]

MASTERLIST

I accept requests, but I can't promise I'll write each one, I'm sometimes busy with my doctorate!

A few things to clarify first:

I try my best to be race-inclusive in xReader fics. If something slips by, don't hesitate to comment on it!

I write fem!reader only

No use of Y/N

If your blog looks like a bot (no pfp, nothing in bio, etc) you run the risk of getting blocked! Just put anything to show you're human pls i beg

AZRIEL (ACOTAR)

Bird of Prey (Angst, Fluff) - Ongoing

Summary: Azriel meets what he thinks to be a sweet but naïve Peregryn in the autumn court only to see her again centuries later, about to coldly slice a man’s throat on Night court territory. Azriel struggles to reconcile his memory of the girl and what he witnesses, and is determined to find out who she is. Act I : Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 Act II : TBA.

BoP oneshot - Public Displays of Attention (Fluff)

Summary: Cassian comments on Reader and Az's affectionate gestures during Winter Solstice.

RHYSAND (ACOTAR)

Before you leave me (Angst, no happy ending)

Summary: After centuries spent by your side, Rhysand withdraws from you. (Songfic)

NESTA (ACOTAR)

Loving Comfort (Fluff, smut)

Summary: A fae's cycle is a rare event, but it comes with a long list of discomforts. Luckily for you, your mate is by your side to make things better.

CAL KESTIS (STAR WARS JEDI SERIES)

An Unexpected Visit (Pre-relationship)

Summary: You find a little metal friend in your lonely workshop on Koboh and you have no idea where he came from. The answer to that question brings you more hope than you thought it would.

(Request) The Way to a Droid's Heart (Pre-relationship)

Summary: Cal demonstrates what happens to those who mess with you.

WORKS IN PROGRESS-

Currently writing:

Azriel x Reader - Bird of Prey (ongoing) Elain x reader (Oneshot)

Currently planning:

Cyberpunk / DBH crossover (possible series) Amren x reader (oneshot) Morrigan x reader (oneshot)

[hellodarling1357]

I Can See You (Cassian x Reader)

Summary: Y/N, the Winter Court's Emissary, first meets Cassian after Rhys becomes High Lord and there is an instant attraction between them. Over the years, the two get to know one another and become closer, but it never leads to anything more than friendship. HOWEVER one night they're out for drinks with their friends and one thing leads to another... 👀

Note: Heya! This is my first time writing for ACOTAR (+ for this blog) and I had so much fun putting this piece together.

It's just an idea I've had stuck in my head for a few weeks now and is very loosely based on I Can See You by Taylor Swift.

The attraction between you and Cassian was undeniable from the moment you first met. It had started at a High Lords meeting shortly after Rhys had taken over his father’s title. The original plan had been to ease any tensions lingering around the circumstances as to how both Rhys and Tamlin became High Lords on that fateful night; not create further, although somewhat different, tensions between the Night Court’s General and the Winter Court’s Emissary.

You stood behind Kallias with the rest of your court, trying to pay attention to what was unfurling in front of you, however, your eyes kept lingering over to the recently appointed General, Cassian, you had been informed. And to your embarrassment, or delight, you weren’t entirely sure yet, it seemed the interest was mutual as the next time you glanced his way, you found him already watching you. Again.

The meeting ended with the tension between Rhy and Tamlin being, unsurprisingly, unresolved, but with clear expectations set by the pre-existing High Lords that they wouldn’t tolerate the two courts going to war with one another.

As the members of each court start meandering back to the quarters they were staying in, Viviane grabs you by the arm, dragging you back to her rooms so you could talk, undoubtably, about your High Lord and the ever growing crush your friend harbours for him. Seeing that he is already in an intense looking conversation with Helion and Beron, she begins talking a mile a minute as you enter the hallway, almost causing you to miss the dark haired, winged male leaning against the wall, presumably waiting for his own High Lord to finish any further discussions.

You lose focus on what Viviane is saying as you take in his appearance, he is so much taller up close, and the broadness of his muscles has your gaze lingering over his body as your approach. Eyes drifting back up to his face, you blanch in embarrassment as you notice he is no longer watching his High Lord, but is now staring intently at you, a smirk crossing his features after no doubt realising what had pulled your focus.

You blink and quickly look away, turning back to Viviane who hadn’t seemed to notice your lack of attention as she wondered aloud for the hundredth time if she should give up on Kallias or take matters into her own hands.

As much as you tried to focus, you couldn’t help glancing up at the General as you brushed past him, the smirk still present on his face. “Y/N” He greeted you with a nod, you were too stunned to say much in response, giving a small smile before hurrying after Viviane with a final glance back Cassian.

How he knew your name, you had no idea, but you already found yourself thinking about the next time you would be able to see him.

*****

A few years passed since your initial encounter with the Night Court’s General and although nothing had happened between the two of you, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement whenever he was around. You put this down to just genuinely enjoying his company as you got to know him better. The sense of longing that you also felt was something you decided to completely ignore.

Helion had extended an invitation to all the courts to attend some extended solstice celebrations. While some had declined in preference of their own events, you decided to go along with your court, alongside the Night Court.

Later into the night, you found yourself at a bar not too far from the Day Court Palace. After the official celebrations had ended, you, along with various other court members, decided to keep the night going in a more casual manner. You had been seated with Viviane, Mor, Azriel, and Cassian for most of the night until Viv and Mor decided they wanted to dance, and Az muttered something about getting another round of drinks, leaving you and Cassian alone.

You watched your friends in amusement as they laughed and twirled around on the dance floor, you had all probably had a bit too much to drink but you didn’t find yourself overly caring.

“You know,” Cassian started, pulling your attention back to him, “You’re a lot more fun outside of the meeting rooms.” You stared back at him, eyebrows raising at the somewhat backhanded compliment. “Excuse me? I’m a lot more fun? This coming from the Lord of Bloodshed himself! The tall, brooding Illyrian who waltzes into each meeting with your multiple syphons, which, I think is purely an intimidation tactic, there’s no way you’re actually that powerful.”

You can feel yourself rambling alongside your mock offence, but Cassian just grins back “I think you left handsome off that list. Tall, brooding, handsome Illyrian. Although, I would say that Az is the more brooding type.” You can’t stop the smile that spreads as you quip back and forth, “Oh please, you wish handsome was on that list” “No, I know it’s on that list. I still remember that first meeting, you couldn’t take your eyes off me.” Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks redden, “And how would you know that I, apparently, couldn’t take my eyes off you unless you were watching me just as much?”

You laugh, raising you drink to finish it off. Cassian lets out a deep laugh of his own before leaning in and saying, “Never said I wasn’t, sweetheart.” Your face turns a deeper shade of red as you feel his breath fan across your face, his scent overwhelming your senses.

You want to blame the endless drinks you had consumed for the impact those words had on you, but deep down you knew that wasn’t the case. Sensing the shift in the mood, you lift your eyes to Cassian and find him looking back with…was that longing in his eyes?

Raking your brain for something to say, all you can do is hope that you’re not opening and closing your mouth like a fish as the world seems to slow down around you both. Cassian raises a hand up to your face, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. He moves in a bit closer to you but is abruptly bumped into by an unassuming, and slightly drunk, Azriel who has returned with a tray of drinks in hand.

“One for you, and one for you. Hey!” He waves down Mor and Viv who rush over at the sight of more drinks. You and Cassian both murmur a thanks before shifting in your seats and turning back to your friends. Whatever had just passed between the two of you was clearly gone, the moment over, as you continued chatting with your friends.

*****

After finishing your drinks, Mor and Viviane drag the rest of you onto the crowded dance floor where you spend the better part of the next two hours. That is until an extremely intoxicated male bumps into you, causing his drink to go flying and you to knock into Cassian at the impact.

Cassian quickly steadies you, checking that you’re okay as the male furiously rounds on you, red in the face as he screams “You bitch! Watch where you’re going—” But before he can get another word out, Cassian’s fist collides with his face, knocking him to the floor, before he gently grabs your elbow and steers you away from the sweltering dance floor.

You wave off your friends' concerned looks as they linger by the dance floor whilst Cassian checks you over again, “Y/N are you sure you’re alright? That prick has been bumping into people all night, and then has the audacity to blame it on you.” He scowls as he glares over at the male who is trying to get another drink at the bar.

“I’m fine, Cass, really. It was just a bit of a shock.” Despite your reassuring words, worry is still etched across his face but he simply nods before gesturing towards the dance floor “Did you want to head back in or take a breather, grab another drink?” You watch your friends for a moment, your carefree and relaxed demeanour seems to slip away, as though the male’s angry words have sobered you up.

“I think I’m just going to head back.” you say with a small smile. Cassian grins back at you, placing a hand on the small of your back as he leads you towards the door. “What? Cass, you don’t have to leave as well. I’m fine just a bit tired.” but Cassian just gives you an incredulous look, “Right, as though I’m going to let you walk back through a strange city alone.”

You’re about to argue back but, as though sensing this, Cassian shoots you a look that tells you he’s not changing his mind, so you sigh and gesture for him to lead the way.

*****

The walk back to the palace is pleasant; you talk whilst watching the groups of fae who are continuing with their solstice celebrations, neither of you caring to note that you happen to be taking the slightly longer route.

Or, for that matter, caring to note that, what started with a gently placed hand on your back to help lead you out of the busy bar, turned into an arm casually draped over your shoulders, extending to fingers that have been slowly tracing patterns onto your skin as you continue to roam the streets.

With a growing feeling of disappointment, you eventually find yourself back at the palace and in front of your bedroom door.

Cassian turns to face you, his hand leaving its place on your shoulder to slowly drag down your arm until he reaches your fingers, absentmindedly linking them with his. You look up from your intertwined hands, offering a smile before quietly saying, “Thanks for walking me back.”

You're not sure if it's the alcohol coursing through you or the close proximity and lingering touches, but either way you find yourself stepping up onto your toes and placing a soft kiss on Cassian's cheek before taking a slight step backwards.

Cassian looks as though he’s about to say something but ends up giving your hand a squeeze as he also takes a step back, “Night Y/N, sleep well.”

You don’t try to stop the frown that crosses your face as he turns away from you and begins to walk down the hallway. You’re about to reach for the door handle when memories of the moment you shared earlier in the night comes racing back, causing you to hesitate.

“Wait…Cassian?” He turns back, an unreadable expression on his face. All you can do for a moment is stare at one another before something shifts and you’re both stepping forward, reaching for the other as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down, pressing your lips against his.

The kiss is soft, and sweet, and slow. But before you’re ready for it to be over, Cassian is pulling back, resting his forehead against yours as he searches your eyes for something. “Y/N—” Cassian starts but the look on his face, and the need in his voice, has you leaning up on your toes, crashing your lips back against his.

Cassian’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he backs you into the wall. This time the softness, the sweetness, the slowness is all replaced by a fast, desperate, longing for one another, a longing that had been pent up since the day your first met.

[throneofsapphics]

ERIS'S DAUGHTER X READER BUT BOTH OF THEIR PARENTS FIND OUT ABOUT IT. I NEED THEIR REACTIONS.

Ps: Love your writing! 🥳

-~Cherry Anon~ 🍒 🌸

stolen moments and chance meetings pt3

Eris’s Daughter x Reader (Nessian’s daughter)

Summary: A stolen moment together leads to tough conversations and tense encounters. 

Warnings: none

A/N: ahhh thank you! I had to jump on this, I squealed when I saw it and my mind raced. (part one) (part two)

“Well. Isn’t this interesting,” a smooth and cold voice commented, dragging you quite rudely out of your brief escape.

That voice. You knew that voice. The High Lord of the Autumn Court. His daughter currently had you pinned up against a wall, and not with a knife to your throat. 

There wasn’t any getting out of this, any explaining it away. Cora stiffened against you, before taking a step back. Eyes still on you, filled with slight alarm - and … maybe a hint of relief. You took the brief pause to straighten yourself, squaring your shoulders back, but keeping your arms loose at your sides. 

Watching her mask fall in place, the cool and collected calm, she grabbed your hand before turning to face the small audience. 

The High Lord Eris, and your parents, as well as Nyx lingering in the background. 

Sorry, his voice slipped into your mind, I tried to keep them away.

It was bound to happen. He disappeared. The sound of the ball still came in the background, the scent of pine from the evergreen dragged into the court, festive music floating distantly through the space. 

Refocusing on the present, you found everything at a standstill. Time seemed to stop as all of the parties weighed each other. Nobody spoke. Cora was currently staring down her father, and with a harsh swallow you looked at your parents. Your mother looked amused, your father concerned and very on edge - actually, he looked ready to grab you and spirit you out of here. A hand, your mothers, gripped his shoulder - keeping him right in place. It was one thing for Nyx to know, but for them … well, it certainly made things more official. 

It was common knowledge Cora was a skilled courtier with a silver tongue and quick wit. Gods, they’d seen her throughout the years, ever since she began visiting Hewn City with her father, around five years ago. The two of you had never shown anything other than cordial acquaintance in public - only Nyx knew somewhat of the extent of your actual relationship, if you could call it that. 

The Winter Solstice ball at the Court of Nightmares. Maybe it was foolish of the two of you, but you’d gone so long without seeing each other that you couldn’t resist sneaking away just for a few moments. A silent conversation with Nyx, and he agreed to try and keep the attention away for a few minutes. Glancing at the clock beyond, a few minutes had turned into ten. It was too easy to lose track of time with her. 

The High Lord’s attention turned to you, and instinctively your wings tucked in tight. He tracked the movement, and his mouth curved up at the corner - briefly. In your peripheral, your father bristled, and Cora’s hand tightened around yours. Because of her father, or yours?

This male, you’d heard several versions of. According to Cora, he was an attentive - if not a bit tough, father. According to your parents … not quite as flattering, but not horrible either. 

He wasn’t speaking, and you’d be damned if you were the first to break the silence. Instead of words, you chose to squeeze Cora’s hand, taking a step closer to her and hoped your eyes conveyed the words you hadn’t actually spoken aloud to her; I love your daughter, mixed with a you’ll have to pry her out of my cold dead hands. He didn’t shift, not a flicker of emotion. Maybe you should try and master your mothers ‘slay your enemies’ look. 

Normally the portrait of smooth self-assurance, his pale face was stone cold. Unreadable, but the lack of the usual expression showed he wasn’t exactly pleased with this turn of events. Better than outright distaste, you supposed. Not by much. 

“Let’s go,” he reached out a hand for Cora. 

She assessed, paused, and turned to you, lips barely grazing over your ear - somehow speaking just loud enough for you to hear, “this isn’t over. I’ll be in touch,” and dropped your hand, confidently striding towards him, without a look back. In touch. That could mean so many different things.

Two heads of auburn hair retreated, two sets of shoulders held high and walking with every bit of elegance and power. 

As soon as they disappeared from sight, you couldn’t help how your face fell, back pressing in against the stone, head tilting up towards the ceiling. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” you said - before they could throw some kind of remark out there. Gods, if they tried to insult her … you fought down the bit of anger that surged at the mere possibility. 

Your mother approached you first, holding onto your hand, your father a pace or two behind. “Is she good for you?” 

“If she’s not i’ll -” you admired how easily she cut off your father’s words, just with a raised hand. 

“I think so.” Not a great answer, but the best you could give. Sure, she’d stolen your fucking heart, but there wasn’t a chance to really be together, not as a traditional couple could. 

While your mother was infuriatingly unreadable, you knew all of your emotions shone through at once, and sure enough she studied you to the point of uncomfortability. 

Shifting on your feet, you dropped her hand. “Won’t our absence be noted?” 

“Go back, Cassian.” With something like a grumble, he did, not before catching your eye first - a promise, we’ll talk about this later. You all but rolled your eyes at him. “How long?” She turned on you. 

“Over three years.” 

A slight widening of her eyes. “I knew there was someone,” her head tilted. “Maybe I should’ve asked a few more questions.” 

“I’m not going to ask for your approval,” you said - too quickly. 

The look she gave you almost made you shift on your feet, but her lips curved up at the corners and she nodded once. “Good.” 

“Good?” Your jaw dropped. 

“You’re aware of what you’re getting yourself into.” A statement, not a question. Were you? Maybe not, but you’re in this now and little would stop you from seeing it through. As far as Cora would let you.

“Yes,” you tried to imbue as much confidence as possible into that one word. 

Her eyes narrowed briefly, but she didn’t say anything else, turning back towards the ballroom, waiting for you. Gathering your skirts with one hand, you took a breath, stilling your mind, and followed. 

By the time you returned, Cora and her father were gone. 

-

Walking away from you, towards her father, was a different kind of misery. It took all of her not to look back at you. But, before she could figure the rest of this out, there was some damage control to do on her part. She didn’t care about her father’s approval, but she knew he’d be disappointed she hid this from him for so long, and once he asked she wouldn’t be able to lie to him. He always knew. The disappointment would sting. 

He winnowed them further away than he normally would, giving them a bit of time to walk. Away from prying ears and eyes. 

“How long?” He asked first. 

“A little over three years.” Three years, two months, and fifteen days if she was being exact - since the first time she kissed you. 

Her eyes met yours across the ball room. You were looking again, but so was she. She angled her head very briefly towards a side corridor, and slipped out - waiting to see if you’d take the bait. Of course, you knew each other casually - but this might be one of the riskiest things she’s done. If it actually worked. 

A few minutes later, you appeared, stopping just a few feet away. Cora stepped closer. Closer. You didn’t move or flinch. Later, she would be able to tell who moved first, but your lips met in a frenzy of passion and subtly built need. Sweet, gods your lips tasted so sweet.

“I’m impressed I haven’t found out yet,” he mused, his sharp eyes cutting to look at her. “You could’ve told me.” 

She paused, heels digging into the ground. “And listen to you call her a brute?” 

He had the good sense to choose his next words carefully. “Any daughter of Nesta Archeron could not be classified as a brute.” 

Her chin lifted, “I won’t ask for your approval. I won’t stop seeing her, unless she asks to.” 

“I’d expect nothing less.”

She raised her brows. “No arguments against it?” 

A short laugh. “I could give you hundreds of arguments against it, but I know which battles to pick.” 

“So you’re just … fine with it?” 

“I thought you weren’t asking for my approval,” he shot back at her. 

“I’m not,” she flicked auburn hair over her shoulder, “only expressing my surprise.” 

They fell into step next to each other, the rest of the walk in comfortable silence. He wasn't ‘fine with it,’ she knew that much. Not because it’s you, but he’d never think anyone was good enough for her. Besides, he’d promised her early on she’d never be treated as some kind of bargaining tool, unless she chose to. 

Bargain. 

That was a dangerous word, an even more dangerous line of thinking. To be with you, she feared how much she’d trade. Perhaps too much. 

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Year and a Day

My second piece for the Winter Solstice event!

Sandman fandom, Hob x fem!reader x Morpheus (implied future)

Warnings: language, brief violence, injury

*While you can enjoy this on its own - there's gonna be more. It's gonna be a drabble series in all likelihood.This is becoming my de-stress fic. Mostly fluff, and lots of shenanigans, so let me know what you think. <3

A Year and a Day (the first part of many)

The frigid evening wind cuts through the alley, and Morpheus feels it. He feels the cold, the broken asphalt scraping his palm, the blood cooling on his chin.

A year and a day of mortality.

He wonders if he’ll survive the first night.

As the curse had taken effect, and he’d hurtled into the waking world, he’d done all he could to aim for London. With his power bleeding away and his body closing tight around his severed awareness of the Dreaming, a single name flashed at the forefront of his thoughts: Hob Gadling. His friend. Although several mortals know enough of his nature as an Endless to be of some assistance, Hob is the only one he trusts to actually offer it.

If he does not escape this alley, however, he’ll never put that assumption to the test.

A kick lifts him away from the pavement for a moment, and he collapses on his side, coughing. The men above him loom like tall shadows, backlit by anemic streetlights. Two pounce, rifling through his pockets as he struggles to catch his breath, and he once again thanks John Dee for crushing the Dream Stone. It can never be stolen again. Never be abused. Though, apparently, he can still be parted from his power.

Once they determined he has nothing to give them, one of the searchers swears and kicks him again, this time in the back, and Morpheus arches, teeth gritted in a fresh wave of pain.

“Nothing. Man’s got nothing. No wallet. No cash. No phone.”

The third man, ostensibly the leader, stands closest to the street, pointing a knife to warn their victim against screaming in case Morpheus should recover the wind they’ve kicked from his lungs. He shakes his head. “Dressed like that? Whatever. Coat’s worth something at least. Looks nice. Check again. Rich assholes have hidden pockets – hollow shoes, you know, like on tv.”

The hands return. Rougher. Grabbing and pushing as they try to work his arms out of his coat without letting him up from the pavement. Still breathless, he bares his teeth, reaching for abilities stripped from his grasp. He can’t even sense them. His mind is mortal, too, at least as much as it can be, and he’s left to his assailants’ mercy as he fights to regain his equilibrium.

But he has a long memory, and he will remember their faces. They may not pay for their insult tonight, but they will in due course. He promises them silently. He promises himself.

A flash of light illuminates the alley. Two more. Three more bursts of sun. Like lightning without thunder, without rain or clouds.

All three men turn to look at the source just as a clear, feminine voice calls from the opposite end of the alleyway, “I just sent pictures with all your faces to my friend.”

The one with the knife manages three long strides before the voice stops him.

“If anything happens, my friend will show them to the police. Oh, and I just dialed 999, so I suggest you scarper.”

A suggestion. Through his pain, Morpheus smirks.

Highway robbery is an often romanticized but a less than rewarding career. It has always been thus, but desperation and idiocy lead men down familiar paths, from one eon to the next. These robbers freeze like deer when the woman flicks on her phone’s flashlight, giving the scene a more permanent illumination. More prey than predator. Aggressive when they had the upper hand, certainly, when it was three against one. But they hadn’t planned on an interruption, and now a third party they can’t threaten with their knives and knuckles has their faces. Their true colors leak through.

The quiet one who’s been searching him twists away from the light and runs.

“Fuck this.”

That’s the second.

The ringleader stands his ground long enough to make a weak pass at intimidation.

“Bitch.”

The woman behind the light shrugs, the tell-tale light lifting with her shoulders. “Twat.”

For a moment, Morpheus thinks the man will charge her. He angles his head down and spreads his feet, like he’ll take his chances and sprint over to stick his knife in her throat.

This time, Morpheus hears the phone’s camera app click, and the last attacker bolts after his friends. Too much evidence, not enough loot to justify the risk. An old tale often repeated.

The immediate danger has passed.

He has a destination in mind, but he finds himself struggling to rise. Every ache and burn lingers as he leverages his hands under his chest, pushing himself up to his knees and groaning from the effort.

Light steps approach. Not running. Not hesitant, either. Purposeful.

A hand with short, black nails appears before his eyes. He looks up, blinking away the runny watercolor blur from his eyes to find his savior of the hour, a small woman in a flower-print sundress – thick leggings below and a heavy sweater above to ward off the cool breath of autumn. A strange knight errant, but he is hardly in a position to choose.

Still, he does not take her hand.

Pulling himself upright inch by agonizing inch, he cradles his bruised ribs and offers a brief nod to express his gratitude. Though he is short on options, he is shorter on trust. Mortals are treacherous, often without meaning to be, and he is painfully aware of his vulnerability.

“I dialed but didn’t connect to 999,” she confesses, looking directly into his eyes, ignoring the wounds on his face or his ginger stance. “Do you need me to call an ambulance? Family? What do you need?”

He needs Hob Gadling. And possibly medical attention. In that order. How far can he depend on this little stranger to aid him?

“Thank you.” He scrutinizes her, frowning, and she bears it unflinchingly, waiting for him to choose his course. Her squared shoulders and tilted chin suggested she’ll help him down whichever path he chooses. His pride rages against the idea, but his very mortal body feels like it may collapse if the breeze pushes any harder.

He cannot call to mind everything he would know about this tiny hero if he were fully himself, but a whisper of an impression lingers. An extra sense. The three men jumped him before he could pick up anything from them, and all he’d gathered during the assault was the anxiety and anger fueling their rage. But now – now he has a moment, and she has a core of moonstone. A fixed, determined thing all but glowing with dreams and hope.

Decided, he speaks quietly, wary of the new hurts along his abdomen, careful not to aggravate them further. “I am trying to reach the New Inn. My friend, Robert Gadling still owns it, I believe.”

Her eyes light up, and she presses half a step closer. He nearly flinches away, startled by the spark of enthusiasm.

“Hob?” She lifts her phone.

She has Robert Gadling’s name in her phone as “Hob Goblin” and something sparks in his chest that isn’t jealousy.

As she waits for the call to go through, phone pressed to ear, she says, “I was actually on my way there. We’re just a couple blocks away. I’ll help you, but I should give Hob a head’s – Hey! Hob, I – No, I’m fine. There’s – Yes, I’m sure. I just ran into – Hon, I love you, but shut the fuck up. Sorry. Yeah. Bumped into a friend of yours, and he’s a little roughed up. Asked for you, so I thought I’d bring him to the New Inn. Wanted to give you advance warning… Okay. See you in a minute.”

The endearments course naturally through the dialogue, and he wonders what he has missed in Hob Gadling’s past year. But when she hangs up and stashes the phone away in her messenger bag, she gives Morpheus a brilliant smile, like all is well and they’re simply on their way to visit a mutual friend.

“Alright. Let’s get you to the Inn. Would you mind leaning on me?”

The nature of the question makes it easy to agree. He lets her pull his arm over her shoulders, and one little hand settles on his back, like she has the strength to support them both if he stumbles.

They work their way down the quiet street, and she doesn’t fight the silence. Their steps and breath mingle with the hoots of nightbirds, distant arguments, and the occasional passing car. She does not ask him why he is on his way to the New Inn, though she clearly had plans of her own with the owner. She does not demand he waste his breath assuring her he is well when he clearly is not. They walk together, and she makes sure he does not trip and fall on the way.

It is appreciated.

When they reach the New Inn, Hob meets them at the door, eyes wide but unsurprised when Morpheus manifests out of the gloom with his small, colorful crutch.

“It is you.” He rushes out to assume the savior’s burden and helps Morpheus into the empty bar. It’s well past closing, he assumes. “I thought it might be, but I wasn’t – what happened?”

Morpheus glances sidelong at the young woman lingering near the door, and she catches the look, quickly straightening with a fresh smile for Hob and excuse to disappear on her lips.

“I’ll head up now. You two must have… a lot… to – let me know if you need anything.”

She moves to the back of the establishment and slips through a door marked “Private.”

Morpheus turns his look on Hob as the man pulls a first aid kit from behind the counter. His son died in a pub brawl, he recalls. The kit is extensive, and while Morpheus is glad to know he does not need a defibrillator or some of the other supplies contained within, a newly-familiar warmth blooms as he considers his friend.

His injuries, though painful, are not serious enough for a hospital. Hob assures him no ribs are broken after a careful series of pressing touches over his chest, back, and sides. The former soldier finds no evidence of internal bleeding, either.

“I’d suggest we go anyway,” he says, apologetic as he sorts through his collection of salves and bandages, “but I don’t think you have an ID or, you know, the kinds of things they’d ask about. In a hospital. And I doubt you want the police involved.”

“No.”

“Right. Okay. Right.” He flounders, clearly unsure of himself as he tries to care for the entity he still knows so little about. “Well, this should be good enough. We can sort something out down the line if…”

The silence pulls taught over the rustle of Hob’s work, and the whole man’s face is bent in concentration. Morpheus can see the thoughts ticking over his open face. Wondering if he can ask. Wondering what to ask.

“What happened?”

What indeed. There is another story, a long one, one he will not share at this time. He does not feel he has earned this punishment, and he will not give another room to comment.

“A curse.”

“What?”

“I am mortal, Hob Gadling. For a year and a day.”

“That’s…” Hob has to stop and think before new words will grow on his tongue, and Morpheus takes the initiative to press ahead.

“I had thought I may ask for your assistance during this time,” he explains. His eyes turn towards the ceiling. “But…”

Hob snaps back to himself, shaking his head and overflowing with reassurances. “You’re more than welcome to stay! I have a guest room in my flat. She doesn’t live with me. Not really. She’s in the smaller flat, and – uh – yes, you are more than welcome to stay. Please.”

So Hob has not taken another wife. It would be a strange arrangement for a courting couple as well, and he fixes on the topic as a distraction from the way his heart beats in his bruises. “Who is she?”

Hob murmurs her name with a smile, flicks his eyes to meet Morpheus’s, and clears his throat. “Well, she’s a friend. We met online, playing games during the pandemic, and she was on the other side of the Atlantic, so I started staying up all hours just to make sure I caught her.”

Adjusting his position in his chair, he leans in, full of a story, and despite the terrible evening he’s had, Morpheus finds himself falling back into old habits. Here they sit in a tavern, the Endless listening to the immortal man’s continuing life story.

“It was just so easy with her. Talking. Playing. Just enjoying ourselves. And then, about three months ago, she told me she was coming to England for work. Asked if I’d like to meet. And I had the empty flat, and I thought… why not? So here she is. Here we are. And,” he chuckles to himself, a smile pulling his face into its sweetest shape, “I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

Morpheus doubts that very much as he holds the man in a steady gaze.

It is strange.

He cannot know her as he would usually know a mortal, but she treats him with the ease of a friend, and as soft creaking above reveals her as she goes about her business, he feels the lines of a story twisting into new forms, as they had many hundreds of years ago when a foolish mortal declared in the presence of Death herself that he wouldn’t die.

Well. He has a year and a day to understand.

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Winter Solstice Writing Event!

Thank you @cuckoo-on-a-string for making this event and letting me take part this year!

Okay, so I've written a small, albeit slightly confusing, short from my original work! It's quite a personal piece, I'm basically using a self-insert here lol to somehow write away my stress as a med student- as well as toying with a new character concept.

For context, the short is set after a disaster involving Cain and a group of women who have been instructed by Satan to destroy Cain. However, one of these women ended up betraying the group, allowing Cain to massacre them, as she couldn't bring herself to kill her own son (I'm sure you can guess who this woman is now lol).

Excuse the grammar mishaps and I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of struggling mental health and violence.

“So, how have you been settling in?”

Ah, she had spoken the sacred words and now Nasrin had to make the difficult decision of whether it was appropriate to answer honestly, precisely measure the exact extent of honesty or just simply lie.

They sat opposite each other, like opponents in a heated game of chess. Except, instead of ornate pieces on a very posh chequered board, between Nasrin and her tutor was a desk with two steaming cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits, delicately placed in an appealing pile, calling out for the girl to grab them by the fistful and shove them down her mouth. She was actually starving, having skipped breakfast to make it to this meeting. Nasrin had banked on her internal clock waking her up in time once she switched her alarm off, except that hadn’t happened and the poor girl had woken up with only ten minutes to get out the door and to her module review.

“Good!” She smiled, crossing one leg over the other. “Yeah, good. Been settling in well.”

“That’s great to hear. I know it can be difficult and a big change. I’m assuming you came straight from secondary school, right? No gap year?”

She nodded.

“How have you been handling the workload?”

“It’s a lot but I’m coping.”

“Yeah. It’s a big jump, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” she replied, her cheeks growing tired from keeping that polite smile on her face.

Nasrin could feel something rising in her. This year had been rough. Absolutely rough. What was supposed to be a fresh start, had began with tears, trauma and madness. Her blank slate had been tainted… with the literal Mark of Cain.

The girl couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was in danger. It had finished. The Incident. And yet, Nasrin felt she was still somehow there. She had moved to a different universe, to a different part of the country, to the university of her dreams, doing a degree she had wanted to do for years, and still, she was back there.

Dried blood had made her clothes stiff. Her muscles had burned, aching, screaming for her to just give up. She had been on the ground, helpless, cut down by his men. As she looked up, through the eyeholes of her mask, a layer of sweat building on her face, Nasrin watched as he took one of the others by her hair, dragging her across the floor. The amber glow of dying fires surrounded them, along with screams. The rolling flames were reflected in her glossy eyes, adrenaline soaring through her, but doing little, apart from making her pulse pound in her ears.

He was there mere metres from her, open, no guards around him, dragging Nasrin’s comrade like she was naught but a heavy sack. He had a limp thanks to that huge gash in his thigh, a gift from Nasrin herself, when she had managed to get close enough.

Cain.

There had been a plan. A nice, simple plan. Everything had been accounted for: all possibilities apart from betrayal. The one who they had all looked up to couldn’t bring herself to do what needed to be done.

Nasrin remembered it all too well. The hole. The tear in space-time. Someone giving word to Cain and his men. The perfect window for revenge.

What should have been ‘detain and defeat’ became a fight for their lives.

Pick it up!

“What?” she had whispered.

Pick it up!

A disembodied voice growled in her head.

The sword! The sword is there! Pick it up!

Pick it up!

Pick it up!

Pick it up!

It demanded with heavy disdain for her. She was pathetic, writhing in her own blood, like a maggot in filth. Helpless. Weak. Beaten.

You’re supposed to be strong! You’re supposed to cope! Pick. It. Up.

She had pushed herself off the ground with all the strength she had. Then, she crawled forward, feeling around for whatever weapon that voice was hinting at. Once it was within arm’s reach, her fingers curled around the hilt and-

Now, lie.

Suddenly, Nasrin was back in the room, under flickering white ceiling light, with her tutor in front of her, staring at her with mild concern.

“Nasrin?” the woman asked, tilting her head to one side, “You alright, dear? You look a bit pallid.”

Lie.

“I’m fine. Just recovering from fresher’s flu, you know how it is,” Nasrin chuckled nervously.

“Oh of course! Always something going around. Just looking at your self-reflection, you mentioned you had anxiety, how have you been finding coping with that?”

This was probably a good opportunity to find out where the counselling services were for healthcare students, but the girl’s eyes fell on the clock on the wall behind her tutor. Was it even right to open this Pandora’s box right at the tail-end of their meeting? Drop a massive bomb on her tutor, admit she was actually not doing alright and then piss off back to her accommodation?

Lie.  

He thought she should lie. The stupid, overbearing eldritch fuckwit in the back of her mind. He was one to bloody talk, being so-called all-powerful and all-knowing and yet being completely blindsided by The Incident and Cain’s subsequent rampage.

At the same time, though, a part of Nasrin that wasn’t governed by the literal Devil, also thought it best to just lie and take her leave. It was embarrassing, coming into a degree and a job that you knew damn well was stressful as all hell and having a condition which makes you struggle with stress. She was a medical student for crying out loud! How would it look if a medical student, a future doctor, was riddled with anxiety?

Furthermore, why the fuck was she doing a damn medical degree when her part-time job was being a literal acolyte of Satan?!

What was she doing here?

And how had she not broken down already?

You’re supposed to be strong.

Ah, that was it.

[ofsappho]

i’m yours 🔞 by inlovewithanendless on AO3

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My first contribution to @cuckoo-on-a-string ‘s amazing winter solstice event!!! Thanks for putting it together. I really hope you guys enjoy this, PLEASE CHECK TAGS before entering!!!

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[mirandasidefics]

But Home is Nowhere- Chapter 9 (Pt2)

Pairing(s): Lucien x Plus Size Reader, Azriel X Plus Size Reader, and Ruhn Danaan x Plus Size Reader

Chapter 9 Pt2 Summary: Reader and Lucien finally get a chance to be alone while the High Lord of Day attempts his hand at subtle match making. However, things don't go according to plan.

Word Count: 9.3k (oops)

Warning(s): 18 + (MDNI), flirting, angst, alcohol use, self-deprecation, low self-esteem/worth, sexual tension (no smut), and nudity.

A/N: Here is the second part. This is a Lucien heavy chapter and was a BEAST overall. But I had so much fun writing it. There are a couple of places where the POV switches suddenly, but I wanted to show each scene from different character perspectives and not have to repeat the same events to do so. Again, thank you to @hardcoremarvelfan for her assistance with this chapter start to finish! And thank you to my team of beta readers! You guys are all amazing! Please let me know what you think. This is a slow burn fic, and I hope it's not moving too slowly story wise.

Series Masterlist Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

Previous: Chapter 9 Pt1

During your breakfast of fruits, yogurt, and pastries, Helion informed you and Lucien of Mor’s return to the Night Court. The story he provided was that she had been called away by Rhysand. You knew that was a lie but didn’t understand why Helion would do so. Lucien simply shrugged, not at all fazed by her absence. You knew that he still didn’t quite get along with many of Rhysand’s closest friends and found family. To your knowledge Lucien never joined the ranks of that found family. Never present for the “family” dinners and only stayed for part of the two main holiday celebrations in the Night Court, Starfall and Winter Solstice.

For your first Starfall, Nyx had been just a bit too young to join in on the festivities. So, you stayed at the River House caring for him. After about an hour of supposed celebrations Lucien had joined you. You smiled as you remembered taking turns reading him a bedtime story.

When the Winter Solstice came around, you had opted to stay at the townhouse alone. You claimed to have your own traditions that you wanted to keep. Which was partially true. However, the thought of not being with your own family yet having to witness the happiness of another kept you confined to your bed. Though you had been pleasantly surprised to find the small gift from Lucien on your dresser that morning. It was nothing fancy, just a small blank notebook. The cover consisted of beautiful, pressed pale-yellow chrysanthemums and daisies preserved in a glass window.

Part of you had wondered if the choice of flowers was intentional. So, you had asked Elain if she was familiar with their meanings. She told you they meant friendship and new beginnings. Fitting in so many ways. You returned the gesture a few days later, baking him some of your Grandmother’s famous fudge. He hesitated at first, but eventually accepted the sweet treat.

One of Helion’s hearty laughs pulled you from the memory. You would have to express your gratitude to the High Lord. For the reprieve from being watched. It was a relief to not find Mor outside your bedchamber waiting for you as she had the past few mornings. Now you could have the conversation with Lucien that you’ve wanted to for over a week. You wanted, no you needed to pick his brain for insight regarding your passage through the Prison wards, your confrontation with Azriel, and your dream. He had left so abruptly. You needed to check in on his well-being as well.

Your eyes drifted over to Lucien; the male’s russet eye crinkled at the corner as he joined in Helion’s laughter. The sight took your breath away. The smile was wide on his features. His shoulders didn’t hold the same tension they had the day before. The golden hue of his skin simply radiated joy. In that moment you couldn’t burden him with your problems, despite the pull you felt to talk to him. At least, you couldn’t burden him right now. You knew that you had to talk to him at some point. The confrontation you had with Azriel and Mor’s blatant comments about your time with your best friend weighed heavy on your mind.

“Oh, if the two of you would excuse me,” One of Helion’s attendants righted himself after whispering in the High Lord’s ear. “I have a few things to take care of, but I will see you later this afternoon. If you haven’t had the chance, I would highly recommend a walk through the botanical gardens.” He winked at you and rose from his spot. While you were happy to finally have the time alone with Lucien, you weren’t sure if you’d be up for a walk.

“That sounds lovely,” the Autumn Court male rose from his seat as well, offering his arm. “Shall we, my lady?” You couldn’t stop the laugh that spilled from you. You soon found yourself rising to your own feet, linking your arm with his. How on earth are you supposed to say no to his smile?

Lucien could tell that she was tired. Her steps were slightly slower, and the light tint of blue underneath her eyes hinted that she hadn’t slept. He wondered if her despondent mood was based on the lack of sleep, or if it had to do with Mor's comments. She had been detached for most of their time in the palace and he was having trouble reading her. He had hoped that with Mor leaving her mood would improve. Seeing as that was slow going, he would have to see to it himself that her good humor returned. 

The gentle breeze jostled her hair. The sound of wind chimes echoed across the oasis, nearly drowned out by the sound of the small water fountain at the entrance to the garden. The lush archway was covered in ivy and wisterias. For a fleeting moment he was reminded of the Spring Court, and the gardens that surrounded Tamlin’s manor. He glanced at the human beside him, her eyes glazed over as she took in the scenery around them. A small part of him felt bad for dragging her out here, but they hadn’t really had any time alone together in over a week. All he wanted was some time with her away from prying eyes. 

Of course, separation wasn’t new to them. There had been times when he would be down in either the Spring Court or Mortal Lands for weeks on end. Yet somehow this past week and half felt different. Perhaps, it was because he had remained in Velaris and…he felt guilty for lying to her regarding his whereabouts. Even more so after learning from Ruhn of her sleepwalking incident. He expressed gratitude towards the Midgardian male for being in the townhouse that night. 

A part of him knew he shouldn’t have let Amren’s admonishing comments get to him. Especially after (Y/N)’s breakdown at the Prison. Nonetheless he stayed away. Those comments, coupled with Morrigan’s penchant for observing the truth of matters, perhaps it was high time that new tactics for the woman’s healing journey be explored. He knew Ruhn would be all too willing to help with how tightly he was warped around the human’s finger. Truth be told, the idea of another male sharing her bed didn’t sit well with him. But if Ruhn could provide her with the care and support that Lucien himself couldn’t… He’d have to bite his tongue and express his gratitude again when he asked him to continue to look out for her. 

As they walked towering hedges, ones taller than Lucien, lined either side of the white pebbled path. Every now and again a small alcove would be carved out. Some with seats that allowed you to bask in the sun, others had tables. One even had what appeared to be a canopy bed. Lucien watched her from the corner of his eye as they made their way through the labyrinth.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” He questioned as she tried to stifle a yawn. She turned her head towards him, eyebrow furrowed. He could almost watch the gears turn in her mind as she debated on telling him the truth. Her focus continued to fade in and out, pupils dilating and contracting ever so slightly.

“I haven’t really slept since our first night here,” Her face fell with the admission. His heart ached at the shame that filled her voice. Prior to the events at the Prison, she had been doing well. At least well enough that he hoped a few days away would not have taken the toll it did on her. And if the tonics weren’t working; then they truly would need to find alternative solutions to managing her nightmares. 

“With Mor around I didn’t want to risk,” She paused. “I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. The tonic isn’t helping. I think I’ll need to talk to the healers directly to find out if there was a change in the ingredients. Or if it's possible that a person can become tolerant of them.” She looked at him then. A sadness mixed with that lingering shame. 

Lucien kicked himself internally. He really should have told Mor to shut the fuck up regarding her opinions on their relationship, especially if she was going to continue to keep the nature of her own romances a secret. The fact that she was now the second of the higher-ranking members of Rhysand’s court to express their thoughts on his friendship was not lost on him. It was also not lost on him that (Y/N)’s feelings were irrelevant to them. In much the same way that Nesta had been forced out of her darkness, it appeared that the Inner Circle believed themselves superior in knowing when a person needed healing and how that healing should occur. The only difference between the eldest Archeron and their new target was that (Y/N) was not on a path of self-destruction. 

“We should rest then,” He took her hand and interlaced their fingers. “There was a nice area in an alcove just a few paces back.” 

“No Lu, it’s okay,” She tried to protest. “I’m okay, I promise.” Lucien continued his path, gently tugging her along. Despite her words, her body didn’t resist him. 

“Then why do I not believe you?” The resting area was the perfect setting for a nap. Tucked behind a wall of green and under a beige fabric canopy was a large mattress resting on a stone platform. Pillows and blankets of varying sizes were tossed about in a decorative fashion. Knowing the reputation of this court’s High Lord, the bed was probably used for activities that did not involve sleep. However, his companion desperately needed some rest. Nothing would deter his resolve in seeing that she had found a few moments of peace.

“Why does he have a bed in the middle of the garden?” She asked, coming to a halt after rounding the corner of what served as the entryway to the alcove. 

“I’m almost certain we do not want the answer to that,” Lucien chuckled, pulling her along. He sat her down on the mattress and began to remove her sandals. 

“I can do that myself,” Lucien swatted her hands away.

“It's fine,” He made quick work of the straps. “I’m already done.” He placed her footwear to the side and kicked off his own boots, setting them next to hers. Gently, he pressed her back to lay on the bed. His own body followed, hovering over her form for the briefest of pauses, and then he was next to her lying on his side. She rolled over to face him, allowing his arm to drape over her waist before he brought her closer.

“Get some rest,” He encouraged as his hand began to stroke up and down her spine. A soothing gesture he often used to get her to calm down when her mind raced at night.

“But I’m not tired,” She fought another yawn.

“Bullshit,” He chuckled.

“Okay, I’m a little tired,” She relented, tilting her head to look at his face. “But I can’t take a nap right now, not when I have so much to tell you.”

“And what is so urgent that it can’t wait an hour or two?” He smirked. She twisted her arm out from underneath her body and pointed her index finger at him.

“You have to promise that this information is cataloged in the farthest and most well-guarded recesses of your mind,” Her tone was serious. “Rhysand cannot find out, even if there is a good chance that he already knows.”

“I swear,” He tried to match her serious tone, but he knew that his smile was getting in the way. Pushing herself up on her elbow, she swirled her head around, looking for any potential eavesdroppers. Once satisfied, she bent down towards his ear. Her breath puffed against his skin, causing the small hairs on his neck to rise.  

“Rhysand’s story of me being his cousin is very likely true,” She whispered. “There is a secret entrance to the Prison that Bryce pushed me into that day. I was able to pass through the ward, in and back out, with no issue.” Her eyes were conspiratorially bright.

“Is that what made you so upset?” He tried to reign in his mirth. “That you found out you are related to an overgrown bat?” Rolling her eyes, she sighed and lightly smacked his chest.

“No,” Her tone became softer as she laid back down. “I cried because I allowed myself to feel a glimmer of hope, just to have it dashed by a failed portal to my world.” The hand at her back reached up to her face, his fingertips brushing the side of her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.” She gave him a weak smile, brushing off her own feelings as she attempted to shrug her shoulders. “Is that what caused your nightmare?” His hand returned to its previous ministration along her back. Again, she shrugged.

“Could be,” He felt a shiver run through her at whatever memory surfaced. “All I remember is a festering and desolate darkness that tried to drown me.”

“That’s not ominous at all.” She released a breathy chuckle as her eyelids drifted close.

“My dreams are never prophetic,” She explained. “Just weird. It’s more likely my mind’s way of trying to process being cornered by Azriel in the kitchen that night.” Her voice drifted, and if she noticed Lucien’s hand freeze at her revelation she didn’t let on. Lucien felt locked in his anger towards the Shadowsinger.

“What did he want?” His voice was clipped.

“He wanted to apologize,” She buried her face into his chest, and the rising anger settled. “I told him off instead. Nicked his chin with a knife as well.” Her exhalation evened into a steady rhythm, and he resumed running his fingers along her back. The repetitive action soothed his nerves as well.

“Good girl,” She hummed in response. As she finally drifted off into sleep, Lucien’s mind swirled.

 You hadn’t even been asleep for 30 minutes when an attendant came and woke you. Begrudgingly, you and Lucien complied, the male putting your sandals back on for you despite your ongoing protests. The attendant led you back to your room where several dresses were laid out on the bed and hanging in the armoire. Dresses in varying shades ranging from stark white to cream to ivory. Some were speckled in golden accents, others all monochromatic. One dress was entirely golden.

The dress that immediately caught your eye was a simple column gown with thick shoulder straps that seamlessly flowed down to create the bodice. The neckline was low and would reveal an ample amount of cleavage. A braided rope created a beautiful silhouette, cupping the outline of the bodice’s breasts and wrapping around the waist several times over. The attendant informed you that the dresses were yours and for your use in the Day Court whenever you came to visit, along with the room itself. While it was a similar gift to what Rhysand had done, Helion’s offer was not one of apology or self-assigned obligation. The true intent of his action had not been lost on either you or Lucien. Helion’s offer marked a standing invitation, and an allyship if ever needed.

With the help of another female attendant, you had changed into the dress. You had to hide the small blush on your face as you watched Lucien pause when you emerged from your room. The two of you then followed the male attendant through the winding cobblestone streets of the town surrounding the palace. He led you to a large building whose entrance reminded you of the Parthenon in Athens.

Helion was inside, sitting at a long central table. A stack of books piled to his mid-chest. He was scribbling on a piece of parchment paper with a feather quill. You smiled at the sight, but you couldn’t quite place why. His greeting was as warm as always. Excusing the attendant, he gave you and Lucien a summary of the central library’s history. The one you were in currently was the largest library within the Day Court, but it certainly was not the oldest. However, he was confident that whatever information you were looking for on Prythian's early history would be located within its walls. You simply smiled in thanks; you had not yet revealed that you were from another world and looking for a way home. 

 After an afternoon spent searching through books, the last thing you had the energy for was another formal dinner. It almost seemed that the High Lord was aware of your lack of sleep when he offered a much less formal affair. An evening in a small intimate chamber. The center of the room consisted of a square recessed seating surrounding a fire pit. Two walls were lined with books, while a third housed a small selection of wine next to the door leading to the rest of the place. The fourth really didn't exist as it was yet another open entrance to a terrace that overlooked the lands. So many of the rooms were open in this manner, allowing the natural sunlight to fill the space.

Currently you were snacking on bits of herb roasted chicken, plucked off one of the wooden trays of food that lined the edges of the pit, a few were even scattered along the empty seats. In your other hand was a large clear goblet, filled with a deep crimson wine. Helion informed that the batch was made from the palace’s ancient vineyard, a testament to a perfect blend of ancient craft and magic. You had to admit that the wine was the best tasting wine you had ever experienced.

Fae Wine was much sweeter than you had expected. Flavors of dark cherry and bergamot coated your lips and tongue.At first Lucien didn't want you to drink the intoxicant. After plenty of reassurance from Helion, Lucien only warned you to pace yourself. Of course, you didn’t listen, not fully realizing that Fae Wine was much stronger than normal wine. You found yourself with your walls and inhibitions considerably lowered. For instance, if you had drunk regular wine, you wouldn't have been unabashedly staring at your friend for the better part of 15 minutes. Despite his continued conversation with Helion sitting across the way, you could tell he watched you as well.  

“Forgive me for asking,” You sat on your knees, leaning towards Lucien as he sat in front of you. His legs stretched out on the large couch in a relaxed posture. “I know it must be a sensitive subject, but how does that golden eye work?”

“I can see out of it just like my real eye,” He explained, turning his gaze fully towards you. “My friend from the Dawn Court enchanted it, allowing me to see. I have complete control over the device, and it responds and reacts in all the same ways my natural eye does.” Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks burn from your smile.

“Absolutely fascinating,” You crawled over to him, the alcohol preventing you from caring about personal space. You climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and began to examine the contraption. You had never looked at the eye up close. The mechanics were definitely a marvel to behold.

“It does more as well,” He smiled at you, his fingers playing with the ends of the cords holding your dress together. “It has the capability to see through magical deceptions. Glamours, spells, and occasionally lingering traces of magic.”

“How?” You cupped the right side of his jaw, turning his face to get a better look. Accompanied by a faint whirring the pupil of the mechanical eye expanded.

“When there is lingering magic on an object, or even a person,” He began. “The image becomes hazy, out of focus. The eye focuses until the image is clear, which allows me to see the true nature of the object.”

“What do you see when you look at me?” He turned his head forward to look into your eyes. His lips open and shut like a fish causing you to giggle. You gently rubbed your thumbs on each side of his face as you held it.

“I think your boldness has put him at a loss for words,” Helion laughed from his seat across the way. You had forgotten that you weren’t alone.

“He’s spent too much time in those stuffy seasonal courts,” Lucien scoffed at the High Lord’s comment, the puff of air hitting your neck. “Perhaps he needs a proper demonstration on how to respond when a beautiful woman seats herself upon his lap. Care to join me for that demonstration?” The High Lord patted the top of his muscular golden thigh. 

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. Biting your bottom lip, you started to move off Lucien’s lap. You only managed to move about 2 inches before you felt his warm hands wrap around your hips pinning you against him. Heat bloomed in your core at the friction. His lips curled up in a snarl as he stared at the other male. Helion merely grinned. 

“Oh hush!” You smacked the redhead in the center of his chest, your other hand moving to his shoulder to keep your balance. “He’s joking. We all know that I’m not beautiful.” Your voice became softer as you said the words out loud. Despite your slightly drunken state, you felt the shift in the air as both males practically began to examine you. 

“How would you describe yourself my dear?”  Helion asked. It was your turn to pause. You had never really seen yourself as beautiful, but you also knew that you weren't exactly ugly. 

“Plain,” You hummed, twirling a bit of Lucien’s long hair around your finger in your attempt to feign an air of nonchalance. “Homely, unappealing, just shy of decent.” You rattled off each synonym. Your attention shifted to Lucien as your name drifted past his lips. You unraveled the hair from around your digit. 

“What?” You honestly didn’t understand why he appeared displeased with your statement. “Oh don’t give me that look, Lu.” You playfully pushed his face away from yours, but remained seated in his lap. 

“How should he look at you?” Helion asked, leaning forward on his elbows. The merriment that filled the room was slowly dissipating. “Because from what we see the description you provided for the woman in the room with us is a bit harsh.” Your face flushed with irritation, leaning back and away from Lucien’s chest. Why couldn’t they understand that you had accepted the fact that you weren’t beautiful and just leave it at that? 

“Well for starters I don’t need false praise,” You tried to keep the air light, the following lie floating off your tongue. “It’s not harsh when what I say about myself is objectively true.” You shifted your weight, but Lucien’s hold on your hips was firm. 

“Then by all means,” He waved his hand, smiling as if he had won. “Tell us some of these objective truths.”  

“I’m not conventionally pretty, but there are parts of me that are…nice,” You stated, turning your upper body  to lock your gaze with the High Lord. You square your shoulders before speaking again. 

“Like my legs.” You felt Lucien’s hands drag their way down your hips down toward your thighs. You felt exposed by the soothing circles he rubbed into the bare flesh as the dress’ fabric fell at the slits. The alcohol coursing through your veins gave the impression that his hands were warmer than usual. 

“What else?” Lucien’s voice was barely above a whisper. A reassuring squeeze to your outer thighs sent a scorching heat through you. Your legs tensed and your hands fell to your sides.

“My eyes,” You swallowed, your attention returning to the male underneath you. “I think my eyes are pretty.” As Lucien’s mismatched eyes bored into you, you noticed a fire burning in his russet iris. 

The flame grew as he stared at you, and your heart began to flutter. You watched as his golden mechanical eye expanded and contracted. His lips twitched with unspoken words. Words you were suddenly afraid to hear. His fingers danced around yours, trying to interlock them, but you kept them at your side. You needed to curb this conversation before you were set on fire by the intensity of his gaze. 

“But it has been my experience that when men give me compliments they only do so because they want something from me, not because they genuinely believe their words to be true.” Your head whipped back to the High Lord. “As soon as they don’t get what they want their pretty words turn to ash.” 

“That last one is not objective then,” the High Lord pointed out. “Rather those are the words of scorned human men, not Fae males who understand and see the natural beauty in everything the Mother has created.” Your body felt hot, and you shifted your weight as far from Lucien’s hips as you could. Poised and ready to leave if this conversation continued. 

“I’m sorry High Lord,” Irritation flashing over your senses, causing the filter from your brain to your mouth to momentarily slip away. “But those are just more pretty words.” Lucien’s hands gently followed your body’s every shift with a sense of hesitation to them. You didn’t want to focus on what that hesitation meant. 

“No need to apologize to me dear one,” Helion leaned back in his seat. His honey eyes flashed to Lucien, whose grip on your upper thighs tightened unconsciously. At least you hoped the action was unconscious. You didn’t want to believe that he would ever want to hold you close in what was certainly a compromising position. Hastily, you stood up from your perch on his lap.

“I’m sorry,” The apology tumbled from your lips, and you ignored the flicker of disappointment on his face. “If I made you uncomfortable…I sometimes…I should go. Excuse me.”

“Wait,” Lucien swung his legs to the side of the couch and grasped her hand, desperately trying to interlock their fingers. “Please, love.”

“Let go, Lu,” Her breath was ragged as she gripped the wrist of the hand trying to hold on to her. “Please.” Her fingers slipped through his, and he could tell that something wasn’t right. His eyes fell to her legs, the fabric of her dress parting at the high slits showcasing their shape as she raced for the door. Helion sat up again, watching as she darted past, calling your name as well.

“I didn’t intend for the conversation to upset her,” Helion apologized as the door shut behind her. “It’s a shame she doesn’t see her beauty. She is remarkable.”

“She is,” Lucien continued to stare forward, his voice breathless as his eyes lost focus. “She’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful, yet in a very different sense from your mate. I have nothing against the Archeron girl, but (Y/N),” Helion’s eyes lingered over the space that she hurried from. “She seems much more your speed. Don’t let her go so quickly.” 

“She doesn’t belong to me,” Lucien stated simply. His eyes regained their focus on the male before him, schooling his features in the process.

“Hmm…Then should I see if she’s interested in joining me in my chambers tonight? Worship her like the goddess she is.” Frustration built up inside him, nearly boiling over and  Lucien’s mask of indifference fell ever so slightly. The High Lord raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps not.” 

The two males sat in silence for a few moments longer. The once light atmosphere now dulled in the human’s absence. Lucien could feel the beginning effects of the alcohol on his mind, as he drummed his fingers along his knee. Her departure didn’t sit right with him. The way she spoke of herself. If Helion sought her out, his words and actions may only solidify her beliefs about herself. She should hear it from someone she trusts to be honest with her. Lucien had to make it right. She had to see that she was stunning in her own way.

Abruptly, he stood from his chair and strode over to the wine rack. Grabbing two bottles of Day Court’s best he then stormed out of the room.

“Have fun,” Helion smiled as he watched the door close behind Lucien. “Son.”

Lucien didn’t even bother with knocking on her door when he arrived at her room. With one bottle under his arm, he simply turned the handle and strode right inside. 

“Why must you go and say such things?” He demanded.

“What things?” She was grating his nerves.

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“I’d really rather not fight with you Lu,” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we have this conversation when we are both sober? My head is starting to hurt, and I’ve not slept in two days!” She walked over to him, hands wrapping around the fabric of his white linen top. A playful pout danced across her features. Almost instantly the anger drained from him.

“By the Cauldron,” He dramatically rolled his eyes. “How can I say no to that look?”

“You can’t,” She smiled, tucking a stray strand of his hair behind his ear. “You are my best friend here Lucien. I just want to change and relax, preferably by curling up with you on the balcony. The weather is so nice here.” He gently clasped her hand, holding her palm against his lips. 

“As you wish,” He watched as something crossed over her features, but it was gone too quickly for his buzzed mind to process. With surprising grace, she walked over to her luggage and pulled out her nightclothes before proceeding to the ensuite bathing chamber. With the tap water running, he made himself busy by finding glasses and pouring each of them a fresh glass of wine. 

When she emerged, he was lounging on the “L” shaped couch set just at the opening of the bedroom as it led to the balcony. The khaki-colored cushions were plush and soft as he leaned against them. She sat down next to him, and he handed her the glass he poured. She immediately consumed half the glass, before she tucked herself into his side.

The town below Helion’s palace glowed a soft warm golden hue. It almost reminded him of Autumn, with the torches and gas lamps lining the streets of the village nearby the Forest House. Together they drank their wine. His arm over her shoulder, her free hand raised to hold his dangling fingers. They sat like that for a while. They sat for so long that he almost thought she had fallen asleep.

“Azriel thinks you and I are fucking,” Her statement pierced the comfortable silence.

“What?” Lucien nearly choked on the last dregs of his wine.

“Yep,” She emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop of her lips. “Apparently, I am a shameless human whore corrupting the right and virtuous Fae Lord.” She giggled to herself. “Oh! That rhymes!” She lightly smacked his chest in delight.

“He called you a whore?” Lucien could feel his fire just under the surface of his palms.

“No. No,” She took a small sip from her glass. Her eyes still focused on the flickering lights of the town surrounding the palace.

“But there was a clear disapproval of the fact that we share a bed whenever we are together,” She sighed, Lucien’s nod was barely visible as she continued to ramble. “Remember when I told you about how he cornered me in the kitchen? That’s when he insinuated that I must enjoy having another female’s mate in my bed. Apparently, beds are no longer used for sleeping. Just fucking, and since we share a bed that must be all that we do. Fuck.”

That now made three. Three members of the Inner Circle expressed their disapproval of his actions. Already believing that he was not a male of his word. He knew he didn’t have the best reputation after…while living in Spring the past couple centuries. If he had to be honest, he was an absolute rake. So why was he trying so hard to prove otherwise now? He was startled as she let out a dramatic gasp.

“What if that’s the reason my sleep tonics don’t work!” Uncrossing her legs she spun to face him. “What if one of those fucking assholes switched them out? For contraceptives!” Lucien blinked at her a few times, his brain trying to process the near ludicrous statement she had made.

“That is an interesting theory,” He couldn’t hold in his laughter. “But you always fall right asleep after taking your tonic. So how does that fit in?”

“That could be the placebo effect!” Her animated movements caused him to laugh more.

“The what effect?” He laughed. She groaned and slapped her palm against her forehead.

“So, the horrible cliff notes explanation is that my brain had adapted to falling asleep right away after drinking my tonic,” He nodded along even though he had no clue what she was saying. “So, if someone switched it without my knowledge, my brain still thinks it’s taking the same tonic. Therefore, it behaves in the same way by flooding my brain with the “sleepy time” signals. My brain is tricking itself into falling asleep, but the tonic isn’t actually in my system to keep me asleep. I have nightmares because my brain isn’t getting what it had been before.” Her eyes were wide, and if she hadn’t drunk nearly three bottles of Fae Wine on her own since the start of dinner a few hours ago, he may have believed her.

“Okay, well then for the sake of the argument,” He placed his empty glass down and began scooting closer to her, “Maybe they are doing us a favor. I do sleep in your bed more often than I sleep in mine. And I was known as a male with many dalliances.” Waggling his eyebrows Lucien clutched her arm and leaned into her side. She looked at him with round wide (e/c) orbs.

“Perhaps we should take advantage of these contraceptives and ravish each other,” He buried his face in her neck, playfully growling and nipping at her skin. She yelped and pushed at his face, all the while giggling. He grabbed the back of her knee, the act of pulling her towards him resulted in her back landing on the couch cushions below. Taking her wine glass out of her hand, Lucien set it on the small table. Her laughter was contagious, and he felt lighter than he had in days.

“Be serious,” She continued to giggle from under him. “You wouldn’t want me.” He leaned down, hovering above her. 

“What makes you think that?” He brushed his nose against hers. This time she didn’t laugh.

“The fact that you are a good male,” She squeezed his cheeks together until his lips puckered like that of a fish. His vision blurred as the skin was mushed around. She let go and slipped out from under his arm. He sat back up and watched as she picked up her glass. His mouth dried up as her ass jiggled from her prancing a few steps out of his reach and back into her bedroom proper.

“That has nothing to do with wanting you or not,” He said smoothly, standing and following her inside.

“You’re right,” She mused. “But you don’t want me.”

“How do you know? What makes you so sure?”

“First, you have a mate,” Her tone took on a more serious edge. “One that is beautiful beyond comparison.” He remained silent. It was true that his mate was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. So then why did he feel guilty when he saw the sad recognition in (Y/N)’s eyes.

“Secondly, this,” His eyes followed her hand as it waved up and down the length of her form. “This is not attractive. This-”

“Yes, you are,” He was breathless. He watched as she clenched her jaw.

“No,” Her tone was indignant. “And I’ll prove it to you.” She set her glass down on a nearby table and her hands immediately clasped around the hem of her top. In one quick motion the emerald top was gone, and Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. Mother spare him, he tried to look away but wasn’t quick enough. His eyes caught sight of her bare breasts as they gently bounced from the movement.

“I hereby challenge you to a game of chicken,” Picking up her wine glass, she sauntered over to him, swaying her hips. “The first to show physical signs of arousal is the loser.” She held out her free hand to him. He knew that the terms of the little contest were set in her favor. She’d have to allow him between her legs for him to see any evidence of her arousal, but he convinced himself that the wine swayed him to agree.

“What does the winner get?” He asked, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Her eyes roamed over the expanse of his chest.

“The right to determine where the night goes,” Her saccharine smile practically sent him to his knees. “Anything goes, except the direct stimulation of genitals.” Suddenly, the room became unbearably warm. She continued her path towards the bed. She set the glass back down on the nightstand, and slowly removed her matching emerald silk sleep shorts. 

He felt himself stiffen at the view of her shapely bare form before him. While he could blame the wine for influencing him, he had clearly already lost. He said a silent prayer in thanks to the Mother that his trousers were still on, and she was facing the opposite direction.

“Though I do believe that the odds are in your favor,” She giggled to herself as she turned to face him. She placed herself on the bed as she watched him, picking up her glass for a final time. He took the opportunity to finish undressing, watching as her throat bobbed from swallowing the rest of her wine. Her eyes sparkled as he shed the last bit of his clothes.

“You know how I know?” She practically purred from her position on the bed. “Because you’re too good a male to find anyone except your mate arousing.”

“Being a good male is a burden really,” He smiled, and began to crawl up the mattress. A fox hunting its prey.

“Poor baby,” She leaned against the headboard, arms settling over her stomach, blocking it from view. He was vaguely aware the pose served a double purpose of hiding what she felt was a flaw while perfectly framing her assets. He reached where she sat on the bed. She allowed his fingers to trace up along her bicep, over her shoulder, and across her collar bones. His golden eye focused on the skin that pebbled in the wake of his touch.

“Poor baby indeed.”

“If you were to relieve your burden,” She allowed his hand to continue its travels up the side of her neck and cup her cheek. The scent of arousal permeated the air, but he didn’t call her out on it. He lowered his face towards hers, their noses barely touching.

“I would wrap my lips around your nipple like a starved babe,” Her eyes went wide but were quickly filled with doubt. He watched as she visibly started to close herself off. Shoulders slumping forward and her knees rose to her chest.

That was not exactly the desired effect he had wanted from  her. He wanted her to know just how gorgeous and tempting she really was. And Cauldron boil him she was tempting. His gaze wandered over her form to the ivory lace bottoms she still wore. Even without the alcohol coursing through him, he knew in that instant that if she were completely bare before him, he would bury his face between her legs. He should have called her out for the sweet scent she emitted.

“We should sleep,” Her voice whispered, as she turned away from him.

“And miss the opportunity to prove to everyone, to ourselves, that-”

“We are just friends,” She interrupted, turning back to look at him. Her gaze traveled over him. “Besides, you lost the game.”

Lucien sighed as she fought back her own giggle. The tension in the air evaporated just as quickly as it had arrived. He didn’t need to look down to know that he was hard as a rock. He should have known better than to agree to her terms.

“Fine you win,” He turned and sat next to her on the bed, his left leg bent to block her view of him. “But you are a cheater by wearing those panties.” She stuck out her tongue. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm his erection. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

“You know,” Her voice trailed off as she covered herself with the cotton sheet. “I feel a little bad about your situation. But I really do believe that…”

“I wouldn’t have proposed anything more than sleeping, love,” He reassured, pulling the sheets back and climbing under them as well. “Not because you are right, but because you desperately need sleep.” She nodded, humming thoughtfully to herself, before she turned on her side facing away from him. He started to scoot over towards her when she pushed her hand in his face.

“Nope!” She warned. “No cuddles until you’re flaccid.” 

Lucien was just on the cusp of waking. His base senses and instinct were the only things drifting through the fog of early morning slumber. The room was quiet, as was the still sleeping city outside. A cool early morning autumn breeze danced over the bare skin of his shoulder as it peaked out from under the light cotton sheet. The air caused the flesh to rise in small bumps, each one threatening to bring even more awareness to his consciousness. However, it was a welcome sensation compared to the stuffiness of the room. Then again, the shifting body next to him was pleasantly warm. 

Slowly he became aware of his hand resting on a soft plush thigh that was wrapped over his hips. The weight of the limb was comfortable and grounding. A steady rhythm of warm air ghosted over the pulse point of his neck. His voice involuntarily gave way to a whispered hum. With the slightest shift, to not wake himself nor the figure next to him, Lucien merged into the softness. Hand wrapping around the waist to bring the plush figure flush against his, he allowed himself to meld with the body resting nearly atop him. Soft full breasts pressed into his chest and a hand found its home near the top of his shoulder.

The scent of vanilla and honey lulled him back into a relaxing sleep. He didn’t even notice the touch of jasmine was missing from his mate’s scent. It was replaced with another soft warm earthy aroma. Amber. She felt so good sleeping against him. A slight nudge of the tip of her nose against his throat caused his hips to buck ever so gently. He didn’t dare open his eyes or move as the female took a quick inhale of breath. Nothing sharp enough to indicate wakefulness. The nose again brushed along the column of his throat, a set of plush lips quickly following. 

He was nearly awake now with the blood rushing to the growing appendage below his waist. He didn’t know what had entered Elain’s mind to where she felt the need to crawl into bed with him, but he was glad she had. Except…that didn’t seem right. He hadn’t fallen asleep in the Night Court last night. Therefore, there was no way that Elain could be here right now. His heart went into an instant gallop as his eyes shot open. It most certainly wasn’t Elain that was so tightly wrapped up around him. Carefully he pulled his head back far enough to look at the sleeping woman. As he looked down at her figure he tried to prevent his length from stiffening more. 

The early morning rays of sunlight filtered through the sheer white gossamer fabric hanging down around the marble columns surrounding the bed frame, cascading down across her skin that wasn’t covered by the sheets. Her features were relaxed as she continued to sleep on his chest. Something deep in him, deeper than where his magic lingered in his bones, hummed. He knew that he should be separating himself from her, but he couldn’t get his body to comply. It was as if it would only respond to a higher power, one that was perfectly content to have him remain right where he was.

He must still be drunk. That’s the real reason for his lack of control. Bits and pieces of the night before tried to stitch themselves together. He remembered entering her room, another two bottles of Fae wine in his hands. Mother above, two bottles. Internally, he rolled his eyes at his past actions. That had been a mistake. He didn’t remember if they finished said bottles, which then led to his conclusion that they must have. It had been a long time since he had woken without his memory fully intact. As much as he wanted to continue to lie like this with her, he knew that should the wrong person decide to enter the chamber they would have a more difficult time dissuading any rumors. However, he couldn’t bring himself to jostle or rush her out of her slumber.

A gentle tracing ghosted along the skin of your back. The shiver that passed over you slowly brought your mind to consciousness. You knew instantly that Lucien was with you simply from the fact that you were not screaming. You felt like you were floating, you were so at peace. Your own fingers twitched along the warm skin of the chest beneath you.

“Good morning sweet girl,” Lucien murmured. Perhaps you were still dreaming, but you could have sworn you felt his lips press against your forehead.

“Hmm, morning,” You didn’t want to open your eyes. Pressing further into his warmth, something stiff poked at your inner thigh. Your eyes shot open. You bolted upright, flinging the sheet to the side and stared at the expanse of golden skin before you.  

“Why are you naked?” Your voice rose in pitch and volume with each word, your cheeks flushing crimson. ‘Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look!’ You really tried not to look down, but you apparently lost the ability to maintain control of your own body. Your (e/c) orbs darted down and back up. You desperately wanted to rid your mind of the image of his hard cock, if even just to prevent yourself from wandering to it late at night, but you knew that that sight would be forever burned in your brain. You shook your head of the fleeting thought that the females in his life must certainly have had a good time with…well, him. 

“I think the better question is why are you?” His own eyebrow quirked up in mirth. He clearly found this all much more amusing than you did. So far, all this has just proved that maybe it was time for distance. You glanced back down at your own body to see that you were in fact mostly nude. You sighed in relief when you saw that you still had a pair of underwear on. However, your relief was quickly replaced by horror in the fact that Lucien was able to see the rest of your naked form. You were aware this wasn’t exactly the first time you’d been in a state of undress around him, but he had always averted his eyes.

Your head snapped up to look at him. Had you been any slower you would have missed the fact that his gaze rested on your chest. Hastily pulling the blankets to cover yourself, your face flushed a second time. You likely would not have minded his stare had you been wearing a bra or a tank top. You knew that your full heavy breasts were eye-catching and enjoyed that fact when you had your short bouts of confidence in your appearance. But that wasn’t when gravity had full control of them as it does now. 

“What happened last night?” You wracked your brain for any explanation as to why you’d both been in your current nude state.

“What do you remember?” He asked. You wrapped the sheet around you, tucking the ends in at the top to form a makeshift robe.

“I remember returning to my room,” Your brows scrunched together. “The rest is blank. Fucking shit balls, I’ve NEVER been black out drunk before.” You pressed the heels of your palms against your forehead. Your head hurt and nausea washed over you. You were going to be sick. Grabbing the bottom of the sheet you ran towards the ensuite bathroom.

The porcelain toilet was cold against your fingers as you heaved your guts into the bowl. Within seconds, a pair of hands carded their way into your hair and pulled it back out of the way. One hand continued to hold your (h/c) locks back while the other rubbed your back in soothing circles.

You were grateful for him. He seemed to always know what you needed and would support you in any way you needed support. And you knew you’d do the same for him. So, the least you could do is support the fact that he has a mate by putting some distance between the two of you. And he’d need to know exactly why, even if it meant being hurtful at this moment.

“The others have been talking,” You started, but another wave of sickness left your body.

“Shh,” He continued to rub your back. “I-I know. We can talk about that later though.”

“I think it's best if there is some separation between us,” The words felt hollow in your ears even though you say them. “I’m not about to be labeled a homewrecker, despite the fact that no home exists for you and Elain right now.”

“Nothing happened between us,” He tried to reason, but you could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. “Did it?”

“You don’t remember?” You turned to look at him as he continued to kneel next to you, you noted that he had yet to cover himself. His hands paused for the briefest of moments. As the waves of your nausea subsided your attention went towards your lower body. You knew your body well. While you were no virgin, it had been a few years since you had sex. Given Lucien’s size, and the lack of a dull ache between your legs, you could tell that at least no penetration

had occurred between the two of you. He was certainly a much better male than anyone gave him credit for.

“I’m quite certain nothing happened,” You rested your head against the bowl. “And why would it? Look at me, I am nothing compared to her.” You wanted to ignore the flame that shone in his eye. The one you knew was sparked from irritation.

“Surely you must not think that I’d be so shallow-”

“Aren’t all men-males?” You were going to win this fight. You would always make sure you won this fight. Anytime someone tried to convince you that your appearance didn’t matter you would argue against it. You had been scorned too many times by men in your past. You knew that your appearance certainly did matter a great deal to anyone that wasn’t just looking to get his cock wet.

“Then again, men don’t care what you look like if they know the night will end in sex.” But they certainly cared when it meant introducing you to others as a potential partner. And as far as you were aware, your physical appearance wasn’t ‘girlfriend or wife material’ worthy. Lucien just stared at you, so you stared right back. Even if he had to lie to you, lie to himself, you could not afford to hope that Fae males were any different. You could not hope that any of them could find you beautiful.

“I will not lie to you-” His voice almost sounded defeated.

“Good,” You cut him off again, looking up. “Then we can move on.” You hoped he didn’t miss the pleading look in your eyes. Flushing the toilet, you made to rise from the floor. Lucien helped you to your feet, and continued to hold your hair as you took small sips of water from the sink’s tap. Removing his hand from your hair, you interlaced your fingers with his.

“I’m not cutting you out of my life, Lucien. You are very important to me. We are friends and can still support each other. I love being with you. We just need to be mindful of how the others see it.” You knew that space was needed. It was necessary, even as something inside you felt like it withered.

“Alright,” He relented, as you splashed your face with the cold water. “What are the boundaries?” He was leaving it to you to decide.

“We have to be the most careful while in the Night Court,” You started. “Physical contact in public should be reduced to linked arms when appropriate. Verbal greetings only. No more nights spent at the townhouse.” You tried to maintain eye contact with him and not let your eyes drift along the expanse of his still exposed body. As much as it scared you, you would have to brave being alone. 

“You and I both know that you sleep better with someone next to you,” He reasoned. “If I can't be there then at least…at least have Ruhn with you. I’m certain he’ll be willing to step in wherever I can’t.”

“He can’t always stay with me,” You informed him. “He has a battle for his own world that he is trying to fight. What am I supposed to do when he’s in Midgard? It terrifies me to think what would have happened that night.” The fact that you nearly walked right off the roof of the townhouse was a chilling thought.

“Then let’s ask Helion for assistance,” Lucien supplied. “Ask him to speak with Thesan. He’s the High Lord of the Dawn Court, a healer in his own right. Surely, he will have knowledge about other sleep or dream preventing tonics.” He raised his hand and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“That could work,” You quickly turned away from his gentle touch. Something deep in you screamed as you walked away and out of the bathroom.

“What do we do when we’re alone?” You tried to stop your heart, but it’s pounding filled your ears. Naturally he followed you, but it was a long while before he said anything else. He slowly got dressed, as did you. Anything to keep yourself occupied while you tried to think.

You didn’t know what to say. If there was nothing between you now, then there shouldn’t be any need to change what you did when alone. Except, being alone with him may only continue to fan the flames of rumors. You needed to do what you could to keep each other in your lives, even if that meant you couldn't touch him in the ways you wanted. Why did this feel like a breakup?

“It’s probably best that we remain consistent,” You watched as sadness flashed across his features."At least for now."

“As you wish.” 

Next- Chapter 10 (~ 7/12/24)

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[writingsbychlo]

UNDER THE MISTLETOE (prologue)

summary; a surprise gift from your allies in the Winter Court brings a brand new opportunity for you and the shadowsinger. word count; 2106 notes; this is the beginning of not only a new series, but my first az series! I'm writing as I go, it's not all done, so stick with me on this one, okay? happy holidays, this series is my gift to you all x

Swilling around the last of the wine in your glass, you watched the sweet liquid glitter under the low faelights of Rhys’ sinning room, chuckling on cue at another retelling of one of Cassian’s favourite stories. Alright, you’d heard this story every solstice for almost three decades, but it was practically tradition now. Listening to the general recount ‘that one time Mor fell in the Sidra with all her gift-bags and had to repurchase everything’ somehow never seemed to get old, he had a way of telling stories that made them brand new every time.

However, the recent addition of Feyre to all of these new stories made it that much more touching, watching her face light up as she discovered everything about the group with a fresh perspective. “Wait, doesn’t the Sidra freeze over in, like, October? Did you fall clean through the ice? How did you survive?”

The High Lady was all but gaping at your blonde friend, who only smirked, while Amren scoffed lightly. “Oh, no, Mor here likes to do all her shopping in advance. She’s late to practically every event, but she’s always prepared for them.”

“It’s called being fashionably late, Amren, not that you’d know anything about fashion. You exclusively wear monotone drab!” Mor snipped back, and when Amren’s eyes narrowed at her, ‘challenge accepted’ silently exchanged, you leaned back to get more comfortable in your seat.

“You exclusively wear red. Do not preach to me about fashion choices, girl, when half of your wardrobe consists of what can only be described as scraps of fabric.” Her words were harsh, and yet somehow, there was an underlying warmth to them, to soften the blow, and Mor held her gaze for a second, before both broke out into grins. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Feyre sighed, shifting her son from his high chair and onto her lap as he gurgled and sucked on the tips of his own fingers. “I can never work out what to get for anyone, no matter how hard I try, I always end up last-minute panic-buying!” She sighed at herself, and you twisted to face her. 

“That’s not a you thing, that's a mate thing. Just another thing you and Rhys have in common.” The lord scoffed, turning to stare at you past Cassian as he and Nesta kicked at one another under the table in the world’s most aggressive game of footsie. 

“What are you trying to say, exactly?” Violet eyes narrowed on you, and you only shrugged, Under that mock-glare, shadows curled protectively over your shoulders loosely, from the shadowsinger sitting on your other side.

“All I’m saying, Rhys, is that in every other aspect of your life you’re incredibly prepared. Yet I have watched you turn up on my doorstep for decades in a row, in a total mess because you realised that you had no gifts at all the day before Solstice.” You shrugged, and he only huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching back in his seat like a petulant child.

“Oh, yeah? Well, perhaps I should have held out on delivering this one.” You didn’t even get a moment to be confused, before he was waving a hand and from the tendrils of smoky darkness, a box fell into your lap, rattling the cutlery as it caught the tablecloth with its entrance. 

“What’s this, an early solstice present? You should have waited for tomorrow night.” You beamed, and all attention around the table seemed to shift to you. Lucien and Elain pulled away from their happy chatter on mumbled breaths, Nesta and Cass seemed to call a truce on their foot war, and Feyre stopped her baby-talk. Even Nyx’s babble ceased momentarily, eyes wide and chubby fingers grabbing at the glittering remnants of his father’s magic on the air. Azriel leaned over, the earthy scent of cedar and mist washing over you in layers as he examined the box. 

Turning to look at him, you got a split-second of an uninterrupted view, close enough to pick out the tiny marks along his skin, the shadow of stubble that was freshly shaved along his skin, the healed-over holes in his ear from his younger phase of having rings decorating it. Then, he turned, bright hazel eyes flicking between yours, a frown sitting on his lips. “It’s got a Winter Court seal.”

“It arrived this morning.” Rhys broke the tension, Azriel leaning back into his seat and out of your space, and as you smoothed your fingers over the pretty box, you watched shadows dart around the seams, trying to break in. You swatted at Azriel’s leg, smirking at the breath he rushed out. 

“Stop prying, let me open it before you know what it is.”

“Stop making us all wait, darling, we’re practically dying of anticipation.” He finished off his drink, and Mor only hummed in agreement. “It seems you made an even better impression over there than you let on. We should send you to make more alliances. Now open that box up, that’s an order.”

“The key is to see it as making friends, not alliances, my lord.” He didn’t bother to give an answer, and you tugged on the tightly knotted bows holding it all closed. The second you free the lid from the box and set it down, a single shadow leapt inside, sweeping through the tissue paper and investigating whatever lay underneath, before reporting back to its master. He seemed satisfied with the findings.

Pushing the coloured tissue out of the way, the first thing revealed to you was an embossed envelope. Lifting it up, you flipped it, finding the pale blue wax seal on the back. Cassian gave up on patience, swiping the box from your lap as you thumbed under the wax stamp to pop it open. Rifling through the package and leaving a heap of torn gift wrap in his wake, Cassian cheered as he pulled out a box of chocolates. “Mine! I called it!”

“You can’t just call it on someone else’s gift!” Mor argued, grabbing for the box as she leaned across the table, and Cassian only smirked. 

“Don’t be jealous just because you didn’t get there first.”

“Now, now, share children,” Rhys muttered, and Nyx picked up one of the ribbons from the table, squealing happily s he waved it around in the air, watching the tail end move. “There’s enough chocolate there to go around.”

“Look at this pretty scarf!” Mor cheered, pulling a hand-knit scarf from the box. It was white, black threads woven through every so often with shimmering glitter barely visible, and tassels adorning the ends. 

Pulling the letter out from within, your eyes scanned over the page, and you could practically feel stoic curiosity pouring out of the man next to you. His impatience was almost stifling. Twisting in your seat and leaning over to him so he could read the letter at the same time as you. That same dissatisfaction turned to placated joy, and the moment you finished reading, his fingers brushed yours as he took the letter from your hands. As soon as he finished reading, it was disappearing from his grip altogether, reappearing in Rhysand’s hands so he could read it too. 

“I've been sent a traditional gift for their version of Solstice celebrations.” The scarf was still being passed around, Elain currently awing over the stitch-work as her mate watched her fawn, and you puffed up with some contented pride at the gift you’d been given. 

“It seems you’ve also been invited to join them for these so-called ‘Christmas’ celebrations.” All eyes once again turned to you, and silence fell across the table again, save for the crinkling of foil when Cassian unwrapped another truffle to pop into his mouth. You could only shrug in response, words escaping you. When you didn’t reply, didn’t offer the enthusiasm he’d clearly been expecting if the furrow in his brow was anything to judge by, he continued; “I think you should go.”

“You do?” 

“I do.” Folding the letter back up carefully and placing it down on the table, he folded his hands together on the surface, and you felt like you were being scrutinised as he took you in. His gaze then moved, only briefly, to Azriel behind you. “It’s a great opportunity, for many reasons. You’d not only be able to reaffirm the Night Court’s alliance with Winter, but you’d also be taking some much-needed time off. You work hard, don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but every time you take ‘time off’, you always end up working in some capacity. Clearly, the only way to get you to truly get some rest is to remove you from work entirely.” 

That made him smirk, and you couldn't disagree. It wasn’t that you were work-obsessed, or that you didn’t have hobbies and guilty pleasures, but it was simply that the work never stopped. When you watched it all pile up for your return, the appeal of taking time off was utterly diminished, until everything seemed easier to just keep going.

“You should take Azriel with you.” 

“What?” It was the exact thought going through your head, but it wasn’t your voice that spoke it. No, it was a much deeper voice, rough and heavy, so soothing it was like a weighted blanket wrapped around you with every word he spoke. “Why?”

Rhys didn’t deign to respond immediately. No, instead, he smirked at the way he left you hanging, refilling his wine glass with what was left of the fifth bottle of the night, and he took a long and slow gulp before putting it down. Licking his lips, you felt like you were seconds away from groaning out loud when he finally took a breath, “It’s a chance for Az to get out of the court for some desperately needed R&R too.”

“That’s it?” Azriel asked, and for the first time tonight, you didn’t agree with him. Twisting in your seat to stare at him, his arm bracketed you, sitting on the back of your hair, the other on the table to your side, and his attention moved swiftly from his brother to you. 

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’? You say that like you don’t deserve a break.”

“It’s not that, it’s just that it doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to send me away.” He shrugged, and you frown at him, watching the edges of his lips flicker up in evident amusement. “You’re staring at me like I kicked a puppy.”

Your eyes rolled. “I’m just.. you deserve a break too, Azriel. You don’t need any reason to take a break, never mind a good one.”

“So, it’s settled then. Azriel and (y/n) are going to the Winter Court for ‘Christmas’.” Rhys confirmed, a finality to his tone that suggested no arguing, and Azriel gaped at his brother. Some silent conversation seemed to be taking place between their gazes, and for a second, you wondered if it really was, but Rhys’ eyes didn’t go as vacant as they did when he was within someone else’s mind, and Azriel seemed entirely present too. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, brother. Think of it as work, if you must. You’re going to Winter as a guest, you’ll be granted a lot more access and many more privileges, and you can focus on nothing but understanding Winter Court more. We don’t know much about them, their culture, or their beliefs. It could be useful one day. Go and observe.”

Az seemed to want to argue, to object, and he moved his sights down from Rhysand to you. There must have been something on your face, your cheeks felt like they were stretching to form a smile, and the harsh mask he almost always wore softened just a touch as he looked at you. With a deep breath, Azriel simply muttered, “Okay.”

“Okay?” You echoed, cheeks pulling more, and you knew you were grinning now, especially when he gave a breathy laugh and dipped his head in a nod.

“Okay. We go to Winter Court.”

“Excellent! Rhys cheered, straightening at the table, and his son repeated the vague sound of the word in a baby-babble equivalent of his father’s enthusiasm. “I’ll make all the arrangements myself, you can leave right after Solstice.” With one more look at Azriel, you turned back to him, stealing two chocolates from the box Cassian was working his way through quickly, and passing one to your best friend behind you. “Now, how about we have some dessert?”

[mudandmire]

Solstice & Autumn Equinox

Azris Week - Day 7: Solstice & Autumn Equinox

~~~ aH. I promise I have the thing look see here it is. It's the last day of @azrisweek :(( (shhh pretend I got this out yesterday) and I'm literally gonna miss it so much. This was so fun, I know I keep saying that but I can't put into words the kind of vigor and excitement for writing this brought in me. I'm so grateful to everyone for this event, and especially for all the lovely, talented people participating. Now I actually have the time to read your things I'm so p u m p e d. Anyway, hope you enjoy lovelies <3 :D ~~~

Longest Night

There are ninety days between the Autumn Equinox and what is now the darkest day of the year, the Winter Solstice. This far north, in the wild steppes of Illyria, the sun doesn’t rise past the jagged peaks of the Illyrian mountains. It’s muted, golden light tinged blue with the ever-present darkness, and floods the fields and plains for only three hours. Before the moon and her necklace of beaded stars takes it’s place again.

Azriel sits in the dark, frost crawling up the pane of his little window. The same one he’d grown up with. He watches it from his place of the bed of pelts and quilts he’s nearly outgrown.

The journal Eris gave him years ago lays splayed open on his lap—the spine creased, the pages cleaved in half to reveal it’s thread-bare center, mirroring how Azriel’s feeling. Alone on the darkest and longest night of the year: a time for patience, remembrance, and wishes.

Wishes of a good harvest the coming year, plentiful enough to beat hunger back. Remembrance of the long nights past, when Azriel would curl up under the pelts, throw his pillow over his head and pretend that it was light outside and it was only his pillow that made it dark. Patience for whatever the stars give him; their blessings, no matter his circumstance, worked out in his good.

Azriel twirls his charcoal pencil in his fingers, fidgeting restlessly as he chases around a thought like a hound to a rabbit.

Wishes for Eris, maybe. Nothing specific—Azriel doesn’t know what he’d wish for in specifics, jotted out line by line in his head like some list he presents to the unfeeling sky to be fulfilled. Just health, happiness, his presence.

He doesn’t write any of it down, not in this journal. In fact he won’t ever write this down, too private and personal to ever be given life in the form of his harried, smudged strokes of writing.

Because there’s another wish—three in total, now—that has lied buried, dormant. With every look at the elegantly penned, quick, coiled lines of Eris’s writing, it grows teeth and a belly and hungers.

The charcoal pencil pauses between his middle and pointer finger and he lays down, careful of his folded wings behind him. Azriel swallows hard against the rising tide of want, burning like a thousand little stars in his chest. It’s not so much as a wish than a want, but for the sake of tonight he’ll combine the two.

Azriel’s hand, as if spurred on like a cattle prod to the flank, jolts where it was resting lazily on his stomach. It jumps, scars and calluses and all the ingrained lines of it, to the swell of his shoulder. Warm to the touch, nearly burning, the pads of his fingers trace it—trying not to think of how broad he’s gotten. How Eris had followed, but still remained lithe, his strength in his sinewy muscles, in the jut of his stubborn chin and the hardness of his amber eyes.

He fails miserably, his eyes fluttering closed as his touch trails across to his collarbone. One hand stays on the open pages of the journal, yearning scrawled silently between every word, and lets his breathlessness overcome him in the dark when he thinks of the pale hollow of Eris’s throat.

It’s a gentle thing—both his touch and his admiration—but he fears that the longer he stays away from Eris, and Eris from him, it’ll grow into something ravenous. If the faint tremble of his fingers haven’t crossed that line already. He won’t manage this delicate longing if the nights stretch on still and the days tick up to one hundred—two hundred, and on and on.

The pad of his thumb brushes the same hollow, the ridges of his scars an awkward sensation against the thundering of his pulse.

What he would give, what he would give, what he would give.

His lungs stutter, caught in the hold of his gripping desire and his hand moves quickly. As if knowing staying there will undo him completely: the seams of his journal, the tears against his sanity.

The hand moves up, tracing the line of his throat, and then curves against the angle of his jaw. Stubbled and coarse from days without shaving.

Eris has freckles here—he knows, he’s seen them. And there’s one, his fingers already following the path of his memory, that lies right behind his ear. Skin that has never been touched, never been kissed by the sun, so pale it’s nearly translucent. Azriel would find it, a dearly missed lover, and keep it a secret with his lips.

His head is a mess, the heavy pound of his heart against his sternum echoing up to his head. He can feel the blood pulse behind his eyes where they remain closed, content to bask in the water color paintings of his desires. Every strand of thought follows no continuous path—where his hands touch changes under his fingers till there’s freckles, moonlight-soaked skin, and the most dangerous tilt to pink lips.

The hand on his journal presses down. He knows the parchment is folding around the sweat of his palm, his fingers, and doesn’t quite care if anything gets smudged in response.

Eris had written to him earlier. Innocuous and simple—a wish of his own he shared to Azriel with the simplest of strokes of ink.

‘Tell me what the stars look like, tonight.’

Azriel’s head falls back, hair feathering over the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Warm air shudders from his lungs like it has no place to be held anymore as his calloused fingers brush against his lips.

There’s a pinch between his brows, mouth fallen open in night-drenched silence, when he thinks back:

You, they look like you.

It goes no further than his lips. Azriel’s touch knows his own bounds, presses no harder than the gentlest of kisses and though he aches something fierce, he stops it there. He wishes there was more shame when he brings his fingers away and they shine with the traces of his tongue. Yet there is nothing but the lingering, ever present longing, curled up like a slumbering beast with one eye open—aware of it all.

He watches the rise and fall of his stomach, gleaming in the moonlight, and sighs deeply to calm the racing of his heart. He may as well have just leaped off a cliff, he can see his pulse rabbit under the tender skin of his wrists.

When Azriel lifts his other hand from the journal, the parchment sticks to his palm before letting go and fluttering back down. He can feel a burn of something hot against the hinge of his jaw, the shell of his ears.

He sits up, his charcoal pencil buried under his thigh where he had dropped it in his mindless pursuit of touch. His fingers tremble slightly when he sets the blackened edge to the page, wincing at the smudges he sees on his previous words.

‘They’re beautiful, you should visit to see them sometime.’ The lingering tinge of his desire has slipped into his letters—Azriel can’t bring himself to care enough to dial it back. He wants, he knows he wants, he can’t go another ninety days without seeing the gleam of Eris’s amber eyes in person.

He waits for Eris’s response. Sitting up fully with his pillows behind him, against the sensitive membrane of his wings, and a quilt over his lap. The night stays constant as he moves around, shifting and resettling, it never wavers and never judges. It’s like he hadn’t indulged at all; and according to the moon’s indifferent gaze, he hadn’t.

Eris writes back a heartbeat after Azriel’s fully settled in bed.

‘Soon,’ he writes, pausing slightly, ‘I miss them.’

Azriel’s heart kicks against his ribs, a wild animal in a cage, and he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep his grin contained.

His thumb brushes against Eris’s imprinted words; the perfect swirl of his penmanship, the slight hesitancy between his confession. Secret, wished, safe.

‘They miss you too, tatlım.’

~~///~~///~~///~~

Damn alright so. That's it I guess! Short for today, though I kinda prefer it that way. I tried to make it longer but all the ways I did just didn't fit right so, eh whatever I'm happy with it. If you can tell that this circles back around to my first post of azris week I'm literally in love with you thanks.

Thank you again for reading and the kind comments and reposts - you guys gave me the biggest smile and the most lovely experience, so thank you <3

[chaoticevilspacewitch]

RWBY Fanfic Master Post

Seeing as how this has become, primarily, a RWBY blog... and I write a lot of RWBY fanfic... here ya go:

Ongoing Stories

We May Fall (A Dance of Light and Shadow) - Weiss Schnee will do anything to safeguard the secret that she's actually a faunus. But when her long-suppressed heat cycle begins dramatically, all of Team RWBY finds out in one wild night that will bind them together like never before and change the fate of Remnant itself. (Pollination, no Enabler)

On Silver Wings We Soar - Maria died young and got her soul stuck in a weapon that Ruby found 100 years later. So now on top of the fall of Beacon, our heroines have to navigate a love triangle between Ruby, Weiss, and the ghost attached to a harpoon-axe that's also a gun. (Maria + WhiteRose, background Bees, KnightLight, Hellebore, and Renora)

Haven Trail - It's RWBY meets Oregon Trail! Yang leads a group of pioneers across a Grimm-infested wilderness. Blake is torn between Yang and Velvet, whose abusive husband is a threat to everyone, while Ruby and Weiss dance around their feelings for each other and Cinder and Emerald try to dig up ancient technological secrets. Oh yeah, and there's dysentery. (WhiteRose, Bumblebey, Black Velvet, Chaos Emeralds, Arkos, Hellebore)

The Dragon From Mercury - G Witch with Yang in Suletta's role, Blake in Miorine's, featuring Ruby as Aerial. (Bumbleby)

Scattered Petals - a canon-divergent AU focusing on reimagining the story through rarepairs. (Schneekos, Ladybug, Baked Alaska, Crosshares, KnightLight, Rainbow Quartz, Firewall)

Completed Stories

The Monsters Within Us - Fairy tale AU where maiden Blake is pursued by the cruel Baron Taurus, only to stumble into the arms of Yang... who is a half-human, half-serpent lamia. Lots of amazing illustrations, and monsterfucking with plot and feelings! (Bumbleby, background Rainbow Quartz)

Frozen Lemonade - College AU. Rivals Weiss and Yang find their one-time cathartic hate-fuck complicated when Tai and Willow meet at a celebrity therapy event and elope, suddenly tying the two of them together. (Freezerburn, Schneekos, Greek Fire, background Nuts & Dolts)

In Rainbow's Shadow - Ilia & Emerald work as a covert ops wet team, taking on missions requiring stealth and dubious morality. They confront their feelings for each other in the middle of a deep ocean research station performing nightmarish Grimm experiments. (Rainbow Quartz)

Through a Mirror, Brightly - when a mysterious Grimm traps Weiss in a ghostly, sidereal state and erases her from everyone's memory, it falls to the feelings she and Ruby had for each other to bring them back together. Lots of illustrations! (WhiteRose, background Bees)

Let's See the Sunrise Together - modern AU. Weiss's arranged marriage is in jeopardy when the bachelorette party Coco throws her ends up at a strip club where she's enraptured by the beautiful Yang Xiao Long. (Freezerburn, background Crosshares)

A Medical Necessity - Blake goes into heat over the winter holiday break, with only Weiss around to help her. Smut and feels. (Monochrome)

The Curse of the Abominable Snow-Grimm - RWBY goes on a team building mission to a ski resort, where a mysterious Grimm attack will force them to confront Weiss and Blake's past, and their feelings for their new teammates. (WhiteRose, Bumbleby)

Cold Nights, Warm Hearts - in a modern AU, Winter Schnee is very nervous about going to her girlfriend Cinder Fall's winter solstice celebration and meeting her pagan friends. (Temperature Play)

I've also got a bunch of shorts and one-shots if you're interested. Almost everything I write is sapphic, and I do a lot of smut with plot.

[acourtofladydeath]

Hello all and welcome to the depths of depravity my masterlist! Here you will find all of my fics to date, which are available to read on AO3. While most of my work is currently ACOTAR based, I write for multiple ships across many fandoms and will happily hear your requests!

✍🏻 indicates a WIP

🌶️ indicates spice

🗡️ indicates depictions of violence, battles, and/or injuries

📚 indicates a multichap fic

💞 indicates fluff

❗ indicates heavy emotion/emotional trauma/death, however this may not be inclusive as every person experiences and reacts to emotions differently.

💤 indicates a hiatus

Please be sure to check all fic tags on AO3 as well as these initial indicators! Many of my fics include explorations of physical and/or emotional trauma.

Azris

All Things End ❗ This fic has an immersive, direct read playlist component that you can read about here!

The Soft Heart & The Shadow 🗡️❗

The Soft Heart & The Little Fox 🗡️❗

One Bed, One Bond, and a Pair of Wings

Enter: Uncle Autumn 💞

Fighting Fire with Fire 🗡️❗

And So Our Life Begins (ASOLB) ✍🏻📚💞

A Second Chance, *part of the ASOLB series

Finding His Shadow: An Azris Peter Pan AU **please note this fic is very aged up from the original material 📚🗡️🌶️ in Ch. 2 only

Fire Alarm

All I Want For Solstice Is You, part 1 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

Forest Fever, Soothing Shadow 💞

To Speak Through Smoke, part 2 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

Pieces of Us, part 3 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

A Wound So Deep 🗡️❗

The Song of Azris series ✍🏻📚🗡️❗

Nessian & Nessriel

In Due Time 💞 (Nessian)

What Happens In The Night 🌶️ (Nessian)

Complications Arose, Ensued, Were Overcome 🗡️ (Nessian)

Take These Broken Wings ✍🏻🗡️❗📚 (Nessriel)

Just One More 🌶️ (Nessriel)

Hold Me Close, Hold Me Tender 💞 (Nessriel)

Our Greatest Adventure 💞 (Nessriel)

Multi-Ship or Other ACOTAR

3 Jewels In The Hewn City 📚🌶️ (Feysand, Nessian, Azris)

Lovers Live & Die Fortissimo (LL&DF)💤✍🏻📚 (Azris, Nessian, Feytamsand, Elucien, HelionXLOA)

Publicly Pleasing, Silently Drowning 🗡️❗ (Eris Vanserra)

How I Met Your Fathers 💞 (Feytamsand)

Stairway Snoops (Azris X Nessian polycule)

Into the Fire 🌶️ (Feytamcien/Lufeylin)

Return to the Hewn City ✍🏻📚 🌶️(Azris X Nessian swinging)

Welcome to the Family, part 1 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series 🌶️ (Elucien, Berlain, Erislain, Elain X all Vanserra Brothers)

Rules are Rules, part 2 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series 🌶️(Azris, Berzriel)

The Clause, part 3 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series (Azris, Elucien, Erlain, Luzriel) 🌶️

And So We Danced (Nesta/Eris friends, Azris, Nessian) 💞

A Walk In The Park (Casris) 💞

ACOTAR Drabbles

The Fawn, The Fox, & The Fiend 🌶️(Eltamcien)

Live, and Be Happy ❗ (Feytamsand)

The Wall Comes Down 🗡️ (Azris)

Just One More 🌶️(Nessriel)

The Empyrean

The Quiet Game 💞 (Tairn/Sgaeyl and Andarna)

Baby's First Birthday 💞 (Tairn/Sgaeyl and Andarna)

Last One Standing 🗡️❗ (Tairn/Sgaeyl, Andarna, Violet/Xaden)

Other Universe Fics

A Place Eternal 📚❗🗡️🌶️ in Ch. 5 (TSOA/The Illiad/Greek Mythology: Patrochilles, Hades X Persephone)

Reunited (Dr. Who: Amy X Rory)

The Final Moments ❗ (Torchwood: Jack X Ianto)

The Days We Thought We'd Never See 💤📚 (Spartacus: Agron X Nasir)

Event Week Masterlists

Poly+ ACOTAR Week 2024 🌶️💞

Azris Week 2024 🌶️💞

Eris Week 2024 🌶️💞🗡️❗