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theeveninghour · 1 month

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All My Dreaming

Summary: You came to the Night Court as a fugitive and quickly became a valued member of the Inner Circle. Azriel’s love for you has burned brightly in his chest for nearly two centuries now, but when an unknown force threatens to take you from him, he must fight to keep you at his side.

Pairing: Azriel x Winter Court!Reader

A/N: I don’t use Y/N here just out of personal preference, but the IC do call reader “Little One” because she’s younger than them by like a century or so. Also, slight timeline deviation? I kind of just made the ACOTAR timeline work for me a little bit but the important bits are there mostly. If it’s not totally accurate, please suspend your disbelief and go with it. I also took some serious liberties with Prythian geography and Azriel’s shadows in this. I had to force myself to stop because I could’ve written five more scenes, so let me know if you all want a part two. I got nasty Azriel thots to spare, baby!

WC: 16.1k ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TW: 18+, Minors DNI, violence, death, descriptive gore, lots of time jumps, torture, smut, p in v, fingering, porn with plot, mating, slow burn, angst, friends to lovers, declarations of love, loving sexy times, miscommunications abound, Azriel being a big ole softie, Azriel being a big ole bitch to bad men, Azriel really going tf thru it emotionally, and Azriel being mouthy as fuck. Just girly things.

Part 2

Azriel hadn’t seen you in four days. Nearly a week had passed since you’d left. Rhys mentioned a mission but no additional details, Cassian avoided the topic, knowing how frustrated his brother got when you were gone, and Feyre was decidedly unhelpful the few times he’d brought you up. His shadows searched aimlessly, they’d found nothing as far south as Winter Court, daring not venture into Autumn, and knowing damn well you’d never step foot into Spring. You were slowly driving him mad; the bond in his chest aching at the loss. Even if you hadn’t recognized the golden thread linking the two of you, he felt it.

Gods, did he feel it. He’d often lay in his bed at night, eyes tracing the intricate foil patterns of the ceiling tiles. When sleep evaded him, as it frequently did, he’d grasp the thread tightly in his minds eye and tug it experimentally, begging you to see, to notice it was him that loved you with a ferocity that rivaled the sun. Try as he might, the responding tug never answered, his call into the void not returning an echo.

The second it snapped for him, Azriel had resolved himself as unworthy, not of someone like you. You were powerful, breathtakingly beautiful, intimidatingly intelligent, and you regularly brought men to their knees, both in political circles and on the battlefield. Rhys relied on you as much he did Cassian and Az, you were a core member of his court, a valuable asset, and the love of Azriel’s life. Azriel avoided the latter subject entirely, choosing instead to silently stoke the ember in chest with unyielding affection; his own private paramour.

When you’d joined the Night Court, you’d been on the run from both Winter and Autumn Courts. Your father was a high fae noble in Winter that had attempted to arrange a marriage to the second youngest Vanserra of Autumn. The family’s brutal reputation was legend and you were terrified. You were young then, barely a century old, and upon your introductory visit to the Autumn Court, Beron sought to make an impression by presenting a welcome gift. That gift? The public torture and execution of a servant he’d deemed traitorous.

His gleaming eyes remained on yours with each cast of the fire whip he’d conjured using his cruel magic. He’d cracked it again and again until blood splattered and the servant was left flayed beyond recognition, flesh searing, and finger tips twitching from the remaining neurons firing in his brain. Only after his death did Beron announce his crimes. He’d stolen a parcel of food from the royal pantry to feed his wife and small child. Your stomach churned at the thought of the now widow and fatherless child waiting at home for the male that would never return.

It had all been a test to see if you were worthy of the most violent and petulant of the broody sons, and you’d passed, holding Beron’s stare and keeping your back straight as you faced his wrath head on. You’d cried yourself dry in your room that night though, sobs wracking your form until your chest ached, grief for the male that was lost. Fear settled into your heart, terror of the family you were set to marry into.

You’d ran at first light, leaving with nothing but the clothes on your back. Your Winter white blonde hair streaking across the red and orange forest as you bolted. Beron sent his dogs after you. You still had the scars lining your calves from where they’d gotten too close, brought you down into the dirt, jaws snapping and tearing at the muscly sinew there. But you’d fought. You’d kicked and clawed like a feral child of the woods, screaming with a sense of self preservation you’d never known you possessed.

Rhysand had found you half dead, starving and a little savage in the mountainous border between the Day and Night Courts. He’d made a bargain with you then; he’d save you, if you worked for him. Word had already spread of the ousted Winter female and spurned Autumn princeling and Rhysand was impressed you’d lasted in the wilds undetected for so long. The small star flecked tattoo of the Velarian night sky that lived on your wrist since was the only evidence of his deal.

You’d long moved past such a bargain. Rhys had offered to lift it half a dozen times in your first hundred years within his court, but you hadn’t minded. A reminder, you’d insisted, a mark of your loyalty to the family that didn’t lead you the wolves with such glee.

You’d settled into a routine in Velaris, training with the Illyrian brothers and charming Amren with your intelligence and wit. But you’d become the closest with Mor, who felt a kinship in your shared traumas. She’d soothed you in those first years, fiercely protecting her friend when Eris Vanserra had shown up in Hewn City as an emissary to inquire on your new position in the Night Court. It was that same night that Azriel realized how fucked he truly was.

Eris smirked at you and your back straightened, face growing cold. He spoke, “My brother was wondering where you’d scampered off to.” A laugh followed, “You couldn’t stomach our court, but found yourself bound to the Court of Nightmares? My my, what a wicked turn of events.”

Rhysand had spoken then, wearing his High Lord mask well, “Watch yourself, Eris. You know not what our Little One can do.” Eris laughed, the sound laced with the dark spark of a threat. “Little One? Fugitive and Night Court whore, I must tell your father. I’m sure he’ll be proud to hear of his daughter’s fate.” Azriel’s wings pricked, then fluttered, he would’ve killed Eris right then for you. Your hand came to rest on Rhys’ arm as you stepped around the throne to level your accuser with a look that should’ve turned him to stone.

“I am no male’s whore and I belong to no court except Night. Report what you wish to my father, to your father, your brother. May you all rot.” You’d spat at his feet then, and the room heated twenty degrees, Eris’ barely kept rage simmering under the surface, fire blooming on the fringes of his figure.

He stepped forward and Cassian, Azriel, and Mor all shifted, prepared to take out the threat. Eris’ eyes tracked their figures, gauging the situation. He knew better. Any attack here would mean war on his court and his father have his hide for that. You stepped forward to meet him, knowing he could make no move without endangering his position. You kept your spine straight and narrowed your gaze at him with such contempt he would’ve been impressed at the show had you been anyone else.

“I will say this once Eris Vanserra,” you held up one long manicured finger, and Azriel traced the action with thinly veiled obsession. “Leave my court or I will be the one to kill you. I’ll rip your spine from your body and I’ll do it with the same glee in which your father,” you’d spat that word, the hatred you held for Beron burning your throat as the words exited your mouth, “killed that male for feeding his family.” You took a step closer, summoning a dagger in your left hand, and rolling it your palm. “Trust that we have no tolerance for your family or your bullshit in these lands.”

Eris had good enough sense to step back then, peering around your form to where Rhysand sat, legs spread, slouched in the throne, smirking at your display of dominance. Azriel to his right looked on in pure male satisfaction, you were a powerful little thing and he was rather fond of you in that moment. Eris spoke up, “Should I note that the Night Court threatens other Courts for sport?” Cassian and Azriel rolled their eyes in synchronous fashion, but it was Mor that spoke with the dark edge of a threat, “Only ones that deserve such brutality.” Her father, Kier, stood in the gathered crowd and sneered at the tone of her voice.

You’d done the unthinkable then, winnowing behind Eris, grasping the male by his red hair and dragging the dagger to his neck, digging in enough to cause the male’s heart to speed, a line of scarlet leaking from the press of your blade. You could feel the heat in his skin, the flame licked at your hand as you released him with a shove.

You brandished your dagger as if it was an extension of your hand, the tip of the silver blade glinting with red from the now healing cut at Eris’ throat. “Come for me again and I’ll kill you.” It was then that Azriel noted the slight tremble in the hand at your right side and he wished on some distant star that he could reach out to you, soothe you, tell you that he was proud and you defended yourself and your court beautifully.

As if his wish was granted, he felt his chest give way to a canyon of emotion, heart stuttering as the bond fluttered and snapped, thrumming with affection for the female standing at the center of the room. He had selfishly allowed himself to hope it would be you, in the dark of the night when he was alone and his shadows whispered to him of your whereabouts. Since he’d met you, he fostered that small romantic notion of soulmates. His most private desire.

Eris whirled on you with a roar, grabbing your throat with hands of fire. Azriel felt the breath leave him, and he took two then three steps forward before he could think, hazel eyes alight with a fierceness you’d not yet witnessed. Your eyes found his and you held up your hand to halt his movements, the one that had trembled seconds earlier, now steady as a stone. You’d looked at Eris then, raising your chin defiantly, a slow smile overtaking your face as you once again spit at the Autumn male before winnowing back to your place in front of the dais. Rhysand raised to his feet then, taking steps down to meet you. His hand grazed your arm this time and his mind reached out, “Very good, Little One, very good.”

“As the lady said, Eris, come to my court in search of her again, and she’ll be the one to kill you.” Rhys circled Eris, tracking like prey. “But not before I sanction it for laying your hands on a member of my house.” Rhysand spoke with such quiet cunning, it was no wonder he excelled as High Lord. Eris snarled then before winnowing out of the Hewn City and Azriel quickly set his shadows to following him, ensuring he was actually gone.

You returned to Mor’s side and the shameless pride that set on your face the rest of the night made Azriel want to kiss you. Gods, he was fucked..

You’d flirted with him constantly in the first century you’d been in Velaris. You had laid it on thick too, dragging a long nail up his arm, your mouth sliding into a smirk after one too many drinks at Rita’s. Azriel had always feigned friendly indifference though, a mask he slipped on that was equal parts protection as it was self soothing. His only crack coming in the form of a slight tremble in his pinky as he tried to gather himself to avoid closing the space between you, touching, grasping, feeling.

He’d worn black leather gloves around you in your first few decades with them. His hands always held the most insecurity for him, the silver scars and warped skin a brutal reminder of his childhood. It was after training one day, as you all packed your small bags and threw towels into bins that you’d asked about it.

“I don’t mean to pry, and feel free to tell me to fuck off, but why the gloves?” You asked quietly leaning against a wall less than ten feet from him. He’d stiffened and breathed tightly, “it helps with the work.” That had always been his excuse, wearing gloves when killing helped reduce the touch memories associated with the act, and it was partially true. But he wasn’t on a mission right now, and you called him on that, “are you spying right now?” Your lips quirked, “should I tell Rhys?” Your words were mirthful, but your eyes held nothing but empathy for the Shadowsinger, sometimes Azriel wondered if that was your Cauldron blessed gift.

You’d reached down then, rolling up the left leg of your training leathers. You’d resumed your full height and rotated your calf outward for his eyes to survey the damage there. Ragged silver keloid scars marked the skin from your ankle to the soft back of your knee— a knee he’d admittedly fantasized about many nights in a row now. He’d selfishly thought about trailing kisses up your leg, pausing to nip playfully at the soft skin at your knee as he made his way north, up your thigh. He breathed deeply banishing those thoughts as he took in the site of your marred skin. Judging by the heavily keratinized markings, the injury had no doubt been painful when incurred originally. Azriel’s fingers twitched again, wanting to touch your face, hold you as he kissed away your grief.

“From Beron’s dogs,” you breathed, rolling you shoulders, as if shaking the memory from your mind. “They wouldn’t heal when I was out there,” you clicked your tongue, “granted I was starving,” you sighed, “but that’s a story for another day.” You looked at him then, and he had to steady himself at the emotions pooling in your eyes.

He’d already planned on killing Beron if the opportunity presented for what had happened with Mor, but for you, he’d make it hurt. He’d drag it out and make it slow. He’d torture him for days, flaying skin from bone, taking fingers then limbs and when at last he begged for death, Azriel would set the dogs on him and laugh as they tore him apart. He felt a long repressed need for vengeance creep up his spine, and he hated to acknowledge what its presence meant in regards to you.

“It’s okay, you know,” you’d said, head lolling to the side as you watched him, eyes swimming with a gentle affection, “I’ll never judge you for something like that.” Azriel squeezed his eyes shut as he turned his head from you and breathed in tightly. How did always manage to be so fucking disarming and vulnerable? That must’ve been a gift too.

He pinched the middle finger of the right glove and pulled it from his hand, grasping his now exposed fingers into a fist, knuckles cracking. He extended that arm out, palm up as he let you view his deepest insecurity, the thing he hated most in his appearance.

You’d stepped forward, looking at his palm. Your hands went to reach but you’d paused, looking to his eyes as you silently asked permission to touch. He nodded stiffly, watching you with the same intensity of an animal being hunted, prey ready to bolt at any moment.

Your fingers touched his hand, and he felt the connection race up his arm and to his chest, settling in his heart. Your eyes studied, and you rotated his hand, fingers gently tracing from his wrist, to knuckle, to fingernail in reverence. You covered his hand with your own, moving your eyes to his hazel ones. “Are they dead?” You’d asked seriously, and he stuttered a shocked laugh. “Yes, Little One, they are,” he answered, a small smile playing at his mouth. The two of you far too similar it seemed. “Good,” you’d said simply before kissing his knuckles and pulling the glove back on for him. The action was quietly intimate, and Azriel should’ve kissed you then. Mother knows he considered it, eyes watching you with rapt attention as his heart sped up and breathing shallowed.

“If you two are done flirting, lunch is ready,” Cassian announced from the doorway, breaking the spell you were both under. You’d jumped and laughed freely at the large male smirking at the entrance. You grasped Azriel’s hand tightly in affection before releasing it to turn on your heel to exit the room, passing by Cass with an eye roll, thumping him square in the chest.

Cassian looked to his brother as he walked into the room and his face split into a shit eating grin. “Let’s go, loverboy,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Azriel glared, scoffing as he followed behind you, praying to whatever Gods were listening that he’d get you alone again soon.

In your second century with the Night Court, you’d lessened the blatant flirting and settled into loving, easy friendship. You regularly attended balls and galas in Hewn City, fitting into such pomp with practiced ease, but always with a dagger strapped to your thigh, ready to cut a male down in seconds. Those events were almost routine at this point: Azriel would save you a dance, and you’d move together in a slow ritual that you’d both perfected over the years, he’d bow as the violinist played their final note and resume his place on dais at Rhys’ right. His eyes would follow you the rest of the night, as you spoke in an airy manner to various high fae, glaring at any male whose hands ventured too close to his mate.

Nights when the Court held parties at the House of Wind were different though. You were far less rigid, finding it easy to exist without scrutiny. Those were the nights Azriel’s eyes rarely left your form as he watched obsessively from the corners of the room.

“You’re staring,” Rhys chimed from his place next to Azriel, eyes not leaving the crowd as he spoke to the Shadowsinger, mouth smirking. Azriel was staring. You’d worn cobalt blue tonight, a lovely color on your skin. His color on your skin. Mother above, the male possessiveness that crawled up his spine was unreal. Mate, mate, mate, his shadows had sang in his ear. He wanted to pluck the eyes from every male in the room for even glancing in your direction. He wanted so much more than that too. Your breathy sighs as he marked you, your moan as he made you come undone, his name crying from your lips as he ate his come from your cunt after. Azriel had a million and one scenarios running through his head. He yearned to make each one of them come to fruition too.

He hadn’t answered Rhysand, so the High Lord tried again, “you really should tell her, but please,” Rhys closed his eyes with a grimace, “quiet your thoughts first, for Cauldron’s sake.” That got Azriel’s attention, his back straightening and mental shield slamming down. His eyes squeezed shut, almost as if he was in pain. “I cannot burden her with that now,” he said, “not with war at our doorstep.” Indeed, the second war with Hybern creeped ever closer, disappearances of other high fae occurring daily. Whatever they were planning across the sea, it was going to bring Prythian to its knees.

Rhysand sighed then, feeling older than his 500 years. “Be that as it may, we should hold those we love tighter.” Rhysand looked to Feyre at that moment, his eyes meeting his mate’s, as he sent a strum of warm affection down the bond. She smiled and returned it cheerily. He turned back to Azriel, “if it all ends tomorrow, I know my love and she knows me. That’s all we can ask for in this immortal life.” Azriel looked back to you, and your eyes were already on him, tracing the shadows that wound around his chest. You met his eyes and winked, before turning back to Mor and laughing freely.

“I thank the Cauldron daily it was you that found her in those mountains, Rhys.” Azriel spoke quietly, admitting a small secret he’d not told anyone. Rhysand softened, and clapped his friend on the shoulder, “As I am, brother.” Azriel nodded, letting the conversation die between himself and the High Lord as he drained the drink in his hand and moved down the steps in your direction.

You’d been in conversation with Mor when he approached. She was telling you of the seamstress she’d been seeing, and how happy she was. Azriel cleared his throat from behind the two of you and you turned to meet him, taking in his appearance with wide eyes. “Ladies,” he started, bowing to you and Mor, who snorted at the silly formality. “And that note, I’ll be taking my leave. I’ve got a lady to see,” she said with a wink and a flourish of her red dress. You laughed and shook your head before turning back to the Shadowsinger. He’d caught you staring earlier and your heart had nearly jumped into your throat, before Mor mocked you lightly, diffusing the tension.

“Hi Az,” you greeted softly, before dropping your empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and thanking them. Azriel watched you closely, noting the revealed skin that shifted with each movement, committing every angle and freckle to memory.

“You want to get out of here?” He dared ask, jerking his head toward the private balcony on the House of Wind. You raised a brow, Azriel? Asking you to leave? Together? You heart was back in your throat and you thanked the Mother that you’d taken your time getting ready that evening. Nodding, you grasped his arm as he offered it to you like a proper courtier. He walked the two of you up a round of stairs and away from the eyes he’d threatened earlier in the night. Voices dulled the more space you put between yourselves and them and you couldn’t help but start to sweat a bit at the thought of being alone with Azriel.

You’d been friends for nearly two centuries, but you’d always felt a connection with the male. Your heart thrummed with a warm, golden affection when he got close. It made keeping a clear head during training hard. It made sitting next to him at dinner difficult. And when he’d looked at you like you hung the moon as you danced earlier in the night, it made you want to take him to bed and ride him until he moaned your name. You breathed deeply. ‘Focus,’ you chided yourself, ‘he is your friend, for Cauldron’s sake.’

He led you out onto to the balcony and stopped at the railing before looking up at the star flecked sky. “This is my favorite part of the House,” he said eyes scanning the sky before looking back to you as you watched him. A blush crept up his neck, before he cleared his throat again.

“I’ve always wondered what it was like to be able to fly, you know,” you said quietly, removing your hand from his arm, rolling up onto your toes, leaning against the stone railing, and looking out on Velaris before scanning your eyes up to the three stars that shone brightly overhead. “When I was a child, I met a Peregryn from the Dawn Court and thought she had the most beautiful wings I’d ever seen.” You chanced a glance his way, “I’d not met an Illyrian yet.” You reminded with a smirk, bumping his arm with fondness. Gods, he was in trouble.

“I asked her what it was like and she said it was the purest sense of freedom possible.” You glanced down at your feet, “I spent the next year wishing for wings.” He mulled on your words. He wanted to say something cheesy as Cassian would, like ‘I’ll be your wings’ but he couldn’t, so you continued on.

“When I was a little older, I witnessed a blue skinned lesser fae’s wings ripped from his body as punishment and it was the most gruesome thing I’d seen at that point.” You took a shuddering breath, “I cried for him that night. The lost freedom. How maddening it must’ve been.” You looked at him then and he watched you with furrowed brows. “How does it feel for you?” You asked softly, eyes tracing the shine of his wing. ‘Magnificent things,’ you thought. You remembered seeing his wings for the first time and thinking the Peregryn had finally moved to second place in your mind.

Azriel had to gather himself as he spoke, “It’s… everything.” He said quietly adjusting his body to extend a wing. “My ability to fly came in late,” he said, and your eyes widened, you hadn’t known that. “My childhood was… rough and I didn’t learn to fly until I was nearly grown.” He laughed, scuffing the toe of his boot, wings folding in behind him. “It was a lot of crash landings those first months.” You snorted, mental image of a younger Az, landing in a puddle of mud crossing your mind.

“I was never a proud Illyrian, not like the others,” he continued, “it was hard for me to reconcile my heritage and our traditions.” He looked to the cityscape then, “but the stronger I got, the more I understood why flight was so crucial to my people.” He looked to you, eyes shining, “it’s the closest we can get to the stars.”

You leaned over the railing again, staring wistfully at the night sky, the moon reflecting on your skin. “Will you take me someday? Flying, I mean.” Did you not know Azriel would give you the world? Of course he’d take you flying. He’d give you the moon, the stars, walk through fire and back, anything. He nodded, “you say the word, and I’ll fly you the the ocean and back.” The smile that broke across your face crippled him, his knees threatened to give way.

“Yours are my favorite,” you murmured softly, eyes glancing from his wings to his face. Azriel blushed in full, pink speckling his neck and cheeks as he laughed. “Don’t let Cass hear you say that, he’s got an ego,” he said, a smile remaining at his lips. You liked him like this the most. Loose, smiling, free. You reached up then, cupping his reddened cheek, thumb stroking. “I don’t care,” you said smiling, “it’s the truth.” Azriel swallowed roughly, staring at your eyes swimming with an emotion he knew, but was much too stubborn and scared to name.

Just as your hand went to retreat, he grasped it between his own. “You can touch them,” he offered, knowing damn well the implications, “if you want,” he added. Your eyes widened. Mor had mentioned once that Illyrian’s wings were ‘sensitive,’ was the word she’d used. It was a sign of great intimacy and trust to allow another to touch them. You felt the air shift between you two then, as you nodded.

He extended a wing toward you. This felt so much like the first time he’d shown you his hands all those years ago. Your hand crept forward and gentle fingers met the red gold membrane that stretched between two metacarpals. Your fingers traced the membrane in smooth circles, then traced up to the crest. Azriel felt his breath gutter out of his mouth in a loud, choppy exhale, and he felt himself harden at the sensation of your fingers against the most sensitive portion of his wings. You gasped and jerked away at the sudden noise, before apologizing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten carried away.”

Azriel shook his head, “It’s not that, they’re sensitive.” There was that word again, only it made you think of how they’d been shredded before the King of Hybern, and you opened your mouth to apologize again, but he stopped you short. “I haven’t allowed another to touch them freely since my mother.” The admission floored you, your gut giving way with a breath.

You looked to his eyes then, the air between you had shifted again and you knew this was it. This was the moment you’d waited for, he was going to kiss you. Mother, it felt you’d waited a millennia, and he felt just the same. But that kiss never came. Instead, Azriel went stock still, his eyes now on the House behind you.

“Azriel?” You questioned. “It’s Rhys,” he said tightly, “he’s summoning me.” You understood then. He looked to you desperately, eyes a little wild and apologetic. “I’m sorry, I have to go to him.” You nodded, you both worked for the High Lord, you’d never get in the way of Azriel’s allegiance to his Court. “Of course,” you said quietly, taking a step back and swallowing down your disappointment.

Azriel took three steps towards the entrance then stopped. “I’ll take you,” he turned around, backing his way to the arched stone, but keeping his eyes on you for a moment longer. “When I get back, I’ll take you flying,” he offered. Another smile etched its way across your face and Azriel took a long moment to memorize it greedily. “It’s a date,” you said confidently. He beamed then, turning on a heel to pick up into a jog, Rhys no doubt shouting to hurry up.

That date hadn’t happened though. The second war with Hybern broke out days later and you both barely made it out alive.

When Feyre had come to Velaris after Amarantha’s defeat, you’d accepted her with easy friendship. You saw Rhysand, your longtime friend, overcome with love for his newly found mate, and you couldn’t help but love her as well. You’d shared your story with her and the two of you bonded deeply over her art. She’d offered to teach you to paint, and you began taking lessons in your off time. Rhys had been Cauldron blessed with her and you reminded him daily.

Later, when Feyre’s sisters joined their little unit, you’d been the first one to break Nesta’s tough exterior. The female saw parts of herself in you and you’d gotten her to crack a smile when you mocked Rhys’ High Lord voice at dinner one night. Elain had been a tougher sell, but you’d tried, along with Azriel, to bring the female out of her shell. The day she joined you in the library to read, you knew progress had been made, even if you two had only sat in silence a few feet apart, a small smile gracing her features.

You left her book recommendations with small notes and she began to do the same. Your friendship playing out in the margins of the library’s tomes. You won her over with silent conversation. Nesta noticed, of course, and she looked to you with gratitude as she saw her sister’s eyes brightened and skin began to return to its normal, healthy color. The night Azriel mentioned it as you walked down the hall toward the dining room for the family meal, you’d shrugged. “I met her where she needed me to,” you’d said quietly, glancing to your feet. Azriel smiled, a Cauldron blessed gift indeed.

Dinners at the House of Wind were by far Azriel’s favorite version of you. You’d laugh with abandon, smile splitting your face, showing every tooth as Mor cracked a joke and leaned against you for support, one too many drinks in her system. The first time he’d seen that smile, it blinded him, and he’d gone a little dazed, staring at you in wonderment. Rhys had interrupted his train of thought with an invasive insertion of “How quickly she reduced you to a puddle, brother.” Azriel had scowled at Rhys then, mental shields firming up, but not before he heard the distinct sound of his High Lord laughing at the Spymaster’s defensiveness.

Indeed Azriel was gone for you. When Cassian finally confronted him last year about the truth of his feelings, Azriel saw no point to avoid it any longer, not after his brothers had also found their mates. “Our souls are one in the same, she’s my mate,” he’d said pensively, as if he was letting his deepest secret breath in the light for the first time in centuries. Maybe he was. He’d made Cassian promise on his life not to tell anyone, and despite being the biggest gossip in the Inner Circle, he kept his promise. He was thrilled for his brother, knowing you were the perfect match.

Little did Azriel know, everyone else was already more than aware of his affections. Amren had figured it out a century prior when Azriel had tended your needs as you’d recovered from an injury sustained during a mission. He’d fretted around you like a mother hen, buying you flowers, sweets, and books while you were bedridden. The female had watched and hummed with a raised eyebrow as Azriel exited your room for the fifth time in one day, wringing his hands with worry despite Madja’s clean bill of health.

Feyre had figured it out the same year she’d returned from the Spring Court, just before the second war with Hybern. She’d seen the way his eyes had followed you in the war room Rhys had created to host strategy meetings. Saw him lean towards you when you spoke, saw his wings flutter when you finally cast your gaze to him, eager for your attention. More than anything, she’d seen his shadows, desperate little things, sneaking across the floor each night, sidling up your ankles and wrists, begging for your affection. You always laughed and nuzzled them as the wound their way to your hair and Azriel went a little soft at the sight.

When she told Mor, the blonde had laughed, “They’ve been circling each for two hundred years now, eventually one of them will cave.” Mor leveled a sardonic look at Feyre then, “and when they do, we’ll all have to relocate to the River House for a year lest we be subject to the frenzy.”

This mission should’ve been simple. Rhys had asked you to check out reports of rogue soldiers spotted making their way towards the border of the Night Court from the Day coastline. The intel he’d received had mentioned three to four maximum, all of them drunken ex-Hybern loyalists. It should’ve been a matter of locating them, spying for a day or two, then winnowing in to neutralize any threat. Gods, this was far from simple.

When you’d arrived in the region, the hairs on your neck rose, the air itself feeling off. As you tracked them, you’d noticed intentional attempts to throw you off course. A carelessly trashed map, crudely laid tracks in the opposite direction, Dawn Court wine bottles that had been emptied and tossed about. They knew you were there, and you quickly realized that a trap had been laid. You backed off them then, staying further than you’d have liked, but trying like hell to make them think you’d given up.

On your fourth night following them, you’d drifted away to an inn two towns over, desperately seeking a place to bathe and rest, even for a few hours. As you bathed, you felt watched in a way that discomfited you to your core, and your dagger stayed within arms reach the rest of the night. Suddenly, the role you’d played for the last two hundred years had left you entirely ill equipped for whatever was happening here.

You’d left out before dawn, refusing to lose an ounce of daylight, but as you hit the tree line, readying yourself to winnow out, you’d noticed it. Hanging from a tree, a hundred yards away was a piece of clothing, your clothing. Clothing that should’ve been in the pack at your back. Your breath shuttered out of you as you opened your mind to Rhys, asking for back up. You were in over your head and you knew when to admit it. There was no pride in getting yourself killed.

As you turned to move back to the inn where you could wait out contact from Rhys in a public location, you were met with a pair of shining blue eyes. You stepped back, keeping your grounding, readying for a fight. “You’ve been following us,” the stranger said calmly, beginning to trek in a slow circle around you. You opened your mind to Rhys again, “Help,” you called. Rhys answered this time, “Where are you?!” It was a frantic response, you never asked for help, Rhys knew this. “Just off the coast, beneath the mountain range, Day court border, 400 hundred paces from the inn” you spoke to Rhys in choppy thoughts, trying to establish a location before all hell broke loose.

“I have,” you finally answered the stranger, whose lips quirked at your voice. He stopped circling and resumed his stance in front of you, blocking passage to the inn. “Why?” He asked and you tried to keep your mind steady as you answered. “You’re trespassers in these lands” you stated simply, shrugging a shoulder up. He grinned then, “had your lot not gotten in the way of our King’s plans, these would be our lands. We were promised them. I was personally promised the Court of Nightmares.”

“Well,” you shrugged feigning indifference, “that’s not how the war played out, so I will have to ask you to leave,” you offered in your most bored political tone. The same tone you’d used with High Fae that ran off at the mouth in Hewn City. The stranger cocked his head the side then, eyes twinkling, “I don’t think I will.” At that moment, one by one, additional soldiers appeared from the forest line. One, then four, then ten, until near twenty stood around you, looking on with hatred.

Shit.

“We’d hoped for the Illyrians, but it seems your High Lord sent us a treat instead,” the stranger said with mirth. You steeled your spine, looking down your nose at the stranger, “They’re going to kill you, you know.” He’d laughed at your threat. “I think not,” he said as as arrow was released from your left, finding purchase in your shoulder. You folded over on yourself at the blow, and looked up baring your teeth, before drawing your dagger and rushing the stranger with a feral sound.

Five more arrows hit you before your blade could find its target. One into your hip, two in your back, a fourth piercing your in your upper thigh, until the last burrowed into the back of your knee, bringing you down in front of him — forcing you to bow to the stranger. The arrows were laced with faebane you realized as you’d begun to feel its effects in your blood. Your power waning quickly, thoughts becoming murky.

You released another shattered thought to Rhys then, “Tell him, please,” you begged raggedly. Rhysand came back with a rushed and tight, “Hold on, Little One, we’re coming.” You shook your head, there wasn’t time. “Tell Azriel I love him if I don’t make it, Rhys, promise me.” He responded but it muddled out, sounding like words shouted through a pool of water, then your brain fell quiet. The line severed.

The stranger lifted your head, hand wrapped around your throat, as he bent to meet your crouched form. “I’ll be sure to savor this,” he smiled and the hilt of his sword came in fierce contact with your forehead.

It was the early morning on your fifth day away when Rhys heard you. “Help,” it had come through so clearly that it startled Rhys awake and set his heart to racing. You’d only asked for help once, during the war when you were overrun and near death. You were in danger.

He’d sat up straight in bed, Feyre still sleeping silently at his side, hand resting on her pregnant stomach. “Where are you?!” He’d asked down the line, a little frantic, remembering the state he and Azriel had found you in last time. Gods, you’d been run through on a Hybern soldier’s sword, the damage was astronomical. Azriel had nearly killed everyone within a mile radius at the sight of you.

You recited your location in short bursts and Rhys focused on the bond of your bargain, using it to locate you with more precision. He reached out to Azriel then, “Get Cassian and meet me downstairs. Be ready to fly.” Azriel responded an affirmative and Rhys rushed around his room, grabbing his dagger lined belt, and using his magic to dress in his leathers quickly. He winnowed to the base of the stairs and was glad to find Cassian and Azriel waiting.

“Tell him, please” you begged into Rhys’ mind then, words growing ragged. Rhys’ eyes slammed shut with a wince and he attempted to reassure you, “Hold on, Little One, we’re coming.” Rhys opened his eyes and looked to Azriel, who was watching him with anticipation. You responded again, words growing murkier, a little warbled. “Tell Azriel I love him if I don’t make it, Rhys, promise me.” Rhysand felt sick. “We will find you and you will tell him yourself,” he spoke but the bond was dead, silent, foreboding. Rhys thought he might vomit.

He looked to Azriel again, “It’s her. She’s in trouble. We have to go.” Azriel’s face darkened with a thunderous ferocity. Mother help the males who’d harmed you. “Where?” He asked, voice deep with the threat of murderous violence. “The wilds on the border, off the coast of Day. I’ll winnow us as close as possible.” Azriel nodded his acquiesce and lifted a trembling hand to his hair, running scarred fingers through the strands. Cassian spoke then, “we will get her back,” he’d said softly as Rhysand put his hands to the two of them, preparing for the jump. “And we will kill every last one of them,” Cassian added darkly as blue-black shadows encased them and they disappeared.

You awoke with a start, gasping like you’d been underwater. Your shoulders ached from your position. You pulled on your hands only to realize you were shackled to a tree somewhere deep in the forest, the same forest you’d been on the outskirts of earlier. You looked up to the sky, trying to find the sun to gauge how much time had passed. The sun had long moved past midday and was sinking towards the evening horizon. Your throat tightened. Where was Rhysand?

“Nice of you to join us,” a voice spoke. It was the stranger again, he emerged from the camp set two hundred paces to your left, hidden by shrubs and underbrush. You got a good look at him this time. He was tall, leanly muscular in a way that reminded you of Lucien Vanserra. His hair was a dishwater blonde and lacked any sheen, falling in choppy dry waves around his shoulders. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken, bruised with a lack of rest, and his cheekbones were sharp, giving his face an angle that made him look harsh and unforgiving. Though he carried himself with confidence, you noticed a slight, barely there limp in his right leg, an old wound perhaps, one that never healed correctly. You noted that for later, if you ever got out of these shackles.

You leveled a glare at him that you hoped looked more fearsome than you felt. Mother, your bones ached and your wounds throbbed. “I left the arrows in, but broke off the shaft. Didn’t want to have you healing too quickly.” He spoke with nonchalance, while polishing a dagger, your dagger, you realized as your eyes focused. You pulled at the shackles above your head, and the stranger chuckled at your attempt.

“What do you want?” Your voice croaked, mouth dry from disuse. The stranger laughed, pointing the blade at you, “I want my fucking court and you’re the key to getting it.” You shook your head then, “I am nothing.” The words sounded foreign on your tongue, a lie on some level, you knew this, but you would be damned before you gave up your family. The stranger clicked his tongue at your response, shaking his head.

“Surely you don’t believe that? The High Lord doesn’t trust easily, you’ve been seen with his entourage. The Shadowsinger’s whore.” He squatted a few feet from you, eyes tracing from your tied hands down to your face, pausing at your breasts, before trekking down your stomach, thighs, and calves. He was sizing up how much fight you had left.

Your brain had short circuited though, the Shadowsinger’s whore. Mother above, you’d never even kissed. How long had this male watched you and your family? How had none of you seen it? A bitter laugh wretched from your lungs, “sorry to disappoint, but the Shadowsinger isn’t mine.” No matter how desperately I’ve wished it so, you added silently.

The stranger grinned then, “if you are truly nothing, then I’ll make this a little sweeter.” He took steps towards you, raising the dagger to rest at your chin, the blade pressing to the underside painfully. “You’re far too pretty to be nothing.” He ran the blade along the column of your throat, resting it against your sternum, between your breasts. You pushed yourself further into the tree, back protesting as the arrows burrowed deeper with the movement. You didn’t like the new angle this interaction had taken and your fight or flight instincts were screaming.

You attempted to reach out to Rhysand, but the bond was dead silent. Your breathing hitched at the realization that you were truly alone in this. The stranger chuckled, dragging the blade down your chest, slicing the leathers, letting the fabric fall open and reveal your undergarments to his greedy view. Your legs moved to kick, but you realized quickly they too were tied. The blade came to rest at your bare stomach, and the stranger dug it in below the navel, causing blood to pool there. You winced, but made no sound.

“Ah, I was hoping you’d be louder than that,” the stranger smirked, “I’ll have to try harder.” He backed up then and pulled a whip from his back pocket, unfurling it with a crack. Your eyes widened and you brain went silent, fear overtaking your senses. “There it is,” his smile gleamed with violent delight, “there’s the reaction I was hoping for.” He reared an arm back before cracking the whip in your direction. The leather made contact with your torso, a stinging slice appearing along your rib cage. You jerked, but bit your tongue.

He cracked it again and again until you were bloody, slices in your leathers, festering wounds along your breasts, ribs, and stomach. You’d counted to 25 lashes before your brain gave out and your vision blurred from the pain. You looked up to the sky wearily. The sun was gone and the stars were slowly appearing. You smiled at them, remembering Azriel’s words from that night all those years ago.

You hoped he’d forgive you for not telling him. You hoped he’d understand your fear in revealing that secret, that the bond had snapped for you during the war. When that Hybern soldier’s sword pierced your armor, running through your body to the hilt, and he’d let out a fearsome bellow from across the field at the sight. You felt it then, the golden strumming taking the form of a fated thread linking you two. You been near death when he and Rhys had found you and the only thing you could do was smile. Such an ironic thing it was to die in the arms of your mate.

Your head lolled to the side as exhaustion threatened to overtake you. “Azriel,” your thoughts ventured, calling down the bond he didn’t even know existed, “I love you.” Darkness swam in the corners of your vision but you swore you felt his responding tug. The Mother was kind for granting that hallucinative mercy in your final hours. Your body gave out, slumping against the shackles and darkness overwhelmed you.

Azriel was furious. No, furious wasn’t the word, he was a walking time bomb. You were gone. His mate was missing and he was going to explode. As he’d arrived with Rhys and Cassian to the location you’d given them, he could smell you. His eyes searched frantically around the scene before him until they zeroed in on an item hanging from a branch a few dozen paces out. Cloth of some sort? He approached and could detect your scent on it, realizing quickly it was your clothing. A ripped cotton blouse. His fists clenched and he vaguely heard Rhysand speaking to his left. “They must’ve captured her here.” Rhys crouched down to the ground, two fingers swiping the dirt there, before bringing them eye level to examine sample. “Blood,” he muttered, rubbing the hand on the leg of his pants, “she was injured.” Azriel’s heart thundered, he was going to fucking explode.

He set his shadows work, surveying the forest with rapid precision. They’d cover more ground this way, an army of three operating like a whole infantry. By the time the sun rose to midday, Azriel was ready to begin screaming. They trekked further into the forest, following a line of smoke that was miles deep, originating at a camp somewhere far into the wilds. His shadows murmured to him of a small band of males there, of you, shackled to a fucking tree, arrows buried in your back. He’d nearly lost the contents of his stomach at the information and set to a run alongside Rhysand and Cassian.

As the three approached the encampment, the sun was nearing dusk. Rhysand had commanded the halt and strategize. There were roughly twenty-five men, all armed. They couldn’t enter this blindly and infuriated, they would lose if they weren’t careful. Azriel hated admitting he was right, his instincts screaming otherwise. Mate, mate, mate, his heart pounded.

They backed off to a thousand paces out, close enough that they could hear if the troop vacated the premises. As Rhysand and Cassian spoke quietly, Azriel felt his heart thrum. The golden thread there had pulled him closer to you and he could tell you were still alive. Though Rhys couldn’t reach out through your bargain, Azriel’s bond was still alight and warm, he stroked it with gentle affection. You might not feel it, but Gods he would try.

As the trio retraced their steps to the camp, stars were just beginning to light overhead and Azriel grasped his daggers tightly, knuckles cracking around the hilt. He was going to kill them. Kill them all brutally for taking you, for touching what was his. When they were within a stones throw from the camp he heard it, heard you. “Azriel,” you whispered into his mind. He went stock still, spine ramrod straight, fingers trembling as they gripped his knives. The golden bond vibrated in his chest, and he felt you reaching out through murky waters, against all odds. “I love you,” you said with a soft exhaustion before your side went dark. Azriel’s breathing guttered and he felt high on mirthroot, sick from fae wine, and enraged to the point of explosion all at once. His blue siphons flared brightly from the surge of power. He closed his eyes and reached out to you through the bond, tugging on the thread connecting your souls. He was coming. He was going to save you.

Rhysand looked to him then, curiosity swimming in his eyes as he took in the Shadowsinger’s sudden stop. Azriel opened eyes, irises alight with fire and shadow, voice grinding with dark threat, “Let’s go.” Rhys nodded and Cassian drew his knives.

They moved with brutal efficiency, killing male after male until none remained alive. Some had begged, others shouted and scattered their belongings as they set into a run. His shadows had caught them, twisting around their ankles and dragging them back to meet their fate, daggers slicing throats from ear to ear until blood poured like a prized hunt being slaughtered, the Illryian’s hands grasping and snapping necks like twigs. It was a practiced routine for the three of them, who’d trained since they were teens.

As they stepped through the shrubs to find you, Cassian gasped and Azriel felt his lungs threaten to collapse at the sight. You’d been shackled to a tree at the wrists and ankles and whipped within an inch your life. Wounds glistened with blood along your thighs, soft stomach, ribs, breasts. There had to be thirty lashes. A knife wound was visible at your exposed navel. Your head hung forward unconscious and Azriel’s heart pounded. He wanted to vomit and his hands shook.

“She said you’d come,” a voice said, emerging from behind the tree you were bound to. The male held a dagger to your throat. This new stranger had to be the leader of this band of idiots. Azriel’s eyes followed the tip of the blade up his arm to the male’s eyes and a growl escaped him as he bared his teeth. The male laughed, “to think she said she was nothing and yet I have both the Shadowsinger and the Lord of Bloodshed before me to save her.”

Azriel’s mind latched on to that piece of information, turning it over in his head. You’d told this male you were nothing? Did you not know Azriel would do anything for you? You were everything. You were his love, light of his life, keeper of his soul, his mate. How alone you must’ve felt, how scared. Azriel’s eyes narrowed, he was going kill him.

Rhysand spoke then, emerging from behind the two Illyrian brothers, “And may I ask why you’ve abducted a member of my court?” He was in High Lord mode, tone bored, fingers picking at his sleeve. The Hybern male’s smile gleamed at the introduction, “just who I was hoping to see!”

“Hybern, the old fool, made a few promises in his last days as King,” the male spoke, digging the blade down to your chest, where it rested over your heart. Azriel stared at the blade, eyes tracing to the the hilt. That was your blade, the one he’d given you when you first arrived in Velaris, the one you wielded against Eris, the one you kept strapped to your thigh. Your own knife had been used against you.

“One of which was that I would inherit these lands after your lot were annihilated.” Azriel wanted to laugh at the male’s words, was he serious? “A dead king cannot honor empty promises,” he ground out eyes shifting to the male’s blue eyes. “A dead and headless king cannot gift you shit,” Azriel spat. The male smiled then, a feline grin growing on his lips. “Precisely Shadowsinger, a dead king cannot give me my due, but this little thing can help.” You’d made a noise then, something akin to a whimper as you came to. Eyes wincing then fluttering open as your irises found Azriel’s immediately, some preternatural magnetism existing between the two of you. Then you looked to Cassian and Rhysand, and your eyes swam with apology.

“She awakens!” The male sang, looking to you. Azriel jumped at the opportunity to send his shadows out while the male’s attention was elsewhere. They traced over the ground to you, circling the tree and working at your binds. He sent two others towards the distracted male. “Who knew the Night Court was so attached to a whore,” the male laughed, “I want my lands,” he fixed Rhysand with a glare, “you can have your plaything back in exchange for my seat, High Lord” he sneered.

Rhysand looked from you to the stranger to the shadow now creeping ever closer to the male. “You must be mistaken,” Rhys said then and Azriel’s shadows wrapped around the male’s neck and wrist simultaneously, whispering violence for touching their mate, forcing the dagger from his grasp and air from his lungs. Azriel tightened them until they heard bones crack in the male’s arm and choked sounds exit his throat, face reddening as oxygen was cut off. “I do not make deals with dim witted cunts,” Rhysand said darkness beginning to surround him, High Lord voice encroaching, “I do not entertain terrorists and I do not take kindly to threats on my family.”

‘Finish him,’ Rhysand said darkly into Azriel’s mind and the Shadowsinger moved with lightening precision, dagger find purchase as the male’s neck was sliced open and his right hand was removed from his body. The male’s body toddled forward with a choked gurgling, before falling to the ground, lifeless, blood pooling.

Azriel’s gaze fell to you and he softened. His shadows finished picking the lock of the shackles that held your arms and they clicked open, allowing your body to fall into his. “Azriel,” you breathed, voice weary with exhaustion, “I didn’t— I—“ you stuttered, pulling a shaking hand to his face. You swallowed, tracing his cheek with trembling fingers, “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you murmured, your watery eyes searching his face, memorizing the details of his visage.

Azriel picked you up in his arms and unfurled his wings protectively. “I will always come for you,” he said vehemently, eyes watching your face with intensity. You smiled, a weepy trembling smile as you nodded. Rhysand reached the Shadowsinger’s side then and your eyes moved to his violet ones, “Hi Little One, I’m so sorry we’re late.” You let out a single watery laugh before wincing as the sudden expansion of your chest burned the wounds littering your chest and back.

“The arrows,” you gasped, “at my back,” you twisted in Azriel’s hold, “please get them out.” Rhysand leaned down to inspect the wounds. “Faebane,” he surmised, that’s why his connection to you had been severed. “We need to get her to Madja, now.” Azriel nodded, allowing Rhys and Cassian to move closer so the High Lord could winnow them home.

Landing back at the House of Wind had been chaotic. Rhysand shouted immediately to get every healer available and the dining room table had been lined with a sheet, turning the warm family room into a medical ward. You were laid facedown on the table and Azriel took to your side, scarred hands touching your face, keeping you awake as Madja worked to remove the six arrows burrowed in your body.

You’d screamed. The sound would haunt Azriel for centuries. You begged to make it stop and Madja had apologized softly as she worked faster to remove them while minimizing damage. “I’ve got you,” Azriel said softly, “eyes on me, alright?” He rubbed the hollow under your eye with a scarred thumb and you opened your eyes to lock on his. “No gloves,” you said, smiling tightly, before wincing as Madja applied local anesthetic to an arrow wound. Azriel smiled, eyes a little watery. “Not with you,” he whispered shaking his head, “never with you.” You smiled at him and the sight set Azriel’s heart to fluttering.

Later, after the arrows had been removed and wounds bandaged, you’d been given a strong herb tonic for pain that set your head swimming as exhaustion overtook you. Azriel carried you his room, laying you gently onto the mattress and covered you with the duvet. He leaned down then, breathing in your scent as he placed a kiss to your forehead, nuzzling his nose to the Winter white hair there. He would tell you. When you awoke, he would bare his soul to you.

You woke with a groan. Fucking Gods, your body ached with the effort it took to roll over. “Easy,” a voice came from the corner of the room. Your breath gasped out of you as your eyes raced to the figure there. “Azriel,” you breathed. The male smiled warmly at you and stepped forward to rest at the edge of the mattress. You pushed up in the bed, the wound at your shoulder screaming from the exertion. Once in a sitting position, you rested your back on the headboard as you looked at him. “For taking out a small militia, you seemed to be decently uninjured,” you said smiling tightly, memories of the stranger and his whip haunting your mind. He snorted a small laugh, “Yes well,” he looked down then, thumbs fiddling with each other, chest heating, “I had something worth fighting for.”

He looked back to you and your cheeks had grown pink, a small pleased smile at your lips. “I heard you, you know,” he said softly, turning enough to rest a hand on your thigh, thumb drawing small, soothing circles there. The heat generated in the touch sent a spark to your belly. Oh, you were fucked. “I heard you in my head, through the bond,” he said eyes watching his thumb as it traced on your bare skin hypnotically.

“You know then?” You whispered, breath skittering out of you. You were scared to death of the trajectory the conversation was taking, your heart preparing for the best and the worst simultaneously. Azriel’s eyes dragged up your form to your face and a smile broke over his lips, one that caused your heart to ignite. Your Mother had once told you the heart was an organ of fire and you’d laughed, never having cause to believe such a statement. You understood now.

“I—“ Azriel started, before clearing his throat, turning his body to face you in full, a knee pulled up on the mattress, touching yours. “In the whole time I have known you— two centuries, Little One,” he looked at you pointedly, “you have been my dearest friend, my greatest comfort, my confidant, and the person I admire most in this Gods forsaken world.” He breathed deeply, a whoosh exiting his lips as his hand tightened around your thigh. “The times when you were lost to me have been some of the most painful moments I’ve experienced.”

Your eyes began to water, and you moved a hand to rest atop his own, thumb circling the scarred skin at his wrist. He took a breath then and the air shifted between you, his mouth opening and closing, as if he was gathering his confidence for what he was about to say next. “I have loved for you so long that I’d given up all hope of reciprocation.” The words shattered through you as all air escaped your lungs, guts swooping down as heat alighted there. “I felt the bond the night Eris came for you,” he continued, eyes watching your entwined hands. Your body went still and a startled laugh exited your mouth. Azriel’s eyes flew to yours questioningly.

“Sorry,” you chuckled again, “I’m just realizing how fucking stupid we’ve been.” You lolled your to the side, watching him with loving eyes. “I’ve been in love with you for almost two centuries, Azriel,” you smiled, “I thought you wouldn’t want me.” Azriel’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief, two then three times. You thought for a second to compare him to the guppy fish that swam in schools along the banks of the Sidra but refrained.

He pushed forward then, hands coming to cup your face, pinky and ring fingers resting in the hollow below your ear, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “How could I not? You’re everything,” he whispered, searching your face, conviction showing in his eyes. You couldn’t stop the smile that overtook your mouth as you spoke, “and you’re my mate.” His eyes moved to your lips, glazing before they moved back to your eyes. “As you are mine,” he spoke confidently.

Your eyes watched each other for a long second, “I really hope you’ll kiss me this time,” your hand trailed up his arm, fingers teasing. “Mother knows I’ve been dreaming of it for far too long.” He surged forward, lips meeting yours and you thought you might float away. You gasped and his tongue moved in, claiming your mouth, your taste with his own.

He pulled away minutes later, a little breathless, “Sorry to have kept you waiting, my love,” he spoke, resting his forehead to yours with a smile, watching your dazed expression, pink cheeks, as your lips split into a grin. Your hand moved to the front of his button down, fisting in the material there, giving an experimental tug. “Kiss me like that again and I’ll consider forgiving you.”

The laugh that came out of him was golden, and you pushed yourself to memorize it. Azriel, Lord of Shadows, Spymaster for the Night Court, Rhysand’s right hand and Illyrian warrior was soft for you. He loved you. He was your mate. You’d be giddy about it for the rest of your life.

Your healing had been slower than you would’ve liked. The faebane had done serious damage but with Madja’s help, the scarring was minimized. The lashes at your front took two weeks to heal, the arrow wounds took three. Three fucking weeks. Meanwhile all you could think about was your mate. He hadn’t left your side in the interim. Helping you take steps, applying the wound creams that Madja had left in small glass pots, keeping you fed, making you laugh, telling you how much he loved you daily. Mother above, you were going to ruin this male.

You walked into the kitchen at the end of week three, the only evidence of your wounds now in the slight limp of your right leg and twinge in your left shoulder. The marks at your stomach and chest had diminished into barely there, silver scores. Cassian was sitting at the small table in the corner as you entered. “Hi Cass,” you greeted, “seen my mate around this morning?” It was fun calling him that, a small part of your chest swelling with pride each time.

Cassian smirked, “He’s been…… out.” Your eyes narrowed, he was being evasive. “Out where?” You asked, grabbing an apple and hopping up on the counter to watch the male. He shrugged, “No idea, Little One.” You smirked, “I know where you sleep Cassian,” you started, “is it really wise to lie to me?” Nesta strode into the kitchen, “What’s he done now?” She asked laughing. “Hey! I’ll have you know I’ve done nothing!” The male exclaimed, “She’s interrogating me on the whereabouts of her maaate.” He dragged out the vowel of the last word mockingly. Nesta took her seat next to Cassian and laughed, “Ah, him.” She looked to you then, “he’ll be around to collect you soon.”

You looked between the two, suspicion dripping from your features as you took another bite from the apple in your palm. “You two are being weird,” you stated. Nesta shrugged, nudging Cassian who smiled at her. “Just wait,” she said softly, “maybe cook yourself a meal.” Cassian’s mouth quirked with a laugh he restrained. “Right, I’m leaving, cause whatever this is,” you waved a hand at them, “is deeply odd.” You hopped off the counter and strolled to the exit. You heard them laughing softly once you were out of the room, making you roll your eyes at their antics.

You’d gone to the library after leaving the kitchen and found Elain already there. Her eyes moved to you upon your entrance and she closed her book, middle finger marking her spot. “How are you feeling?” She asked softly, eyes surveying your body for lingering damage. You sighed, falling into the sofa across from her. “I’m better,” you said quietly, “the pain is gone, scars are minimal.” You turned your eyes to her, she looked brighter than the last time you’d seen her. “How are you?” You asked in return. She smiled sweetly. “Better,” she echoed you and you wanted to laugh. “I’ve been exchanging letters with Lucien,” she added and your ears perked up.

“That’s great, Elain,” you rest your chin on a closed fist, watching her. She shifted and sat her book to the side, page forgotten. “I want to tell you something,” she said quietly, fingers twiddling with each other. She looked... nervous? “I’m all ears,” you said softly.

“I had a vision while you were gone,” she started and took a deep breath. “It was so muddled at first, I couldn’t tell who it was, but then I saw you. Your hair was longer, you stood taller, and your belly was round.” The breath left your body in a powerful exhale. She looked to you again, eyes watching yours, “You were pregnant and happy and in love,” she said quietly, as if the words in themselves were fragile. Your hands trembled and you moved them under your thighs, her eyes didn’t miss the action.

“I couldn’t understand why the Mother would send me a vision like that, I saw Feyre’s pregnancy, but we’re sisters, you know?” You nodded. “Then I realized I recognized the tattooed arm I’d seen wrap around you, knew it was Azriel.” Your eyes watered, and you hiccuped out a small laugh. “I’ve known for a while you two were fated, but the Mother was telling me for certain. I hope you know how happy we are for you.” She finished and moved to sit next you, small hand touching your knee.

“When they brought you in that night, I thought the Mother had lied to me, that it was a vision of what could have been, that you wouldn’t make it.” You’d never heard Elain speak at length in this way, and you thought you might stop breathing. “I’ve never been happier to see you than when Azriel brought you in to read days later, my sweet friend.” You surged forward, throwing your arms around the female and she returned the gesture warmly.

You sat back and looked at her then. “Thank you,” you said, voice small, a little watery. She nodded before turning to resume her original spot at the end of the sofa, picking up her book and opening it to the page she’d left off.

In the hours that followed, you’d returned to the kitchen, grateful to find Cassian and Nesta had left. You took Nesta’s advice, gathering the ingredients to build a small berry tart. It had just gone in the oven when your mate appeared in the doorway.

“Hello love,” he said casually, leaning against the door jamb. You startled, turning on your heel to find him smiling at you. “Where have you been?” You asked walking towards him and running your hands around his midsection in a hug, head resting against his chest. His arm came around your shoulders as he pressed a kiss to your hair, breathing in your scent. “That, my dearest one, is a surprise.”

You looked up chin resting against his chest, watching his face. “It’d better be good, I baked for you,” you said, smiling softly at the Spymaster. His eyes moved to the oven then and back to you, irises darkening, as his pupils blew a little wide. “You… baked?” He asked disbelieving, “didn’t know you knew how to bake,” he followed up playfully. You gasped and shoved him, “for that, you can starve, have fun finding another mate to bake for you.” He laughed heartily and caught your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, eyes swimming with warm affection as he pressed a kiss there. Gods, the action made lust swoop in your stomach, heat spreading.

“The fool I’d be to turn away such a female,” he said, voice deepening, lips running across your knuckles with each word. “Azriel” you breathed. “Yes?” He offered in return, still smiling, moving your knuckles back and forth against his hot mouth. “Please tell me this surprise involves you bedding me.” A growl creeped out of his throat, the thought of you under him sending lust racing down his spine and to his groin.

“It might,” he said quietly, lips resuming their exploration, tracking small kisses from your knuckles, to the joint of your thumb, the inside of your wrist where Rhys’ tattoo lingered, up the soft skin of your arm, to your elbow, until he reached the skin of your shoulder. His lips traced over the raised skin there, a small nip above the scar as he traced north to your collarbone. You’d gone to putty in his hands, head rolling to the side to bare your throat. He pressed soft kisses there, pausing at your pulse point to trace the area with his warm tongue, a whimper escaping your mouth.

“If this is going to become a regular thing, I’ll need you two to relocate to the River House,” a voice came from behind you and you jumped in shock, but your mate, he let out a possessive growl before turning on the intruder. Rhysand laughed airily and folded his arms over his chest. “Easy, brother,” he smiled, causing Azriel to roll his eyes. You blinked a little dazed, and pulled away from the Shadowsinger. “You’re gonna make me burn my fucking tart,” you shoved him with an arm and laughed as you turned to resume your place at the oven.

Azriel instructed you to dress comfortably and be ready in a hour as he kissed your knuckles one last time and exited the kitchen. Butterflies roamed freely in your stomach at the thought of what he had planned. You’d returned to your quarters after removing the tart from the oven and portioning it into a small travel sized container. You were going to accept the bond, and your nerves were alight with anxious excitement. After you dressed in a lightweight linen dress, you packed a small bag with your remaining creams, and the boxed tart you’d prepared earlier.

You descended the stairs to find Azriel waiting at the base, his wings standing proudly behind him, shadows skittering around his feet. At the sight of you they raced to meet on the bottom step, running up your legs, around your waist and into your hair. A laugh escaped you as one nuzzled into the space behind your ear. Azriel watched fondly. “They love you,” he said smiling, taking a step to meet you, “ever since the bond snapped, I’ve had the hardest time reining them back from touching you.”

You reached a hand out to meet his, interlacing your fingers. “They’re cute, but you’re cuter,” you said with gentle affection. A shadow pinched at your waist and Azriel’s cheeks went a little pink as he laughed.

“Will you tell me what the surprise is?” You asked as he walked you toward the training balcony. “I’m afraid I’m very poorly dressed for training,” you joked. He snorted, “no, we’re not training.” He came to rest at the railing and then turned to you, running a hand up your arm, fingers moving to hold the back of your neck, warm palm heating the skin there, thumb grazing your jawline. “Amongst many things I’ve been terribly late for recently, I realize I owe you a date.”

Your face went a little puzzled and you looked to his eyes. “A date?” You questioned. He nodded, “I was supposed to take you flying.” Realization dawned on your features and a smile overtook your lips, each tooth shining in the setting sun. “I wanted to kiss you that night too,” you admitted laughing, remembering how desperate you’d been for his touch and attention. He smiled softly, “you have no idea how angry I was with Rhys for calling me away.” Your eyes widened, still in disbelief that this male wanted you return. It seemed both a millennia in the making and still so new and fragile.

Azriel snuck an arm around your waist and brought you up into the stretch of his firm body. His other hand tracing down your hip, then thigh, to curve under your knees as he picked you up. His wings unfurled and he shot into the air. A shaky laugh startled out of you and you gripped him tighter, your arms winding around his neck. His wings flapped in thunderous bursts, taking you higher, until you could see the entirety of Velaris spread below, the Sidra flowing like a snake through the winding city. Your breath left you in awe. “The Peregryn was right,” you said loud enough for him to hear and he smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The flight was short, but it took you to the rural banks of the Sidra on the outskirts of the city, just before it emptied into the sea. You could see ships sailing into the harbor, moonlight beginning to trickle across the water. This was undeniably special, you thought, no one would see you up here and you felt like this was the edge of the world itself. You turned to Azriel, finding his eyes already watching you. “Thank you,” you said softly, leaning into him, his chin meeting your forehead as you moved your body to rest alongside the length of his. His hand came to rest at the small of your back, pinky stretching to graze the curve of your bottom. Wherever this was going, you were very interested.

He turned and grasped your hand, pulling you back up the hill and away from the view, towards a field of wildflowers and grasses. There, in the middle, a blanket had been laid out, small candles lit to illuminate the setting. A basket sat in one corner, a bottle of fae wine held within with an assortment of pastries, breads, and cheeses. You realized quickly that your mate, the male you’d loved for damn near two centuries, was courting you. The thought thrilled you.

He led you to the blanket and motioned for you to sit next him. “I must confess, I never took you for a romantic,” you said looking from the candles, to the basket, and then to him. He was watching you again. He smiled, laughing a bit nervously, “I’m a lot of things,” he said and your eyebrow quirked. “Oh yeah? Like what?” You challenged him and he loved you for it. You made him feel easy to love, you made loving fun and freeing. Azriel had once only thought freedom could be found in fucking and flying, then he’d found you and he knew it was there too. In the smile of your lips, in the thrill of your touch, in the ease of your love.

“Well,” he started, moving his wings to lean into you, pressing a kiss to your exposed shoulder. The action caused you to shiver. “I’m a spymaster.” You snorted, “no shit.” A laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’m a bit shy as you well know, I’m quite fond of dancing, I’m—” he hummed the last letter, pausing his thoughts and moving his lips up your neck. “I’m in love with you,” he said biting into the flesh at the juncture of your collarbone and throat, cock hardening at the sound that rolled out of your mouth. “I’m going to take you right here, on this blanket, under the stars.”

You gasped, your hands moved find purchase in the hair at the back of his head, fingers winding through the strands, nails dragging at his scalp. His nose ran the length of your jawline before his lips found yours. He rumbled a small hum the instant his mouth touched your own. At first it was a gentle press, teasing you as he had done today in the kitchen at the House of Wind. The adrenaline racing up your spine made you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin. His hand reached up then, threading broad fingers into your hair as he took the kiss deeper. Tonguing the bottom of your lip until your mouth opened, his tongue stroking your own. Humming with contentment, he tilted your head, deepening the kiss at a new angle that had heat swooping down to your core.

You brought your left hand to his shoulder, fisting your fingers in the fabric there and pulling him closer. He understood your intention and leaned you back into the blanket, pleasure alighting each nerve as his body pressed into your own. He eased up on your lips and began a slow trek south, pulling the strap of your dress down the curve of your shoulder, leaving a love bite there that had you gasping. He kissed down the bust line of the dress, laving his tongue at the swell of your breast. Your breath was coming in pants and you pressed yourself up on your elbows as he moved further south, fingertips tracing the hem of your dress that had risen to the middle of your thigh.

He looked back to you and smiled, mischief playing in his eyes as he ran his hands up your thighs, the slow drag pulling the dress with it. “I’ve been thinking about your cunt for centuries,” he said, his lips on your knee, pressing insistently as they moved north. “I’ve been dreaming of making you come on my tongue since I met you.”

Your breath leaves you in one fell swoop as you feel his tongue at the juncture of your hip and thigh. His mouth was insistent at skin there, tonguing the lace of your panties before pulling them down your legs and off entirely. He picked up a foot, placing it to his chest as he traced the long line of your body with hungry eyes. You were panting already, dressed rucked up around your waist, straps fallen down your arms and breasts heaving. His gaze flowed south and landed on your pink cunt, glistening, begging for him. His eyes went back to your face then, and his titled his head to the side, “Will you let me eat your pretty little cunt?” He asked fingertips tracing the scars of your calf with reverence. He brought your foot up, kissing the inside of the ankle, then nosing his way over your scarred calf, suckling at the skin there. “Please,” he added, eyes moving back to yours as his mouth continued his ministrations.

“Mother above, Azriel,” you breathed and a laughed startled out of you, “you are mouthy.” He chuckled darkly then, nipping at your knee, taking special care to press a gentle kiss at the new scar there. “Is that a no then?” He said softly and your head fell back with a groan, exposing your neck to his view. “As if,” you said, head pulling back up and lolling to the side to rest on your shoulder. “I’ve thought about it too, and if you back out now I will explode.” He laughed again, freely this time, forehead resting on your thigh.

His eyes find yours again, and he kept them there as he traced his lips north. He nosed the juncture of your cunt and inner thigh, running a tongue along your mound. You gasped and eyes narrowed, watching him with rapt attention. He pressed a kiss to the top of your slit and his hands come up to open you to him, pulling the lips apart and tonguing the collected moisture there. Your head fell back as your elbows gave way, falling flat against the blanket.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he said before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. The moan that left you had his hips pushing into the ground to find relief as his cock begged for release. His tongue flicked against your clit as he sucked and hummed. He thought this might become his favorite place in all of Prythian. He thought that every bad thing that had happened in his life seemed insignificant now that he was able to worship freely between your thighs. He traced fingers up and paused to wet them on his tongue, before pushing his middle and ring finger in to the second knuckle, pulling them out and scissoring them back in again. His tongue found your sweet little button for a second time that night and he laved at it, listening to your cries as he pushed you to the brink. Azriel’s life had been a nightmare, but between your thighs, mouth on your cunt, walls fluttering around his fingers, he thought he’d been blessed by the Mother herself.

Your hips rocked up in time with his fingers and you cried as your gut twisted, the coil there tightening. “Az-“ you gasped. “Azriel,” you went a little whiny on the vowels of his name, and your hand reached down to thread your fingers into his hair, nails scratching and tugging the strands. He hummed, the vibration sending shocks up your spine. “Azriel, baby,” you gasped, coming up on an elbow again, rutting your hips into his face as he took you higher. He didn’t let up, suckling at your cunt, fingers finding the spongy spot on the backside of your clit that made the world go blank “Azriel!” you gasped again, hips stuttering out, “Fuck, fuck— oh.” In seconds you were reaching your peak, hips faltering, thighs twitching, toes curling into the hard planes of his back.

He pulled his mouth off of you, pressing kisses to your pubic bone as he moved north up your stomach. He eyes were alight with desire, the male was pure want and you were his last meal. He pulled his fingers from your cunt and trailed them up to rest at your neck as he slotted his body between your thighs and kissed you. The hedonism of tasting yourself on his mouth made you wetter, cunt pressing into the hard line of his cock, still restricted in his trousers. He moaned at the contact, mouth leaving yours to rest his head against your chin and gather himself. The sound sent a pleasurable shock directly to your core. You grasped the hand at your throat and brought his fingers up and to your mouth, tongue laving at them before taking them to the knuckle, and pulling back slow, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking, keeping your eyes on his. He bared his teeth the sight and ground his hard cock into you, the friction on your clit making your thighs twitch.

“My sweet little mate,” he cooed. “Love of my life,” he nosed your cheek, his fingers still in your mouth. “All my dreaming has been put to shame it would seem,” he pulled his fingers from your mouth and replaced them with his tongue, his hands flying to his belt. He growled in struggle and you ventured a laugh. His eyes found yours and his jaw ticked, “keep laughing, sweet girl, I’ll fuck your throat next and you won’t come.” Your eyes went a little wide and a feline grin appeared on your face. “Mouthy indeed,” you said with glee as he finally got the buckle undone and pushed the pants down and off.

His shirt went next and your fingers traced up his exposed arms to his shoulders. “I’ve seen you shirtless a dozen times, and you still take my breath away,” you said softly, a hand resting on his pectoral. He laughed and went a little pink, before he pushed your dress up your body and over your head, leaving you bare. “I’ve always been impressed by your ability to so disarming,” he said, mouth finding the space above your breast as his hands came to cup them, fingers toying with the nipples. “It’s my favorite thing about you, you see me in a way I can’t even see myself,” he followed up.

Your eyes watered at the admission and your hands found his face, bringing his mouth back to yours as you kissed him again, tongue entwining with his. Your hands grasped his shoulders, as your leg found his hip and you pushed him over, onto his back. Your hands came to rest on his chest as you settled your weight on his lower abdomen. You could feel his manhood standing to attention, insistent at the curve of your ass and you reached around to grasp it, pushing your chest out for his greedy eyes. Taking him in long strokes, you ran your hand up and down, circling your thumb around the head. His eyes screwed shut as his breathing shallowed.

“Wanna know a secret, baby?” You offered, rocking your hips in time with your strokes. He whined then, the Lord of Shadows keened a little whine for you that had you ready to come right there. “Last time we hosted a gala, that night before Hybern,” you were panting, “all I could think about was taking you to bed.” His eyes opened and hazel was gone blacked out in pure desire. His hands found your hips and his own began to move in time with you. “I thought about riding you,” you said, twisting your hand in a way that had his breath guttering out of him. “I thought you might love me in the way you looked at me.” His eyes softened and he leaned up, hands tracing up your spine as he pressed kisses to your chest.

“I loved you that night and every night since,” he said before tonguing a nipple and sucking it into his mouth. “That dress you wore, my color, had me hard for a week.” You laughed then removing your hand from his cock and bringing both to his face, so you could kiss him. His hands slipped to your ass then, palming the cheeks as his tongue moved in tandem with yours. When you moved back from him, a string of salvia still connected you two, you reached up to comb fingers through his hair gently.

“I brought you something,” you said quietly, looking to the corner of the quilt where your bag had dropped ages ago. His brow furrowed, confusion showing in his features. “You don’t have to, but I brought some of that tart. If you want,” you offered the statement nervously, as if there was still a chance for rejection. Azriel’s heart went soft and his brain turned to mush.

“You want to accept it?” He questioned, hands sliding up your back and to your waist. You smiled and looked at him incredulously, “Of course I want to accept it, it feels like I’ve waited a millennia for you.” You’d laughed a bit and that feeling of home raced through him again. Gods, he was fucked.

You leaned off his lap, pulling the strap of your bag to you and unzipped it. There, packaged in a little glass container, lay a small slice of the berry tart you’d fretted over earlier in the day. “Nesta made some stupid comment about ‘cooking’ when I’d asked where you were,” you laughed in hindsight at the female’s leading words. “She knew because Cassian knew, he helped me with the food and candles,” Azriel murmured pushing your hair up and over your shoulder.

He pulled the container from your grasp then and opened it before picking the pastry up with his fingers, the same fingers that had been inside you minutes ago. Eyes on yours he took the first bite, your heart thrumming as the golden thread of your bond lit up like the sunrise. His eyes never left yours as he consumed the pastry in four bites, swallowing and pulling his fingers into his mouth at the remaining sweetness there.

The bond between you two was shining, strong and thrumming with love. ‘Hi,’ you tried, your thoughts reaching out to him. He smiled, laughing freely, and his voice came through clearly, ‘Hi, Little One.’ You choked out a laugh, eyes watering as you leaned forward to kiss him, tasting the berries on his tongue. ‘Can I make love to my mate now?’ He questioned down the bond and you laughed again. His hands were already tracing your hips as you leaned forward, hand reaching underneath to guide him into your cunt. Lowering yourself down, you rocked forward once then twice in order to take him to the hilt.

Mother above, he was big. His cock was thick and filled you wholly, pushing against your cervix making your eyes flutter in pleasure. You thought of the comment Mor had made about wingspan once decades ago and you heard him laugh, “I’m flattered, truly,” he said playfully, reading your thoughts and nipping at your shoulder.

You rose up again and set to riding him slowly, hips moving in long strokes as his hands traced your ass, pulling at the flesh there in time with your movements. You gave a experimental squeeze of your walls, and he keened a loud moan that had you speeding up your flow. “You keep that up, Little One and I won’t last,” he panted at your throat. “That’s rather the point,” you laughed breathlessly, your own hand moving to cup your breast, the other sliding down to circle your clit. His eyes traced the view greedily, moving down to the point where you connected, watching your cunt take him in full, his cock glistening with your shared wetness. He bared his teeth at the sight, a rumble lighting in his chest.

Just as your walls began to flutter with your impending orgasm, he grasped you and flipped you to your back, pulling your hands from your body and entwining your fingers with his own on each side of your head. He ground his pelvis in deep and your legs hitched higher around his waist. “Azriel, fucking Gods,” you called out at the switch in angle, the tip of his cock grinding into your cervix. He hummed at your throat, teeth marking you there as his hips pulled out and pushed in, grinding each time he bottomed out into you. His wings flared behind him and you thought you’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

“You take me so well, my love,” he panted, “you were made for me.” You whined then, cunt fluttering around him as he bottomed out deep and held it there, grinding his pubic bone into your clitoris. The pleasure raced up your spine and you thought you’d never be able to leave this place, might have to keep him inside you forever. He growled, reading your thoughts. “You want me to fuck this cunt forever?” He asked aloud leaning up, pulling his hands from yours.

You whined at the loss, but the sound died as he pulled your legs up his waist to his shoulders, kissing the scarred calf. He drew his cock out, only to slam back in. “Fuck,” you moaned out, voice going up two octaves. “You want me between your thighs for the rest of my days?” He said again, hips moving faster, your hands moving to your tits as they bounced from the impact. His eyes watched the movement and he bared his teeth again, turning his head to bite into the flesh of your calf.

“Azriel!” You called out again, pleasure zipped up your spine and you felt your stomach tighten. “Az, baby, I’m so close.” He chuckled darkly. “Be a good girl and come on my cock,” he said as his fingers traced down your leg to find your clit, rubbing the bundle in quick, timed circles. “Az- I-,” you barely got the words out before your orgasm overtook you, a long moan exiting your mouth as your cunt tightened around him, he ground into you and worked you through it, before dropping your legs back to his hips and pistoning deeper.

“My sweet mate,” he gasped at the skin of your throat, mouth tracing up to find yours, hands finding purchase on your thighs as he pulled you open, allowing him dive deeper. “My darling love,” he moaned and his tongue moved with yours, your hips pushing up to meet his thrusts, walls fluttering against his velvet length with the remnants of your orgasm.

You ventured your hand up his shoulder to the base of a wing and traced your fingers up the membrane to the bone. His eyes twisted shut, and he keened a low primal whine that had your cunt ready to come again. At the tightening of your walls, he groaned dark and deep, shadows seeping from him, as he pushed in, grinding against the innermost portion of you. His hips pulled out slightly and then pushed back in as his cock kicked, come spurting against your walls. He panted against your throat as his hands released their hold on your thighs and moved up your body before grasping your throat. He moved up to lean over you and his eyes found your own. He gave an experimental thrust of his hips and your eyes widened. Fucking Cauldron, he was still hard.

He laughed then, nuzzling at your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip. “I’m giving you five,” his voice was deeper than you’d ever heard it, “and then I’m eating my come from your cunt and fucking you until the sun comes up.”

You gasped out a laugh as your arms wrapped around his shoulders. ‘They call it frenzy for a reason,’ you thought, kissing along his cheekbone and to his mouth. Gods, you were fucked.

1K notes · View notes

hidtired · 6 days

Text

Hangman [Part 2]

(Daryl Dixon x Reader) Masterlist

Description: Y/N Dixon was to be punished for her husbands actions at the line up. Negan decided to do it in style. Daryl watches you hang before being dragged away. But you had still been alive by the time you were cut down. What will Daryl go through before reuniting with you?

2.8k words

Warnings (Mentions of suicide, gore, ANGST, violence, injury, ect.)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Daryl POV

He saw you getting dragged to stand on that wooden box. Noose swinging back and forth in the air. He had threatened and then pleaded when the rope went around your neck. ‘He had done this, the reason for you standing there.’ You were looking at him. A sweet smile on your face. How could you possibly not be furious with him. He was getting dizzy from moving so much and the amount of blood he lost already. He watched the tears slip down your face but then your face straightened and you glared at Negan. How could you look so brave into death?

Negan was still yapping but the ringing in his ears muted most of his words. He registered, “Any last words?” You didn’t even hesitate stating, “See you in hell.” The look in your eye must have been murderous under the bag that been dragged over your head. Negans chuckle in amusement sent his skin ablaze, “Hope I don’t keep you waiting-“ the silence that followed had Daryl’s mind racing to replace the noise, ‘How do I stop this?’ ‘I can’t lose her!’ The abrupt kick from the box under your feet felt like a stab in the heart. He felt like he was watching it in slow motion. Your slow decent to the ground. To hear the rope pull tot again the tree branch above you.

He watch in shock no noise coming out of him. The bounce of the rope tightening around you suspending you in the air. It was Carl he heard the loudest make a pained grunt at witnessing it. Then you were clawing at the rope that suffocated you. Feet dangling and kicking. You had made a surprised yelp at the first impact. It burned into his mind as soon as he heard it. He took a sharp intake of breath for the first time and he mumbled incoherent please through his cry’s.

When your head fell back you then went slack. Your stillness punched all the air out of his lungs. Everyone’s cry’s and faces pulled into disbelief at your now motionless body. Daryl’s eyes remain glued to you. It felt like he was pulled into a sinkhole and had an empty feeling flowing through him. Negan’s proud voice cutting through the noise of grief, “That was like a damn witch hunt! Shit, didn’t think she would be flopping around so much!” He turned to the people shaking on their knees. “Damn, seems to have learned an important lesson finally! We got there in the end though. THEY GET THE SPIRIT AWARD FOR SURE!” Negan turned to Rick, “I JUST GOT A FEELIN’!” Negan yelled prancing around… putting on a show. “YOU PROVIDE FOR ME!” Rick slowly nodded, “SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO!” He gulped a flash of light making him squint before speaking, "W-we provide-" Negan nodded with a pleased smile getting what he wanted. He pointed to Daryl, "Load him up."

Daryl had dug his hands in the dirt still staring at your body, looking dazed. He felt them pull him and he only struggled a little, tears streaming down his face, noise unable to release from his tight throat. He couldn't leave you. They throw him back in the truck they had dragged him out of in the beginning. He struggled to get back up so he curled into himself. The door slammed making him jump. His mind getting dragged to flashback of you. The moment you saw each other after the prison. When you first admitted to being in love with him. Remembering when you took his last name as yours.

Till death do us part.

Now that it had happened he couldn’t comprehend it. To live without you. For your existence to simply cease. His grief rolled into anger. At the world, at the saviors, but mostly himself. You had always disliked when he got worked up, ‘It will be the death of you!’ But in the end it was the death of you. You had yelled it at him during an argument. He would have said something back to that if you hadn’t started to get worked up tears shinning in your eyes.

‘Your love for me got you killed.’

He quietly sobbed at the thought. The van he was in started to move. He was being taken to who knows where. Whatever it was he would burn it to the ground with everyone who had hurt you in it, including himself.

He passed out somewhere along the way. Only waking at the feeling of stitch’s digging into his shoulder. He was later stripped of his clothes and put in a dark room. He would sit in the corner huddled together playing with the remaining ring on his finger. That’s when the torture here began.

He was feed poorly. Sleep deprived with a song that play on loop at full volume. He felt weak, sometimes thinking he would hear your voice off into the darkness. He would perk up and cry apologizes to you. Blaming himself, soon your presence turned into a haunting after a rough day. He tried to run but was tricked and beaten. He was on the cool floor hearing your voice ring in his ears, “Your fault. If I never took pity on you I’d still be here! YOU KILLED ME!” He would often pull on his hair to quiet you.

A day later, he was dragged to Alexandria. His face was swollen and he had a remaining shake in his hand. He was in a constant state of fighter flight. When he had got to the gates he couldn’t meet anybody’s eye. They had succeeded in breaking him. But not the way they intended. They broke him to comply. To be one of them. But he continued refusal. They broke him by making his life meaningless. With a sole purpose of destroying the ones who took his love from this world.

He was helping move boxes from Alexandria homes. Rick standing next to Negan near by. Rick had spoke to Carl from the porch, “You should go check on Lori. Make sure that she is okay.” He said it loud enough for Daryl to overhear. Daryl was perplexed at the sentence, was he trying to insinuate something? Lori had been dead for a while now, had he lost it again? Carl chimed in, “I’m sure she is doing fine.” Were they talking about you? There’s no way in hell you would be ‘fine’ after the shit that happened. It was hopeful thinking, he probably didn’t even say Lori and he imagined it.

Rick pleaded for Daryl being able to stay but when asked to make his case he knew he wouldn’t let him go. He also didn’t feel he deserved it. He had looked to his brother, his face screaming he cared. It only made him more guilty. You had cared for him, that’s why you were dead.

That was only solidified more back in his cell. Dwight was on him to join them, that all the torture would be over. Even if he did, the torture would still continue in your absence. Daryl said somethings that struck a nerve, “And be like you? Lettin Negan bang your wife, wow you sure saved her.” Dwight threw the dog food sandwich to the floor, “At least she is still alive.” He threw a polaroid to the floor, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Daryl’s hands were balled up. The burning ache in his chest at the mention of you. He slowly moved for the picture flipping it over. The crack of light coming from under the door revealing the picture. It was you hanging in that tree. He immediately looked away, clutching a hand to his chest. The hard tension of emotion bubbling out. He silently wept while the music changed. How stupid could he have been? To think maybe Rick was suggesting you were OK.

Your POV

Daryl was right about that, you were everything but ok. Alive yes, but struggling. When you had gotten to hilltop you were rushed to the doctor. He had done a endotracheal Intubation, shoving a tube down your throat to assist you with breathing. Maggie held your hand while Glenn pinned you down. You relaxed when it was in place. Breathing fully and properly, your eyes rolled in the back of your head going unconscious. All adrenaline leaving your body, now unable to process the pain and shut itself down.

You woke startled. The intrusion down your throat causing a panic. You pulled it out but struggled to cough to clear your airway. You rolled over the side of the bed letting gravity do it. It was hard to work any muscle in your throat. You felt something rapped around it. Almost like a pillow. It was a neck brace but the feeling reminded you of having the rope around you. The pillow case under you reminding you of the bag. Someone grabbed you and propped you up to sit. It was the doctor. You froze from your panic seeing panicked eyes all watching you. Maggie sat leaning into Glenn’s shoulder with a hand clasped around her mouth.

It was like a slap of reality. Eye contact with everyone in the room. They explained things to you while still a little frazzled. You were asleep for 14-16 hours. Your bottom lip trembled and you waved everyone closer to you. You enveloped people in hugs. You had never been so close to death. You gesture for something to write on. After getting it you wrote, “Is everything Ok?” Sasha who now sat in a chair next to the bed spoke first, “You should get better, only concern was how you would eat.” The doctor chimed in, “The damage to your throat is unknown. I can’t say for sure if you could eat solid foods or even talk ever again.” You rub the tension between your eyes grabbing the paper and writing again.

“Daryl?”

Glenn put a hand to your leg, “He’s alive. You should know the saviors took him before they left.” You ran a hand through your hair eyes closed tight. The burning in your eyes from the need to cry only added to the pressure in your growing migraine. You bit your lip and tried to swallow down the tightness growing in your throat from tears. However, the sensation of gulping made your whole body tense, slamming your fists down at the pain. A shaken inhale coming out of you. Everyone cringed around you. You collected yourself before writing again. “How the baby?” You had pointed the paper to Glenn and Maggie. She smiled, “We’re ok.” You breath in relieved about the first good news.

Then came the recovery. Not just physically but mentally. Any rope, tie, or, string set you off. You now no longer slept with a pillowcase. You had to eat everything in a paste. You’d crush it and dilute it with water. Felt like dog food. You were persistent when it came to asking about updates on Daryl. ‘When were people going after him?’ ‘When are we fighting?’

Everyday with the same answer. To think of what they were doing to him as each day passed. You started to debate going after him yourself. No opportunities presenting itself until Sasha and Rosita went off to kill Negan and hadn’t come back. With everyone distracted by them you follow after them. You left a note that read,

“I’m sorry for not telling you I ran off, but I need to go get Daryl. Anyone would do the same in my situation. So, no being mad when I come back! Preferably with two Dixons.”

You while still unable to talk and less than great ability to even drink water, were going to save your husband. You followed old tracks from the girls. Knife in hand and an empty gun holster. Also a black hoodie that was a few sizes too big, (you stole from Jesus.) You were by far behind in your tracking ability compared to your Husband. You remember all the times you would go with him to hunt. Being out there alone often lead to other activities you will admit. Probably what took you so long to learn. You found a factor type building the near the end of the trail. You would wait until the sun goes down and seeing what you were working with.

You had rounded the building a few times preparing for when it became sunset. You also took notice at a lot of cars that had left. You decided to act while they were gone. There was a lot with cars and to your surprise Daryl’s motorcycle. It seemed empty and unguarded. There was already holes in the fence tied with zip ties. You avoided the walkers attached to the fence. Breaking the zip ties with your knife and sliding through. You quickly and quietly made your way through a side door.

The hallway had minimum lighting. Any door you would pass you slowly open to look inside. Footsteps on the other side of the hall caused you to go up a flight of stairs. Quick to make your way down the upstairs hall when you heard women chatting. Ducking into a room closest to you. Pressing your ear to the door listening for the people to pass. Taking notice of the room there was a big bed, and a jacket all too familiar. You were in Negan’s room. Stepping back outside you paused and looked at the door.

Deciding to carve a little message in his door before continuing your search for Daryl.

____ | | | o | /|\ | | | / \ |_

"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _."

You made your way back downstairs. Passing door after door until you saw one cracked open. It was another bedroom. You slowly opened it spotting the key to Daryl’s bike. You pocketed it then saw another thing you recognized, Rick’s python. You moved it to your holster while moving back to the door. You ducked your head out of it looking both ways before continuing. Your heart raced every second you were there.

There was 3 doors left at the end of the hall. When opening the first one it opened to reveal a small space that was empty. It was dirty with full brick walls and concrete floor. You moved to the next one but it didn’t budge, it was locked? You moved to the last door and it popped open like the first. You back tracked to the other door and made a small knock against it. Leaning your ear to the door you heard a deep sigh. Someone was locked in one of these small rooms. Inhaling and hoping it was Daryl. You looked around again to make sure no one was coming.

Jamming your knife in the key hole and pulling out a Bobby pin from the back of your head. You were used to lock picking doors open since all the scavenging you’ve done. It was a habit to always have it on you. You fiddled with the lock looking around from time to time. When you finally got it to turn and unlock you put the pin back and held your knife out for whatever was behind the door. The door slowly opened light illuminating the dark room with a beaten and dirty Daryl. Your heart dropping. He was sat down staring at the floor squinting from the light. You slowly feel to your knees.

He looked up seeing you. A mix of a panicked and heart breaking look flashing across his battered features. You put a finger to your lips telling him to be quiet. You crawl over to him and grab his face. He leaned into you making your heart feel strained, ‘what have they done to him.’ Daryl whispering apologies, “It’s all my fault… god I love you.” His hands hovering over your face. You leaned over to lay your head in his hand. He seemed surprised at the contact. He leans forward looking at your face searching your eyes. His hand traveling down gently to your neck his eyes catching a sight glimpse of the bruise around it before you flinched at the contact to it. He breath comes out ragged,

“Y/N?”

You nuzzle your face in his and leaning down to give him a quick kiss on the lips. He was looking at you with amazement. You grabbed him by the arms and tried to get him to stand, trying to hint that you both needed to leave.

You were going to get him out of here.

Part 3

Next part is final! Feedback welcome and requests always open! What do you think the Hangman game spelt?

This feels like I wrote it poorly so apologies.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl imagines #daryl x female reader #daryl x reader #norman reedus #twd daryl #angst #fluff

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 3 months

Text

Cozened Indigo - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: Unhappy with the assignment she has been given to work on for the Duskendale Gazette, she opts to pursue her own story, not quite realising what she's getting herself into. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @humanpurposes. I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Chewing the end of her pen, she leans closer to the computer monitor as her eyes scan the Reuters website almost frantically.

Aemond Targaryen, son of late billionaire, Viserys Targaryen, charged for the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Case pending trial.

Nervous excitement swirls in her gut, as she leans back in her uncomfortable, creaky office chair. This is the first mention she has seen of such a scandal, unsurprising considering how high profile the Targaryen family are in Westeros. They’ll have worked hard to cover this up, however, with a court case imminent, the news is now public knowledge.

She knows that every media outlet from Dorne to Eastwatch will be all over this, but it will be nothing beyond surface level detail, the most basic of coverage. None of them will be able to get the family to talk, but she can, that is her specialty – was her specialty.

Essos Fraudster Glorified by White Cloak Magazine.

The headline passes through her mind like a stormcloud, a dirty mark upon her career that she can never scrub out. She had been duped, it was an honest mistake, but it had cost her dearly.

When whisperings began regarding an oligarch from Essos having shady business dealings in King’s Landing, she had set out to investigate, feeling it was a story worth telling. To her surprise, he had agreed to an interview, and she had been spun a tale of a man born into tremendous wealth, who was now looking to give back by setting up charitable foundations across Westeros.

She had done her due diligence, followed up on all of the sources at her disposal. Every phone call she made checked out, verifying his claims, and so the glossy double page spread had run in White Cloak Magazine, painting a picture of a misunderstood, altruistic individual who just wanted to share his wealth.

It had been the crowning achievement of her journalistic career, until two days later when the Blackwater Post had run their own story, utterly destroying hers. The oligarch was in fact guilty of tax evasion and money laundering, the charities he had founded mere fronts, empty shell corporations and hedge funds used to hide large sums of money that were never intended to be donated. The sources he had provided to back his claims had all been disreputable business associates of his, posing as bankers, accountants and employees.

He was jailed for his crimes and White Cloak was made a laughing stock for the piece they had run. As the person who had written it, it was her head that was placed upon the chopping block, a blunder of such enormity could not be overlooked.

Her humiliation had felt as though it would swallow her whole. She ought to have been more thorough in her research, but hindsight always possesses more clarity than what is right in front of you. She had considered just giving up and pursuing a different career path entirely, yet despite the shame that shrouded her, she had known that the urge to write would never leave her, an insatiable itch that must be scratched.

For a year she had looked for another job, had applied to just about every magazine and newspaper that existed in Westeros. If she had to relocate to Dorne, The Reach, or even The North then she’d do it for the sake of her career. Unfortunately, the blemish on her record was well known, and nowhere reputable would touch her.

That was until the Duskendale Gazette had taken a chance on her. The pet project of Royce Baratheon, it is a small, localised publication, a far cry from the nationwide reach of the high end White Cloak, but they were willing to hire her, the salary covers her rent, and it means not having to move away from King’s Landing.

For the last eighteen months she has occupied a desk in a darkened corner of the Duskendale Gazette’s offices, lovingly nicknamed “The Wall” by those that sit there - a place where writers at the end of their careers or close to retirement are sent to die.

It has been a slow, painful death, covering everything from disputes over fishing permits in Blackwater Bay to the implementation of a one way traffic system in Rosby. Discovering the news regarding Aemond Targaryen feels like the shot of adrenaline that her career needs to bring it back to life, provided he’s willing to speak to her – provided she can get sign off to write the story in the first place.

She sets down the biro she has been gnawing on and looks at the time on her computer. 9.02am. Glancing over her shoulder towards the big, glass walled meeting room that sits at the centre of the newsroom, she can see that Royce, along with the other editors and department heads are settling around the table, preparing to plan the next round of commissions.

Anxiously biting her lip, she considers her options. It would look bad to just walk in uninvited, however, if she doesn’t ask now then she’ll never get to do it. This is a story worth writing, surely they’d see that? Abruptly, she stands up, drawing in a steadying breath.

Fuck it, I’m going in.

She knocks at the door, not awaiting an answer before pushing it open. The men around the table furrow their brows, falling silent as they turn to look at her.

Royce shuffles the papers in front of him, sighing in irritation. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

Undeterred, in spite of the way her heart thunders in her chest, she steps further into the room towards the head of the table where he sits. “I know and that’s why I’m here. I saw on Reuters this morning that Aemond Targaryen has been charged with the murder of his nephew. I–”

“You won’t be covering that,” Royce interrupts, standing from his seat and lifting a sheet of paper from the pile. “I’m putting you on the upcoming curfew that’s to be implemented in Flea Bottom.”

“Royce, please, there’s something here, I know there is,” she presses, attempting to push down the anger that simmers hotly under her skin at his dismissal. “This could be huge for us.”

“You’ll write the story you’re assigned,” he insists, thrusting the paper towards her, “the last thing we need is a profile of some spoiled aristocrat, especially from someone with your track record.”

There it is. Someone with your track record.

“Just give me a chance–”

“You will write what I’ve commissioned, and be grateful you’re getting anything at all.”

“So you’re just going to ignore this?”

“We’ll place a court reporter on it once it goes to trial, but that is not your concern. Focus on your own assignment.”

She turns on her heel, storming back to her desk. Her skin burns with humiliation, tears blurring her vision as she sits down, slapping the commission sheet down next to her keyboard. Drawing in a steadying breath, she scrubs her hands over her face in an attempt to calm herself.

Scanning the assignment she’s been given, she scoffs. A curfew enforced by King’s Landing Constabulary as a means to curb the violent and drunken behaviour that’s rife in Flea Bottom. It's a soulless story, she knows she’ll be expected to simply present the facts, alongside a media ready quote from the police force, instead of addressing the rampant poverty in the area that is the catalyst for such problems. The final product will be better used as ad space.

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and wanting to prove Royce wrong, she decides to press ahead with the story that she wants to write anyway. Opening her internet browser, she searches the Targaryen name, presented with hundreds of links and articles regarding the family.

There is nothing she doesn’t already know; they’re from old money, own most of the banking and legal services from here to Oldtown and there is a rift that divides Viserys’ second wife, Alicent, and her children from his first daughter, Rhaenyra, and her family.

The remaining patriarch of the family, Otto Hightower, owns a law firm called Red Keep Solicitors which is based in the centre of King’s Landing. A good enough place to start for her background research. Scanning the office to ensure no one’s looking, she stuffs her assignment sheet into her bag and slips out unnoticed.

As she steps out of the taxi that has pulled up outside of the high rise office block, she is surprised by the lack of media presence. She had assumed that with the information that leaked this morning, there would be a line of news station vans parked along the pavement, with journalists all clamouring to get a vox pop from someone from either the Hightower or Targaryen family. Besides a steady flow of traffic down the street, it’s dead. Whoever is working to keep the media away is doing an exceptional job. For once, she is thankful she works for a small, local newspaper; no notoriety means being able to fly under the radar.

The polished black marble of the foyer floor causes each of her footsteps to echo around the lofty reception. The space is modern and minimalist; the reception desk placed at the far wall, the motif of a castle with the company name emblazoned across the wall behind it. A forest green, crushed velvet sofa sits off to the side, serving as the waiting area.

“Good morning,” the young woman seated behind the desk greets her. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Otto Hightower,” she says, smiling politely. The less she gives away, the less likely she is to be turned away.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. I was hoping he might be able to squeeze me in for a quick consultation?” She asks hopefully.

“Hmm,” the receptionist’s eyes narrow, regarding her with suspicion, before she taps delicately at the keyboard of her computer. “I’m afraid Mr. Hightower is fully booked for today. Can I take a message?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait,” she replies, keeping her tone light, attempting to appear casual. She moves to the sofa, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other. She ignores the receptionist, who is now eyeing her intently.

Plucking her mobile out of her bag, she pretends to look busy as the woman behind the desk picks up the phone and speaks in a hushed tone into the receiver, clearly alerting whoever is on the other end to her presence.

Thirty minutes tick by in uncomfortable silence, during which she has checked just about every app on her smartphone and read through most of her emails. Her head snaps up upon hearing the elevator ding. As the doors slide open she sees a tall, much older, bearded man step out. There is no mistaking that this is Otto Hightower.

Jumping to her feet, she follows him as he walks quickly past her, out of the building.

“Mr. Hightower, might I have a moment of your time?”

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even turn to look back at her, his tone clipped as he tells her “I have no interest in speaking to the press.”

Undeterred, she lengthens her strides to keep up with him. “I understand your concern, but I’m not here to drag anyone’s name through the mud. I’d just like to understand more about what happened with your grandson.”

“No comment,” he says flatly, pulling open the rear door of a sleek, black Mercedes that pulls up to the curb and climbing in.

Before she has the opportunity to say anything else, he’s slamming the door closed and the car is pulling away.

She groans in frustration, walking back towards the entrance of Red Keep solicitors and leaning against the wall. She isn’t ready to give up, not when she’s had a small taste of what it’s like to work on something she actually cares about again. This is just a minor setback, she’ll find someone willing to speak to her. For now, she just needs to get back to the office and plan what the next step of her strategy will be. Pulling out her phone, she opens the taxi app, preparing to head back.

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

The quiet voice pulls her attention away from her screen and she glances over her shoulder to be met by a dark, curly haired man, leaning heavily on a cane, an orthopedic shoe on his left foot.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t really have believed that showing up here unannounced would get you an interview, surely?”

She scowls. “And who might you be?”

“Larys Strong,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers.

She turns fully to face him. “And how do you know what will or won’t get me an interview?”

His lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, eyes moving slowly from her head to her feet and back up again. It unnerves her and she can feel herself involuntarily shrinking away from him.

“It’s my job to know. The Hightowers are keen to prevent any unwanted…whispers from occurring, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“So, no one from the family would be willing to speak with me?”

“Absolutely not. But I might be.”

“You? How would you be able to help me?”

His eyes seem to glitter, almost malevolently, as he stares at her. It sends a shiver up her spine.

“Oh, I provide all kinds of help to all kinds of people.”

He produces a business card from his inside pocket, handing it to her.

Larys Strong, Harrenhal Associates.

She gives a quiet thanks, fishing around in her bag and handing him one of her own. He glances at it quickly, before slipping it into the pocket from which he’d taken his own.

“Come by my office around seven this evening,” he tells her. “I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

Watching in stunned silence as he turns and shuffles back inside the entrance of Red Keep Solicitors, she knows she should feel excited – she finally has her in, dubious as it may be – however, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just unwittingly stepped into the midst of something sinister.

She whiles away the remainder of the day back at the Duskendale Gazette, ensuring she knows everything there is to know about the Targaryen and Hightower families – at least everything that’s publicly available anyway. She also looks into Larys Strong; there’s little to be found about him, but what she is able to dig up is impressive. He’s a solicitor, and has seemingly never lost a case for any of the clients he’s defended. She has an eerie feeling that the means through which he achieves this are far from ethical.

By the time seven o’ clock rolls around, she’s stood outside of a dingy brick building, located off of the Street of Silk. It does not even come close to the grandiosity of Red Keep Solicitors, without even so much as a sign to indicate it’s a place of business.

Ignoring the voice at the back of her mind that screams at her to turn and run, she presses the buzzer, pulling the door open as it’s released and making her way up the rickety wooden staircase to the top floor.

The room is dimly lit, small and stuffy, worn out carpet lines the floor, complete with furnishings that are likely older than she is. What strikes her as most odd is the abundance of flowers, there’s a vase on every flat surface and they look strangely out of place, a lurid splash of brightness against their darkened surroundings. She wrinkles her nose, the cloying scent of patchouli is overpowering. It’s either being used to cover up the odour of something else or is a misguided attempt to suggest opulence, but instead comes across as tacky.

Larys hovers in the doorway to his own personal office, watching her as she takes in her surroundings.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he eventually says. “I appreciate that an out of hours visit is less than ideal, but I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.”

She nods, nerves swirling in her gut at the sudden realisation that no one knows that she’s here.

“My secretary has left for the day, so please leave your phone and any recording devices on her desk. I trust you realise that anything discussed this evening is strictly off of the record?”

“Understood,” she replies, deciding to just leave her entire bag on the desk as she follows Larys into his office.

It’s even smaller and more cramped than the tiny space that serves as the reception area. Overstuffed shelves of books line the walls, and the room’s only illumination is a lamp which sits upon the desk.

Larys settles into a leather armchair behind it, gesturing for her to take the seat on the other side.

“Can I ask what your involvement with the Targaryen family is?” She finally asks, once settled across from him.

He sits back, fingers moving absentmindedly over the grip of his cane. “I provide counsel to them. I will be acting as Aemond’s legal defense in the upcoming trial.”

She raises her eyebrows in shock. It’s surprising to know a family as wealthy as the Targaryens would be willing to trust such a delicate matter with someone who operates their business out of a seedy back alley. “You? Why?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, upturning the palm of his free hand. “Who else would? No one from Red Keep Solicitors could represent him, it would be a conflict of interest. And besides, I get results, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, as I’m sure you know all about me. Which leads me to my next question, if the Targaryens don’t want the media involved in this then why have you agreed to speak with me?”

Larys is silent for a moment, fingers stroking delicately over the petals of a red flower that sits within a vase upon his desk. “My reasons are twofold,” he says, finally looking up at her. “First, both sides of the family have come to a mutual agreement that neither one will talk to the press. I feel that is a mistake. Aemond needs all the help he can get. I don’t necessarily mean starting a media circus to report upon his every move and dig into his past, just one reputable source to give him a leg up while he’s at a disadvantage. Second, I have chosen you because I’m aware of your past…indiscretions. The future of your career rests upon this, so I know you will treat it with the due diligence it deserves.”

She scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through her hair. “The guy’s been charged with murder, how much care could he possibly need?”

“The prosecution will be pushing for a sentence for murder, yes. I’ll be arguing for a lesser sentence of manslaughter.”

“So, he didn’t mean to do it?”

“I think it’s better said in his own words.”

“You can arrange an interview with him?”

“I can arrange a visit for you to speak with him where he’s currently being remanded in custody, at Dragonstone Prison, yes.”

She attempts to remain neutral as her excitement bubbles unrestrained internally. “When is the trial?”

“In three weeks, so we have to act swiftly. I believe this concludes our discussion. I shall be in touch regarding your visitation.”

She is taken aback by the abrupt ending to their conversation, rising slowly from her seat as she leaves his office and collects her bag. It’s unnerving that even as she descends the staircase she can still feel his presence, the sweet, heady aroma clinging to her clothes like an invisible fog.

True to his word, Larys gets her her visit, and two days later she sits in the ferry terminal for Dragonstone Prison. Having had her identification checked, and her details input onto the system, she is issued a number and has to wait for it to be called before she can board.

The wait is agonising, and a full hour passes before she is called forward, scrambling to her feet towards the boarding area. The grey waters are choppy, causing the ferry to rock slightly on its short journey across the Gullet, until the craggy isle that houses the criminals of Westeros comes into view. The high, cement walls of Dragonston Prison are imposing and bleak against the skyline.

Disembarking the ferry, she is guided through the visitors’ entrance and searched, her personal effects rifled through as she walks through a metal detector, and her electronic devices taken away, to be returned to her upon her departure. Her identification is checked once more, and her details input onto the system again. She is told to take a seat, her name will be called when it’s time for her visitation to begin.

The hard seat is uncomfortable, and without the distraction of her phone she is left to stare at the clock on the wall. Its relentless ticking is maddening, the minutes feeling as though they crawl past. So absorbed in watching it, she jumps when her name is finally called, struggling to compose herself as she’s ushered through into the visitation area.

A series of tables and plastic chairs make up the startling white windowless room, and she is led to one in the far corner. Unsure of what to do, she simply stands beside her seat, awaiting the man she is to meet.

From the photos she has seen, Aemond cuts an imposing figure, dressed all in black. She hopes that the softness of the grey prison uniform will render him less intimidating. However, those thoughts are dashed the moment she sees him walk slowly through the door on the opposite side of the room.

He is in no rush, his steps are methodical, unhurried, a predator stalking its prey as he moves towards her. The photographs do not do justice to his height, long and lithe, he towers over her, and she feels herself holding her breath as she takes in the sharpness of his features. His long, platinum hair is pulled back into an immaculately styled ponytail, giving her an unhindered view of his chiseled jaw, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, though spoiled slightly by the ragged, angry looking scar that runs the length of the left side of his face. The eye within the socket sits milky and lifeless, but it does little to lessen the intensity of the brilliant blue of his right.

She notices the slightest dilation of his pupil as he stares unblinkingly at her, making her heart race as the cold sweat of fear prickles the back of her neck. So preoccupied with simply getting her story, it has not occurred to her until now that she would be face to face with a killer.

Certain he senses her fright, she sees his lips twitch with the faintest of smirks. The fact that it does not reach his eye makes her blood run cold.

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kirbyskisses · 2 years

Text

kirby’s kinktober (fifteen)

belly bulge//taishiro toyomitsu

warning: anatomically impossible. please suspend your disbelief, the man is 8 feet tall.

it’s lucky that Fatgum is so sweet because were he a man of less patience and kindness he could easily rip you apart.

it takes weeks of him driving you to orgasm after orgasm on his tongue and huge hands - making your tongue loll out and your eyes roll back as you twitch - just to loosen you up enough for his sweet, hot tip to scrape against your insides.

“aw buttercup.” he coos and kisses the side of your face as if he’s not opening you up to the biggest cock you’ve ever seen. “all those sweet little juices just f’r me? they look so pretty mixed up with all the pretty lube on yer hero’s cock.”

you hiccup out, barely able to talk or think at the stretch of just the first fat inch. it should be hot but it’s smothered in cool lube, a requirement in order for him to so much as think about fucking you.

“love being in your tight hole baby. you want to be the only one to ever take me all the way, my sweet girl?”

you nod with a whimper, plush sheets enveloping you from one side while his muscular frame pins you from the other, dripping sweat with a sweet smile despite the animalistic ways he’s holding you down. he makes you feel so small. “yes…fatsy, want it just for me.”

“then why don’t we make this a little easier on you.” he gets off of you and stands up, holding you like a precious doll in a way that makes you feel utterly tiny and weightless. your back against his chest, you swallow deeply.

maybe the doll comparison was apt.

he’s going to use you as a fuck toy.

you thank the gods above that he’s in his fit form, sure that the swollen tip of this size is already far too much for you.

“keep your pretty little legs open. ‘M not gonna drop ya - you just focus on sinking that pretty cunt onto this fat, fat cock and I’ll do all the work.”

honestly you don’t register a thing he says - you don’t know if it’s seconds, minutes or hours that are passing - brain and pussy both filled with the painful but utterly wondrous stretch of his monstrous cock.

that was the best word for it. monstrous. blessed with size by his quirk, taishiro was deeply afraid to hurt you but the fear melts in place of pleasure.

he can’t even tell that you’ve already cum by the time you reach the halfway point, too big to feel your tiny, stuffed cunt squeezing and shivering on him, love juices leaking down to his heavy balls which he slowly, achingly, finally slides you down to.

holy shit. you can’t think, you can’t move, you can’t breathe. (surely, you must be breathing otherwise your giant lover would have a panic attack and pull you off to shower you in aftercare - but even if you are breathing you can’t feel it.)

his tip is smushed to your cervix, a mixture of lube and precum sloppily covering the unbreachable hole. your back is arched, mouth open to scream despite nothing coming out.

you’re not even sure what would come out.

maybe something like “too big, too big, too BIG.” but even though the scary size has distended your stomach but making a curved protrusion it feels good. unspeakably, horrifyingly good. you’re a ragdoll of pleasure for and by your sweet, sweet husband.

“y’look so cute, my sweet treat. oh.”

his eyes light up with a torturously erotic look. “someone’s tummy can’t take it, huh? can ya tell where i am?” he teases, knowing your mind left the second he sank into you.

“tell me where I am, gumdrop.” you let out a warble, choked sob of a moan, uncontrollable tears on your cheeks. you can’t even say your own name.

“oh? need help pretty girl. ‘m right…” he traces the bulge in your tummy with his finger, landing and pressing his hand onto the outline of his creamy, ultra-thick tip

“here.” he chuckles, a bright golden smile beaming down on you as you lose it completely - shaking and squirting at the pressure in your stomach.

he doesn’t slide you off, letting you cockwarm like a living fleshlight, basking in the satisfaction.

“you did good, cutie pie. can’t wait to see how you cum if I actually start moving next time.”

#smut #fatgum x reader #fatgum #taishiro toyomitsu #taishiro x reader #mha #bnha #x reader #kirby’s kinktober #kinktober #october

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be-my-ally · 3 months

Text

I Feel The Earth Move

for the prompt: something weather related. (wow, a genius must have come up with that)

I, I don’t know how or when this turned into 5k (7k now), I truly don’t - take it from me, nothing happens in this fic, it is pure (somewhat domestic) fluff and smut. It’s also - well, this is probably the closest you could get to a peek inside my brain of my current favourite sleep/daydream fantasy - i.e it's just reader and elvis having a chat?

warnings: 18+, smut (of the gentle kind), slight body-negativity (from reader, about herself). Because this is fanfiction, suspend your disbelief and assume Elvis was allowed a day off during his November 1971 tour during which this fic takes place, and that Joyce isn’t available. Red being a bit of a dick. I change tenses about 12 times.

1971!Elvis x fem!reader – soft belly mentioned.

wc: 7.3k - idk enjoy my long descriptions of choosing pjs, and sitting around watching Elvis sit there.

(It's been so long since I posted a non-series fic, that I truly can't remember taglist info so here is a PSA to message me/comment if you want me to tag you in everything!)

Elvis had called you, unexpectedly, just a few days ago, to join him for the rest of the tour and though you’d found the whirlwind of movement and activity exciting you were already tired. You couldn’t imagine how Elvis himself must be feeling. So, you were grateful that you were stopping for a little while, even if it was just for the night. The town you’d ended up in wasn’t anything special, just a convenient stop-off for the brief rest before you all continued to the show the next night. The hours from the show the night before, and the following afternoon weren’t long enough of a break for anyone to go home and relax, but Elvis had been twitchy and anxious to do something else for the day, and you weren’t surprised to be told there was to be a new car delivered to the hotel to play around with.

When the new, shiny, black car had pulled up outside the hotel you’d stood beside him at the window, nodding as he pointed out specific features, ooh and aahing at the right moments, even though, as far as you could tell it looked much the same as the others you’d seen him drive. But it made him happy and that was what mattered. Elvis had grinned at you and curled an arm around your waist, asking you oh so nicely if you wouldn’t like to go out for a ride with him in it. He’d had a long week, it was all getting a bit much - the tour, and the travelling and he just wanted to feel normal for an evening - you get that right? You’d readily agreed once he’d hitched your shirt up to brush his thumb against your skin and whispered he wanted it to just be the two of you. You would have agreed regardless, truthfully you would have agreed to anything he suggested after having had the call, so unexpectedly out of the blue, to come and spend a few days with him; you wanted to make the most out of every second.

You soon live to regret that sentiment, however, as you hurry to the car with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s freezing and, though it isn’t raining yet, the dark grey sky isn’t looking particularly friendly. Elvis starts to follow you down the motel steps after a few muttered words to the boys, but pauses for a moment - watching you rapidly trot to the car before disappearing back into one of the rooms. You watch, shivering from the passenger seat, hoping he won’t take too long when he appears a minute later, hurrying down the stairs himself, this time carrying a second of his coats - a short but thick suede and shearling jacket that he throws onto your lap before climbing in himself. He’s wearing a red suede coat that falls to his knees, and he’s forced to unbutton it to sit down in the car. He mutters to himself about it, as he stands back up before finally getting in and slamming the door shut. He glances over at you,

“Look - get that on ya now, there we are - I’ll, I’ll turn the heat on in a mo, once we’ve got her running.”

“Thank you,” You shoulder into the jacket gratefully, “I didn’t realise it was so cold.” He hums at you, twisting the ignition and sending the car purring to life. He grins at the engine noise, turning to look at you with boyish delight.

“Alright then, honey, let me show ya what this can do.” You squeal as he takes off, and he laughs as you grab at the handle while he wildly turns the first corner, calming down a little himself once he was on the open road. He sings along to the radio, The Temptations are playing, Just My Imagination, and he hums along to the words he doesn’t know, singing the ones he does. It’s absurdly endearing and you’re momentarily breathless getting to watch and hear him like this. You have no idea where you are, too distracted with watching him than the passing scenery. He’s so pretty in the early evening light, happy and relaxed. He taps his hand on the wheel to the beat, moving his head, turning to sing to you. You smile, overwhelmed but not wanting to scare him off and unsure how to respond, but he clearly understands your facial expression and appreciation, offering his palm up on your thigh for you to hold.

You drive in what feels like an endless combination of loops and “Which way looks exciting baby? You wanna go left or right here?” until, somehow, it’s been almost two hours and you were passing through a small town on the outskirts of the city, gaining more and more distance from the hotel. If you’d started to pay any attention to your surroundings you’d realise you were starting to recognise them.

The storm starts slowly, just a little rain, a grey cloud here and there, and Elvis ignores it as he drives, laughing when he drives through a forming puddle and splashing up the water onto the windows. Simply turning his radio up higher in response to the worsening rain patter. You’re showing him your fully choreographed dance routine to I Feel the Earth Move, and he laughs at your wiggles and shakes while you giggle performing it, signalling to the sky and emphasising the ‘tumbling down’ lyric that matches the downpour picking up.

Almost at once, as the rain increases in tempo, the car starts to slow, sputtering and shuddering to a halt. The radio keeps playing although you immediately reach out to turn it down,

“Uh… what, what’s happened?” You have no clue about cars, but you’re hopeful Elvis might have some idea. Elvis growls, trying to turn the ignition again, the car sputters but refuses to start.

“Fuck, fuck, just fuckin’ great man.” He slams his hands on the wheel in frustration, and you flinch, turning to look wide-eyed out into the rapidly darkening evening sky, stormy and intimidating, the rain falling into flowing streams down the road. Elvis tries again, yanking his glasses off like that might make a difference, but it just won’t start and though you really don’t want to annoy him any further, you have, while peering over at him, noticed something that might be related to your sudden lack of power.

“Um, El, is - is that the gas blinking at you?” Elvis lifts his head up from the wheel, frowning at the fuel indicator. He swears again,

“Fuckin’ piece of junk - it must be broken already! I swear, honey, it had a full tank when we left - didn’t, it gave me no ind’catshun it would do that.” He shakes his head, muttering about a hunk of junk new cars while the E continues to flash. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth,

“Uh, well, at least we know what the problem is,” You rack your brain for a solution, “We’ll just have to get one of the guys to run us some gas!”

“Yeah real smart idea, ‘cept we don’t have a phone.” You whirl around to look into the backseat but sure enough, no phone. “In the goddamn middle of nowhere,” He slaps the wheel again. You look out of the windows, realising with a start exactly where you were. You debate for a second if you should confess but the rain picks up again, hammering down even harder than before, and you realise you don’t have a choice. “Guess our only choice is to go knocking on some people’s doors.” He sighs, putting his head into his crossed arms on top of the wheel,

“We-e-ell, not quite.” He rolls his head to peek at you,

“What d’ya mean?” You blink at him,

“Uh, my house is right around here. Just - just a little past that next corner.” Elvis sits fully upright, mouth agape, with a furrow forming in his brow,

“Your house? Around that corner?” You nod, anxious that he’s about to be mad that you hadn’t told him. He side-eyes you suspiciously,

“Thought you were from…uhhh, wasn’t it, uh, Louisville?”

“Well - yes and no, that’s where I go to college - my parent’s house is right around that corner ‘s only about another, I don’t know - maybe a 20 minute walk?” Elvis looks at you a little strangely again, but after he looks up at the sky, he nods.

“We’ll have to make a break for it I guess. Not quite how I planned the evenin’ - your folks be ok witchyou bringin’ me home?” You nod,

“Course! And, well, they’re visiting my aunt at the moment up in Chicago anyway - she’s just had another baby.” He pauses looking at you questioningly,

“And you didn’t wanna go? Don’t women like babies?” You roll your eyes,

“God, no I didn’t want to go! What can they do at that age anyway?” He frowns like he’d wanted to protest your point, but then realises he can’t deny it’s true, “I’ll go and see her when she can stand and look at me - and, well, I, I, I had plans made by then anyhow.” He grins at you and pleased that he liked your plan you continue,

“I can’t promise the fridge’ll be stocked, but there should be something we can eat in the pantry while we wait for the guys, and obviously we can use the phone -“ Elvis shakes his head, eyes bright,

“Yep, needta tell ‘em where we are, wouldn’t want them sending out a search party but…” He makes a show of peering out of the window, leaning forward, “You know, I wouldn’t want to make any of ‘em come out in this.” You blink at him, it was a bad storm, sure, but it would be a push to call it undriveable, “I s’pose we may as well stay the night.” He pats your thigh and you stare at him for a second, processing, before nodding.

“I suppose that does make an awful lot of sense. It wouldn’t be right for them to get stuck out here too…”

“Be nice to spend the night alone with you, baby.” He winks, nodding at the door, “Whenever you’re ready, hon, lead the way, I’ll follow you.”

You’re both soaked through by the time you reach the little front porch. Although your matching suede jackets had done the job of keeping some of the rain off, you had had still been out in the rain for a little too long - it had been a rapid walk, or slow jog for about fifteen minutes before you’d reached civilisation, frantically picking up the pace as thunder started to rumble overhead, for the last few minutes of dashing to your street. You scramble under the little decorative frog on the top step for the spare key, desperately hoping your mother hadn’t decided to move it while they were away. You hold it up triumphant, oblivious to the way the moonlight was reflecting off your blouse under Elvis’ open jacket, the rain making the white totally see through. Elvis grins at you encouragingly, and you open the door with a flourish, allowing you both to tumble into the empty house. You slam the door shut, leaning against it, dripping wet, to watch Elvis look around curiously and you anxiously begin to fill the silence.

“Um, I don’t know what clothes I have here - but, I definitely have something and I’ll bring down something for you, uh, you’ll probably have to wear my father’s pyjamas, and he’s a touch bit bigger than you, but we have a dryer!”

“Thank you sweetheart, that’s mighty kind of you -“

“So, I can get your clothes dried for you.” Elvis is looking at you with bemusement, and you can feel yourself rambling, and you force yourself to take a breath before continuing, “I’ll have to check if daddy’s left the water on - we might have to make do without a shower, but I’ve got plenty of blankets to warm us up instead.”

“Sounds great - I’m sure that’ll -“

“So if you just -“ you gesture to the kitchen doorway, “-I won’t be a minute, help yourself to anything you like. The phone’s just on the wall there if you wanna call the hotel.” You sprint up the stairs, furious with yourself for the rising panic you were starting to feel - what were you thinking. You were an adult, you could cope with this. You could deal with Elvis Presley. In your house. With nothing prepared.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down, trying to think straight, right. First things first, you head into your parent’s room, quickly finding an inoffensive pair of button down pyjamas for Elvis to wear, and you’re about to take them down the stairs when you’re suddenly made aware of the sticking sensation of your wet skirt to your legs - Elvis must be soaked through too, so you detour to the bathroom to fetch him a towel, shouting down to him,

“El! Here ya go!” He appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at you with some amusement, as he tries to catch your particularly terrible throw. Clearly he doesn’t normally have his clothes thrown at him from above and it makes you laugh watching him flounder on the opposite side of his stage scarf dynamic for once.

“ ‘re you not coming down, baby?”

“Um, I’ll be down in just a second! Just leave your stuff on the table and I’ll run it down to the dryer in a bit!”

“Uh, well, sure thing, honey, thank you.” A moment or so later you can hear the clinking of what hopefully wasn’t too many firearms in your house as he gets undressed and then his murmuring voice as he speaks to someone on the phone.

You really didn’t have much by way of clothes still in this house, and even less that you would consider acceptable to wear with Elvis Presley in the room. You stare into your drawer for a little too long, willing for another choice to appear. Such magic powers are, apparently, beyond you however so there’s just the two options; a little chiffon babydoll set you’d left behind because it was now pretty much indecent, or a gingham flannelette set complete with embroidered teddy bear on the pocket. On the one hand the little babydoll set was pretty cute, but you were also freezing and warm cotton sounded appealing to your damp skin - but was being so bundled up really the image you wanted to give off to Elvis? He’d never seen you in anything but your very, very, carefully chosen outfits. You start to unbutton your shirt, determined you’d just have to freeze for the sake of fashion but as soon as the cool breeze hits your damp skin you change your mind, rapidly rubbing yourself down with a towel and changing into the snug flannelette of your winter pyjamas. When you come bouncing down the stairs he’s stood waiting for you, and you pause near the bottom, suddenly uncertain. He grins at you, reaching up to lift you down the last step, placing you right in front of him.

He’s taken his glasses off, tucked them into the breast pocket of the shirt, and clearly had been trying to tame his wet, lightly curling hair, into some semblance of order, the newly long shagginess pushed back against his ears. The borrowed PJs swamp his frame, Elvis is far slimmer than your father, and when you look him over you have to stifle a giggle. The pants ending about two inches too short and stopping far above his delicate ankles and bare feet. He looks down at them himself, following your eyes, and where at home he might have been self-conscious, here he takes it in his stride, smiling back at you with his eyes sparkling.

“Think I oughta wear this on stage?” He points his toes and you giggle, shaking your head, and gesture to the living room.

“I don’t know... I think we’d make a good looking pair.” You pose with your hands on your hips, blowing him a kiss,

“Uh-huh, sure, ‘specially with your lil’ bear there.” He flicks at the pocket on your chest and you blush,

“They’re warm!” He grins, pushing back his hair,

“They sure look it, you look snug as a bug.” He grabs your waist, pulling you into him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and you melt into his hold for a moment, before he pulls away, peering into the living room. You gesture,

“Feel free to sit anywhere.” Elvis looks around before walking over and settling in the armchair, resting his ankle on his knee. You anxiously consider your options before settling onto the couch, feeling silly for being nervous in your own home. It’s silent for a moment, well, somewhat - Elvis humming to himself as he continues to look around - assessing the bookshelves, before he finally speaks up;

“Don’t suppose you have any smokes ‘round here?” You shake your head apologetically,

“No - My da-” Before you suddenly remember that you do, and go running off up the stairs, hoping you were right. You come sliding back down, socks slipping on the stairs much to Elvis’ amusement as you come racing back in, but he says nothing and gratefully accepts a proffered cigarette from the box you hold out.

“Sorry, daddy doesn’t have any cigars - he doesn’t smoke.” You add on, as if otherwise you might have been embarrassed at not having any to offer. He shrugs,

“S’ok, I don’t mind.” You go to put the box away and he shakes his head,

“Jus leave it there - s’alright? Don’t of’fen smoke ‘em now-a-days but when I do, I uh, I’ll have a few.” He pauses as if remembering his manners, “If that’s alright?”

“Oh of course - by all means.” You hand it back to him, sinking back down into the couch. He leans back, the picture of ease, studying you, a glint in his eye,

“They your mama’s? I’ll replace ‘em.”

“Oh no, she doesn’t either,”

“You forget where you’d hidden them or somethin’?” He says it delicately, and you can feel him teasing you - like he already knows. You inwardly cringe in embarrassment,

“Uh, well, my parents didn’t like me to smoke - neither of them do, they’re not - they’re from before I went away, obviously, they were in my dresser still.” He grins at your bashfulness,

“Sensible. I wouldn’t let my little gal smoke none either.” He offers you the box, and you shake your head at his gall at offering you your own belongings, but still take one, letting him light it for you. You sit for a moment, but the silence drags, and it gets all too much for you all too fast. You get up to turn on the television, but the signal keeps dropping no matter what you try to do, and eventually Elvis says,

“Oh, look honey, just give it up - you gotta have somethin’ else we can put on? Look there’s your records over there,” He points to the player on the sideboard, and you readily agree. He sighs, pushing up to his feet and coming to stand next to you, crouching down to cast a judgemental eye over the collection. He pats your shoulder, pointing to what he wanted on, and you immediately obey.

You sit back down, just for a second, before you realise you were starving. “Are you hungry?” You don’t even give Elvis the possibility to respond before you continue, “Sorry, silly question - I won’t be a minute, I’ll see what I can come up with.” You disappear, rummaging through the cupboards to compile as much of a meal as possible,

“Well, there’s not much…” You bring in the tray, “But there’s pop-tarts!” Elvis looked it over, laughing -

“Jeez honey, you got anything not rolled in sugar?” You blush,

“Well sure but, it’s - I’m not a great cook Elvis,” He laughs, reaching over to grab a handful from the nuts you’d found, “Besides - there’s really not much here.”

“Nah, nah, this is great honey, truly, great.” You hand him a cup of hot cocoa, and he’s just as pleased with that as with his tray of exceedingly random snacks, and you settle on the floor by his feet with a deck of cards. He plays with your hair as you shuffle, swearing as the intimate moment is wrecked by your yelp at the strands catching on his chunky ring.

Once you’re untangled you suggest gin, and you play for a couple of rounds, putting up with Elvis somehow winning every time before he sighs as if bored, picking up a book your father had left on the side. He opens it up, glancing at the pages, nodding in pleasure,

He whistles, “Whoo, boy, your daddy’s got good taste - c’mon up here and I’ll read to you, baby.” You scramble up to clamber onto his lap, squealing as he tugs you onto him more than the chair, tucking your feet into the crease of the cushion and the arm and situating you into a comfortable position. You glance at the cover, internally groaning, it’s a WWII history, and you’d really rather not at this time of the night, but it’s harmless enough to let him drone on above you, his delicate cadence and deepening voice gentle on your ears. You don’t realise you’ve drifted off until he nudges you,

“You’re not paying attention.” You wiggle your toes, yawning,

“Sorry, sorry I am, ‘m just warm.” He snorts,

“You were snoring,” You blush,

“I don’t snore,” Elvis pokes your side as he laughs, nodding his head at you,

“Oh, sure you do.” You frown - about to protest some more but he cuts you off before you can, “I think, I’ve gotta leave for the show in, uh, ‘bout eight hours, so prolly need to get some sleep.” It had gotten quite late, and while you wouldn’t admit to snoring, you had been asleep, so you readily agree.

You hadn’t really thought about the sleeping arrangement past taking him up the stairs with you, just assuming you’d be in together - like you were at Graceland, or in the hotel but stood in the doorway of your bedroom with Elvis now you weren’t so sure. You have no idea what it is about your teenage bedroom making you feel nervous again, you’re an adult - you’ve spent more than enough nights in Elvis’ bed and yet for some reason you feel like you’re sixteen again, nervously sneaking a boy upstairs.

He peers around you to investigate the room, assessing the floral wallpaper and curtains. He brushes past you to take a closer look, turning in a circle. You watch his brow furrow as his eyes land on the glossy magazine pages surrounding your mirror. It’s as if he can’t stop himself, nodding with self satisfaction as he puts the image of George Harrison face down onto your dressing table. He doesn’t seem to have the same issue with the images of his younger self.

“Uh well, here we are. I guess if you have in here, I’ll go downstairs - or, I’ll go into my parents room.” He whirls around at your suggestion,

“No, no, wanna stay with my girl in her bed, y’can’t leave me all on my lonesome inna new place; I might sleepwalk right outta here!” You shake your head, tummy flipping, even as you smile at his vehemence.

“Well sure, but,” You gesture to the bed, “I forgot about this.” He frowns looking over at your pink, ruffled bed.

“Forgot about what? ‘S not got clean sheets or something, honey?”

“No, No, of course they’re clean!” Elvis smirks at your immediate outrage, “It’s just it’ll be uh…cosy. I forgot how small the - well, it’s not quite a full” You brace yourself for a second after you say it, forgetting that you’re not on the road with the boys at the moment, you’re in your home and he knows that. Knows that even if the situation would have normally caused him to pitch a fit he wouldn’t here. Here and now he’ll be on his best behaviour, and if you accuse him of acting any differently he’d deny it with a twinkle in his eye. You imagine how ridiculously polite he would be had your parents been home; “Why, this must be your sister! Thank you for having me over, I know it’s a real impo’sitshun.” and “Yes ma’am, you have a lovely home.” all, “No ma’am I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.” and of course why yes, he is a good southern boy. Although, if they had been, he probably wouldn’t be squeezing into your bed with you. Still that was probably unfair, he really had been on his absolute best behaviour all evening.

“Cozy is a-ok with me, baby, y’don’t mind me getting real close do ya now?” He takes a step closer to the bed, patting the covers.

“No, no but I - you’re used to, god your bed must be four times this - are you going to be able to sleep?” You ask, concerned, and he shrugs,

“Prolly not - truth be told, but I don’t have my med’cation either. Hadn’t expected to be out very long.” Oh, of course. You frown continuing,

“Oh - maybe it would be better then if we split up - it probably is too small for the both of us.” He shakes his head,

“No, no, come sit over here now, listen here and I’ll tell you somethin’.” He pats the bed and you perch onto the side of it, watching him talk, “When I was little - just you know,” he gestures to his knees to indicate his height, “Momma an’ I used to share a bed that I’m pos-i-tive was small’r than this one.” He sits down next to you, leaning back on an arm to better look over it.

“With your Mama?”

“Yeah, yeah, we were - lord, we were poor as anythin’ and we just didn’t have no spare money for beds or, anything- and the like; while daddy was away ‘specially.” You didn’t know any of this,

“Oh. That must have been hard.” It’s hard to imagine him as anything less than the expensive, gaudy, generous man in front of you. But then, it does make sense - no-one who’s that giving comes from money.

“Well, you see, I s’pose I didn’t know any different - and I love my mother, I really do - did. That’s why I bought ma house, well, why I did everythin’ I suppose - it t’was all for her really.”

“Oh - that’s, that’s really lovely Elvis.” He nods, a little sadly, shrugging,

“Yeah, well, never mind. I know ‘s a little weird, but it weren’t anythin-” You interrupt his bashful commentary, hating the idea that this totally natural behaviour might be something he feels bad about.

“I was 12 before I could fall asleep by myself - my mom had to lay with me, or daddy hadta read to me - so you know I don’t think that’s weird at all El, ‘specially if you didn’t have room.”

“Yeah well, I was prolly a little too old by the time we could ‘ford a second bed, but it’s just like what you say - it weren’t anything strange.” You nod, pleased he seems less embarrassed. And wasn’t that just a wild thought - that Elvis might be the one embarrassed in your childhood bedroom.

“Well, in any case, there’s no point being uncomfortable - maybe we should…maybe we should try my parents room?” Elvis shudders,

“Sorry doll nothing ‘gainst your folks, but uh I don’t much like the idea of bein’ uninvited into someone’s bed…” You nod, standing back up and starting to tug down the sheets,

“Well then, let’s give this a go…I’ll just go fetch the spare pillows.” He looks over at you incredulously,

“Honey, you can’t possibly think we need more pillows?” He gestures to the overstuffed bed, “I’m not even sure how you fit in there with all of them!” You giggle,

“I do!” You start to pull off the decorative ones, “Not these ones though - I don’t sleep with these, or those.” You point to the others, and he shakes his head as he joins you in throwing them onto the floor, leaving just the main pillows at the top. It still left five pillows though and Elvis shakes his head,

“You got an itty-bitty bed and enough cushions for ten!” You laugh, defending yourself,

“I just like to be cocooned!” You wriggle, as if imitating being wrapped up, and he laughs back at you, eyes crinkling as he watches you.

“Cocooned! Well, you won’t need them tonight, can just sit’ate your bitty self right by me.” You smile, and he settles the nerves that were starting to swirl in your tummy as you’d continued to prepare the bed for both of you. “Seriously though - how’d you fit all these in?” He stands back, hands on his hips trying to picture your usual sleeping arrangement.

“Well, I normally sleep on that one there, and then those two go on either side, and that one goes ‘tween my legs.” Elvis waggles an eyebrow, before placing the pillow you’d gestured to atop ‘his’ side of the bed.

“Oh! and a friend!” As you tossed another cushion to the floor, the stuffed bunny tucked between the pillows had gone flying, you flush red at the sudden swirl of guilt as you watch Clarissa hit the floor, “Who’s this?” You force yourself to be nonchalant,

“Oh Elvis - don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasin’ honey, you tryin’ tell me it’s not got a name?” He picks her up,

“El, she’s no-one.” You shake your head,

“Aha! A girl bunny!” He holds her aloft, “She’s mighty cute!”

“Really - El, I don’t know how she got there again.” He sighs, tucking her under his own arm, whispering to her,

“She’s gonna let you sleep out in the cold, yeah-huh, you’re right, it’s not right. You jus’ wanna be warm and fuzzy too don’t ya.” Though your tummy clenches at his teasing, the way he continues to have her tucked into his armpit, carefully placing her into the bed when you climb in and tucking her back into his chest makes you feel some soft sort of way. You climb in too, a little tense at first. It’s not like you’re unused to sleeping next to him, but there’s usually just a few minutes of cuddling before he rolls away across the vast expanse of mattress. But today he holds you close, arm wrapped around - your face smushed to his chest, it’s a little strange, the combination of him smelling like your home and him. Not that he has a choice but to hold you close - if either of you tried to roll away, you’d go clear off the side of the bed.

“Goodnight Elvis,” You whisper, and he whispers it back to you, tucking his chin over your head. You try to settle your breathing, anxious to fall asleep as you feel his own breathing deepen as he settles in. He makes a little tutting noise a couple of times, and you worry you’re encroaching on his space, so you inch away, clinging onto the edge of the mattress.

“Where y’going baby?” He mutters into your ear, “C’mon back here.” He rolls you into him,

“Don’t wanna smother you.” He huffs a laugh, smoothing down your hair,

“Wanna be smothered by you.” He settles with a happy hum, kissing your head again, and you relax your breathing, trying to will yourself to sleep.

The way you’re tucked against him means every movement feels exaggerated, so when, a minute later he starts to kick his legs down you’re forced to just put up with the motion for a few moments - until it becomes a bit more vigorous;

“El - stop.” He doesn’t stop, continuing to kick at the bedding. “Elvis! You’re kicking all the blankets off of me.” The motion ceases, but less because of anything you said and more because he’s succeeded in shoving the sheets to the bottom of the bed. He throws himself back, laying there on his back and dramatically panting as if in relief at the temperature change. You shudder in the chilly air, “Elvis! You can’t possibly be too hot, it’s - it’s practically freezing out there!”

“You know I like it cool, hon.” You frown, tucking your knees up,

“Well yeah? But I’m freezing!” He rolls his eyes, but tugs the sheets back over you, leaving one of his legs out.

“There we are see, just cuz ‘m a gentleman.” He tugs you back to him, “Now, stop ya yabberin’ on and let me get some sleep.” You gasp in outrage -

“Stop yabberin’!! It was you! You were the - “ Elvis hushes you, play snoring in your ear, and you snort back at him, settling with your back against his chest. You’re starting to drift off a little, not quite there, but not truly awake either, when his hand, that had been gently stroking your shoulder moves down to your waist. He snuffles a kiss against your shoulder, pushing the collar of your pyjamas down. Your eyes fly open,

“Oh!” He hums behind you, pulling you closer and curling his arm across your abdomen. He mutters against your skin, whispering into your ear,

“You gotta be all riled up, baby - I sure am, can hardly stand it, lying here all close to you.” He’s breathy on the hard consonants, breath tickling your skin,”Just need you, honey, need you real bad.” Whether it was intentional or not it sends shivers of arousal down your spine, tummy flipping as the heat begins to pool. His hand toys with the bow on your waistband, “Bet you’re close unner there, huh? Bet you’re right and ready for me,”

“I’m - I’m…” You can’t think of anything past stuttering at him, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and he moves his fingers to unbutton your shirt. It falls open, and he leans back just enough to pull it off - you allow him, docile as a doll and he returns to hug you, kissing your now naked back.

“Gonna warm you up now, don’t you go worryin’ bout that, get you all nice and hot.” You wriggle against him, unsure what to do with your hands besides clasp at the sheets, “Mmhmm, that’s right baby, bet you’re all slippery already honey, aren’t you?” You gasp,

“I think - I think so Elvis, god you’ve gotta touch me properly,” He giggles, slipping a hand into your cotton trousers. He brushes over the wiry hair there, gently twisting a curl with his finger. Stroking down, he rubs you with a single fingertip, between the seam of the trousers and your skin, and you rock into him, “El-Elvis, I swear, I’m good to go,” You can feel his smile against your skin,

“Uh-huh, sure are, aren’t you? Feels like satin down here, you got satin skin baby?” You gasp at how his fingers dance over you,

“What-whatever you say!” Elvis’ fingertips aren’t satin smooth against you, a gentle rough edge that cuts through the slipperiness of your slick folds enough to make your eyes flutter closed. He withdraws his other hand from where it had been curled around your shoulder, and a moment later you feel him against your back, tugging down his trousers and letting his already hard cock pop out. He rubs against you, almost as if inadvertently, and you arch your back with a moan, he wiggles himself down to better position himself, the whole while still gently petting you.

Your eyes re-open as he growls, pulling his hand out and away to rapidly tug down your bottoms, letting you kick them off to the bottom of the bed, before clutching at you and tugging you even closer. You lock gaze with the judgemental beads of Clarissa and gasp out a giggle before reaching out to knock her flying to the floor,

“I can’t - not with her watching.” Elvis laughs, the sound mixing into a groan as he presses into you. You’re wet enough for him to slide in, and the angle is gentle enough that you feel just the slightest hint of a stretch while he snugly fits in, rocking into you further and further.

It’s not a position you’re usually in, and though he can’t really see you, you feel more self-conscious than you have with him before. Elvis’ hands rove over your stomach, and you’re unable to pull his arm up like you usually would, and instead his fingers are playing around the little overhang of your belly, brushing a finger on the sensitive skin there. “So soft doll, you’re like a little baby - so goddamn soft, I could, could just sink right into ya.” You gasp, it’s so antithetical to what you expected him to say,

“Oh,” He hushes you, stroking your stomach again,

“Lis’en to me, ‘m so lucky, honey,” You make a noise of agreement, “So lucky, you’re so goddamn pretty, y’hear?” Your leg moves of its own accord, up a little, giving him a little extra wiggle room that he quickly takes advantage of, continuing to rock into you. His hand on your stomach has slid down to stroke the crease of your thigh, reaching around to rub at your clit, and he leans down to kiss your shoulder and neck. You don’t expect it, enjoying the intimacy enough that you didn’t really care if you achieved it, but the feel of his lips on your neck, the speed of his hand, the rocking deep into you is all enough to cause your thighs to clench, fists gripping the sheets as you ride out the shakes of a gentle orgasm.

Elvis follows momentarily later. He stays where he is, curled around you, slowly slipping out his softening cock, breathily heavily against your back, his hand still stroking you even as he moves his arm to rest upon your stomach. His touch briefly disappears for a moment to swipe clumsily at you with your own trousers, and with the motion you find yourself suddenly bursting into overwhelmed tears. He immediately rolls you over to look at him,

“Oh no, baby, what’s’a matter?” His eyes crinkle at you, “C’mon now, ‘nough of that,'' He wipes the tear tracks away with a thumb and you gulp at him, breath hitching as you find yourself unable to stop, “You’re too pretty to make yourself all red,'' He changes tact, attempting the stern tone that sometimes seems to work on the audiences. “C’mon, stop it now, take it easy.” He sighs, pressing a kiss to your cheek when you can’t stop yourself.

“I’m,” Your voice wavers, “sorry - I don’t, don’t know - I’m so-“ He cuts you off, tugging you closer to him,

“Alright, alright, you just stay there, just let it out, that’s it, c’mere, go on, I don’t mind.” He tucks you into his chest, “Shh, shh, didn’t meanta make you cry, honey - it’s alright.” He soothes, large palm stroking your back until you calm down into sniffles. God how embarrassing, you feel stupid for it - how silly can a girl be?

“Oh nah, now, not silly, honey, ‘s just, just the effect I have on the girls I reckon, god knows why, but seems to be the case.” You hadn’t realised you’d said it aloud and you let out a watery giggle against the soft fuzz of his chest. “C’mon now, curl in and let’s go to sleep,” He shifts a little, to make it easier for you to practically lie on top of him, he tugs the covers around you, effectively tucking you in, shushing you when you start to sniffle again, before you drift off to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

You awake with a start, the phone ringing insistently. You quickly realise, though, that it wasn’t the phone that had awoken you, but Elvis shouting on his back for,

“Daddy!! God I swear, Charlie!! I swear to god man, I swear to god. Someone shut that damn phone up ‘fore I shoot the goddamn thing off the wall!” His eyes are still closed even as he roars out the order and you can’t help, now that your heart has stopped racing, but laugh at him. He sits bolt upright at the sound of your giggle, blinking in the daylight,

“El - El, it’s my phone - you can’t go round shooting other people’s houses.” He flops back, just as dramatically as last night, patting at your thigh and back,

“Oh lord… they’ll be wantin’ somethin’ offa me - go on then little’un - go see what they want.” The phone stops for a second, and you look over at the clock on your bedside, 12:04.

“They’re probably going to say we’re late.”

“Late? Nah, barely, barely slept, got plenty of time.” You throw the alarm clock at him as the phone starts up again and, grabbing your robe from the door on the way, you start to head down to answer it, leaving him swearing behind you.

You regret picking it up, almost immediately being shouted at from the guys on the other end of the line. Whoever had been the one calling had been pleasant enough, for the brief “Hello” you’d been allowed before the receiver had been taken over by Red and you were now near tears again at the way you’re being spoken to, told off, and degraded for keeping him out. As if it were entirely your idea, and how you can forget about accompanying him on the rest of the tour. You were, according to Red, a goddamn liability - the monologue had just turned into questioning your motives, suggesting you were heading to the tabloids any minute when the phone was plucked out from your hands. You’d failed to notice, in the haze of trying to absently defend yourself, Elvis coming down the stairs.

“You talk to all my girls like that?” As much as you enjoy his angry tone, you didn’t love being reminded in that moment that you were probably one of many. Still, his furious expression made your heart feel like it was pounding out of your chest, a deep glow emanating. There’s silence, then, “Whatever, man, I’ll talk to you ‘bout it later, not got time right now - ‘s the car ready? Gonna be late for this show else, Colonel’ll have my ass I swear, if that car ain’t out there -“ He pauses, “Well, why the hell not? Thought you’d have been - right, okay, well that’s what it’ll have to be - just get it out here in twenty.” He hangs up the phone without a goodbye, immediately turning to you and cupping your cheeks in his hands as he kisses you. “Pay him no mind, he don’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.” You nod,

“Ok, but Elvis - you know I would never; that’s not what I’m - “ He shakes his head,

“I know, I told you - don’t listen to a word he says.” You do your best, even as it reverberates around your head as you collect up your clothes from the dryer, watching Elvis redress. You wonder if you should go with him, where you’re so clearly unwanted, and though he doesn’t say anything you can tell Elvis thinks you’re being weirdly quiet. It’s barely any time at all before the car outside honks, and it’s time to leave. You make the last minute decision that you’ll see him to the car, but stay behind, but as if he can read your mind, after he climbs into the car Elvis turns to look back at you,

“You’re comin’ too, baby, right?” He holds out an arm, and despite feeling the glare from the guys in the car, you grab onto it - your desire to stay with him outweighing any worries.

taglist:

@ellie-24 @vintageshanny @thatbanditquee @lookingforrainbows @whositmcwhatsit @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @powerofelvis @shakerattlescroll @dkayfixates @18lkpeters @literally-just-elvis-fics

#elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis smut #be-my-ally #elvis x oc #elvis x reader #elvis x you #writing prompt game

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months

Note

Hey, same anon that talked about the school magic barrier. So you think the magical barrier sucks? Because in the comments someone mentioned that, for example, Chenya broke in multiple times

[Referencing this post!]

I wouldn’t say so? The students talk about the magical barrier as though it is strong and reliable (here’s an example from the beginning of book 6; Vil is surprised that there has been a breach):

It wouldn’t make sense for the barrier to be weak or sucky when NRC is such a prestigious school that houses many important people. (Why bother erecting a barrier at all if it can’t protect the people it’s supposed to??) I think there must be some alternate explanation, either with Chenya or with how the barrier operates 🤔 (since we don’t have a lot of canon on either).

For the Chenya thing, it could really be a case of us not fully understanding his UM or his strength. Maybe he just knows a weak spot in the barrier he uses to sneak in (he isn’t exactly a stranger to this kind of thing; he also took advantage of Mrs. Rosehearts’ blind spot and snuck Riddle out of his lessons). If we want to run with the “Crowley is orchestrating everything” theory, then those hypothetical weak spots could be intentionally created by him to let Chenya in to trigger Riddle’s OB? Or Maybe Chenya is way more powerful of a mage than we think he is. It could also be that his UM works in such a way that it allows him to bypass barriers. (Like, if his UM makes him intangible and the barrier somehow doesn’t keep out intangible things.) We don’t have anything to prove that’s how his UM works, but we also don’t have anything to disprove it. This could also be the case for the ghosts that show up at NRC for Ghost Marriage, who also lack physical bodies and could breach the barrier just fine.

I saw a comment on the original post suggesting that the barrier was ineffective because it couldn’t even keep out trespassers on Halloween. I think the barrier works slightly differently in that case?? Like, if there are already people allowed in (for the Halloween festivities on-campus) the barrier isn’t capable of booting them out—ie a door can keep a wild animal out, but once the wild animal is already inside your home, the door is useless at protecting you. It’s also possible that whoever regulates the barrier magic (probably Crowley?) didn’t bother to recast the barrier after lowering it for Halloween guests because “it’s too much trouble” and the activities will be lasting a few days anyway; they might be waiting until post-Halloween to slap up the barrier again. (I’d imagine this takes a lot of effort, and they’d probably be worn out just from overseeing the Halloween events anyway.) This may also be the case for the Tsums, who drop out of a hole over the sky of Ramshackle. The portal is immediately bypassing the barrier and opening up overhead, inside of the barrier already.

… Ooooor it could just be as simple as “the lore is inconsistent, please suspend your disbelief for these details” since some of these stories would not play out at all if the barrier actually worked as intended all the time. We wouldn’t have Ghost Marriage, Chenya visiting, the Tsums (which Crowley confirms were able to bypass the barrier despite him reinforcing it) or Halloween shenanigans if the barrier didn’t conveniently not work 😂 You could call the magical barrier a plot device, honestly.

#twisted wonderland #twst #Vil Schoenheit #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst theory #twst theories #twisted wonderland theories #twisted wonderland theory #Chenya #Che'nya #notes from the writing raven #question #Riddle Rosehearts #Dire Crowley

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deathbecomesthem · 3 months

Text

Estate Sale 1 of 2

Eddie Munson x Medium!Reader | 3.8K

Summary: Home is not home anymore. The road is your friend. You find yourself in a strange place where you encounter a spirit unlike anything you've known before after a trip to a strange estate sale. There will be second and final part upcoming.

A/N: The first bit of this was written as a request for @jo-harrington on a different blog. I've decided to revive it. This is a story that asks you to suspend your disbelief. Take a journey into the weird, and don't come to me for answers.

Warnings: Blood, body horror, mental distress, and a reader that has a vague history of institutionalization.

The world you live in is on fire, and he is cold. He’s been cold for as long as he can remember. The bites festered for so long. They opened wide, blackened and bleeding, making him hunger for things he could never find. The ache in his gut never satiated, even when his sharp teeth broke the skin of the petal-faced creatures that populated the world that had become his home. He kept to the places he knew from the other side, his school, the Hideout, his trailer - he sat on the stained mattress with his Sweetheart laid across his lap when he heard the primal screams of that spider-like beast. Both the man and the smoke. The time after his new home splintered and bled, his own body changed again. It healed. He laid in his bed, wrapped in the blanket his mother knitted together when he was a baby, and he healed. The wounds closed and began to scar. The sharp fangs that broke the soft skin of his lips dropped from his mouth. And he slept.

–

The combination of heat, humidity, and orange smoke from the raging wildfires - a discontenting trifecta. Is the whole world designed to make you miserable? Yes. It must be. The wind that whips through your beater of a car moves like the air of a convection oven, perfect and even baking without the need to rotate the cookie tray of your faux leather driver’s seat. You wonder if it’s a mirage when you see it, a desolate highway on the central eastern part of Indiana - “Estate Sale”. Mercy. You pray to the gods that wherever the sale is located, there will be air conditioning.

You thought after making your way through Nebraska you’d seen all the corn the world had to offer, but Indiana proves you wrong. It’s not until you pass a sign that says “Entering Hawkins” that you finally see roads lined with trees rather than corn stalks that are looking ready for harvest. You notice the scars on the earth as soon as you enter the city limits. The goosebumps on your forearm are what make you realize how cold the air in your car has gotten, like the air conditioning suddenly kicked on at its max setting. But no, your windows are open, and the sky is darker. Another sign, black spray painted letters on brown cardboard, “Estate Sale”. An arrow pointing to the left at the stop sign a quarter of a mile in front of you.

So you push down the indicator and turn.

–

Eddie only stirred a little in those decades of healing when Wayne took his last breaths. His own steady breaths began to quicken along with his father’s. He gasped in air and felt the vice grip on his lungs. A burning, empty feeling when he tried to expand bronchial tubes and let the oxygen in. The gasping was brief before turning into hollow breaths. Slower. Slower. Slower. And then the darkness pulled him back into that quiet and restful place of waiting.

–

When you reach the center of town, the unease you’ve been feeling turns into disbelief. The town hall is barely visible through your foggy windshield, a building marred with large scars that look like the smaller ones you’ve been seeing along the roadside since you entered the town. You think about cranking your steering wheel and going back the way you came when you see another cardboard sign pointing to the right. It’s not some sort of mystical force driving you through this apparent ghost town, it’s your curiosity. You tell yourself, curiosity killed the cat, and then remind yourself, but satisfaction brought it back.

Another turn of the steering wheel, and a short jog down an old road when you see the final sign. You avoid potholes that threaten to swallow up your Ford Fiesta and take a final turn down a gravel road greeted by a much larger sign reading “Forest Hills Trailer Park”. You are not surprised to see rows of mobile homes alongside the small road your car is bouncing along. You’ve almost forgotten your purpose when you see so many cars that haven’t been roadworthy since your mom was a teenager. You’ve entered a time warp, it’s the only explanation your brain can come up with. Finally, at the end of the gravel road, you see a trailer with a scar down its center. It’s cold enough now that you’re extending your right arm to the backseat of your car to find a hoodie you haven’t needed to wear in over a month. Outside of the trailer are boxes. An estate sale with no one to collect your money, just boxes sitting on the ground with a spray painted “Free” sign propped against one.

Free is something you can afford.

–

Gravel crunches under your boots as you approach the line of boxes. It occurs to you that the trailer itself might be worth entering, but think better of it. Let the ghosts keep their secrets and take what they’ve so generously offered you today. A shiver creeps down your spine when you consider how many spirits might be watching you from the tree tops in the woods that encircle the trailer park. You can feel how real they are in the silence that echoes inside your ears.

*crunch, crunch*

You keep moving until the tip of your boot is against the box closest to your car. It doesn’t have any markings, not like some of the other ones further down the line. You’ve decided to roll the dice and peek inside, only to find dozens of mugs. No one wrapped them in newspaper to protect them from chipping. You gasp when you see it - a Garfield mug almost exactly like the one your Nana had in her kitchen. Nana kept that mug for you, and always served you her special hot chocolate in it. You know it’s not Nana’s mug, because that special cup is chipped on Garfield’s cheek. This one is pristine. You consider, only for a moment, that you could take the whole box with you. Put it in the back of your car and line your kitchen shelves with the mugs. You can hardly believe your eyes, these vintage pieces are in such good condition. You shake your head, pick up Garfield, and move to peek into the next box.

Inside you find mostly clothing, tattered flannel shirts and threadbare jeans. There’s also a stack of hats on one side. Most look barely worn. Evidence of a working man’s wardrobe. You let your fingers brush against the soft denim of a pair of blue jeans at the top and imagine the man that wore them. They’re old school Wranglers, probably worth something even in their current worn condition.

This is when you catch a glimpse of a treasure hidden behind the boxes. Through the misty fog of that strange atmosphere, a shock of something red catches your vision. The way the boxes are laid you, side-by-side, you only catch a sliver of the instrument placed onto its back in the gravel. It’s a B.C. Rick Warlock. You’re not a guitarist, but your Uncle Keith was. You’ve seen pictures of him with a guitar that looks just like the one in front of you, only your uncle’s was black. Your hand moves like a magnet, reaching behind the boxes to pull out your prize. This sweetheart of a guitar found its new home with you. She flashed you her smile, and now you’re hers.

You pulled out of the ghost town of Hawkins, Indiana 3 hours and 15 minutes after pulling into it with - a guitar you don’t know how to play, a guitar pick necklace, a Garfield mug, and a silver mood ring. Each item gave you a sense of joy, each for different reasons. Nostalgia of a more innocent time in your life, memories of family now lost. And you wonder about the previous owners. Most of their belongings, with the possible exception of the pretty guitar you have riding shotgun in your car, would be found at the local dump. The Estate Sale signs bother you, because you know that means they must be gone. So you promise yourself to remember them, even if it’s only when you drink your first cup of coffee in the morning, or when you fiddle with the new necklace around your neck.

You stayed later than you meant to, and the sun was fully set when you lost the sight of Hawkins in your rearview mirror. You’re getting a hotel room tonight. It doesn’t matter that it’s out of the unrealistic budget you never really meant to keep in the first place. You need a fucking shower certainly, but that’s not your top motivation. You want a room with an electrical outlet to plug in your new guitar and see how she sounds. The idea sounds stupid inside your own head as you think it, you don’t know how to play. Not even a single chord.

But it feels right in your hand, the weight of it. You brushed your fingers against the metal strings and felt the vibrations move through you, building and creating a need. Your fingers twitched and you felt a song in them, a tune ringing through them that you only vaguely know. You find yourself humming it through your closed lips when you see the roadside motel with the red “VACANCY” sign lit up.

Even with the sun down, it’s hot as hell outside. You’re happy to see that each room has an air conditioning unit set high up in the outside wall. You can almost smell the freon in the air, and it sends a little shiver of excitement down your spine. You’re desperate after leaving the much cooler air of Hawkins. There’s only one other car in the parking lot,that you assume must belong to the person sitting behind the counter of the front desk.

A bell chimes above the front door as you push it open, drawing the attention of a middle aged man sitting with his feet propped up on the counter in front of you. His balance is lost and you see him attempt to catch himself before he slides off the vinyl office chair.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” You offer a quick apology as he awkwardly plants his feet down on the linoleum below his feet, that Midwestern habit that won’t quit. Apologies all around.

“Oh, sorry. I’m good. Just didn’t expect anyone tonight.” He’s giving you a friendly enough smile when he asks, “you need directions? Or, do you want a room?”

“A room please. At the far end, if possible.” You’re thinking about the song inside of you. You need to let your fingers strum without pissing this guy off by making too much noise.

He’s turning to grab a key from the hooks behind his chair, real metal keys with big red tags hanging from each, when he asks another question, “You’re lucky you came through when you did. This place is coming down next month. No one takes these back road highways anymore. It’s too bad. We did alright for a while when the Hawkins ghost hunters used to make a regular appearance, but that’s been waning for years.”

Your interest is piqued at the idea of a local haunting, but even more so at the name “Hawkins”. A part of you had started to wonder if it was only a delusion your mind created, the otherworldly town with the estate sale. The sale that offered you that beautiful instrument and a pick necklace to match the red of the guitar.

“Oh, ya know I just passed through there. What a creepy place.” You wrinkle your nose, remembering the way cracks in the earth spread out like a giant spider web through the town center. “What happened there? Some kind of earthquake?”

The motel manager - you look and see the name “Keith” on his nametag - is looking at you with open shock. Like he’s looking at an alien, something his brain has never seen before. He swallows, shaking his head at the same time and says, “Ain’t no way to pass through Hawkins. The government has blocked off completely at the city limits since the huge ground shaker two years ago. The city hall, along with the entire city block where it sat, were swallowed up into the earth. Real apocalyptic stuff.”

You open your mouth to rebut his statement, and close it again. It really was just a hallucination - a strange oasis hidden inside the surrounding fields of corn. That earth scarred land only lived in your mind, despite the tangible evidence of its existence sitting in the trunk of your car. It doesn’t matter, because you’d rather believe that you lived in a delusion than the alternative. That you entered another world, something that is simply not possible.

But then why do your fingers ache more and more with every passing moment, crying to stroke the neck of the guitar - Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart - and coax a song from her. The desire, need really, overwhelms you. So you nod in agreement, say something along the lines of, “of course, I must be mistaken, I’m sure I would have noticed a giant crater in the ground”, and head out the glass door of the motel office.

—

Eddie’s breathing is picking up, something that hasn’t happened in years. It’s been decades of a dreamless sleep, but his mind is sending out small sparks of ideas. His fingers twitch. His heart, that’s been beating at 30 bpms for more than 30 years, is firing at a steadily increasing rate. The chrysalis is beginning to crack, and his mind is humming a tune. One that you’d certainly recognize.

—

The room is exactly how you expected it to look, only a little cleaner. You’re pleasantly surprised to find a light smell of citrus hanging in the air. The sheets are probably as old as you are, but they smell fresh, and the comforter is soft. Any other night, you’d crawl in and fall asleep without a moment’s hesitation. But you’re anxious to spend time with your new treasures. You’re absentmindedly twisting the mood ring on your finger. You expected when you had placed it on your finger earlier to see it change against the warmth of your body heat, but the plastic gem remains onyx.

You try not to think about the reason for your impromptu road trip while you plug in the amp to the wall socket at the head of the bed. You push back on the memories. Strange things speaking to you in the dark, the hospital, the dead things reaching out to you from their restless afterlives. Prescriptions to fight against psychosis and the hallucinations that never fully left, only grew more quiet in your mind. You’ve learned how to survive this world, to disconnect from those otherworldly voices, and to never speak of them out loud in this world where seeing is believing.

Now, though - something is moving you, an impossible to fight force. And that’s fine, because your curiosity, your desire to connect with the thing that’s led you here, is not a malevolent force. You know that in the same way you know that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and that the living and dead are separated by a thin veil that only some folks can see through.

There’s no one here with you to look at your behavior and show you caring concern. No one here suggests the idea that maybe you ought to drive to the nearest inpatient facility and sign your rights away until the “ghosts” leave you alone. So, you let the gentle hand of the spirit speak through your hands.

They’re not your hands anymore. For the length of the song, you’ve been pushed down somewhere deep inside of you. You can feel the weight of the guitar in your hands, feel the strings under your fingers, hear the sounds filling the small room. A presence, stronger than any spirit you’ve encountered before now, is using your body. It’s a peaceful feeling, letting them take the reins, bobbing your neck along with the fierce and frenzied movements of your fingers.

5 miles plus one dimension away, Eddie’s eyes open. You see through them. You feel the cold air, smell mold and dirt. You hear the faint beat of wings, and a scream of pain. Your body never falters while it plays the song that you now recognize as an old Metallica tune. You feel a string pulled tight - that other body sits up in its bed and shakes its head. You call to him without a voice, eerily similar to the way you’ve been called in the past. You feel him exhale as the echo of the final notes your body plays on the BC Rich echo through the room.

—

Eddie doesn’t know anything outside of the need to follow the path in front of him. He remembers dying. He remembers his true self leaving the flesh, drifting through the air of that hell dimension, never breaking through the gates. Eventually, settling back in the still form tucked neatly into the mirror image of the bed where he spent so many hours of his life in the real world.

He knows nothing and everything. His heart beats in his chest, and air moves through his lungs - this is a living body that should have molded along with the blanket that covered it. Instead, he’s listening to a familiar song and following its sound through the empty wasteland where he’s been hidden away for decades.

And you. He knows you, a stranger that heard his soul cry out and answered without fear. He trusts the path, he trusts his guide. He knows the music will show him how to finally leave hell and walk in the sunlight once again.

—

You sit with the neck of Sweetheart, you know this is her name, in your hand. With that knowledge comes recognition. This guitar has an aura. It has a soul. No, that’s not quite right - a piece of someone has been left inside of her. It’s what called you to her. The chain on your neck that held the guitar pick that is currently pinched between your fingers, feels heavy.

“You bitch,” you say to the guitar without bite. You’re feeling duped by that world you’ve tried so hard to pretend does not exist despite all of the evidence you’ve been shown so many times in your life. You whisper out, “what have I stumbled into here?”

You stand and place Sweetheart in the corner and unclasp the necklace from your neck. You leave the chain and the pick on the long dresser in front of the bed in your motel room, and walk out into the humid Indiana summer night. You haven’t had a cigarette in 2 years, not since the last time the call from behind the veil was too hard to ignore, and yet you still clocked the machine that stands just outside of the front office door. You fumble in your back pocket for your wallet and push a 10 dollar bill into the ancient machine. You’ve never seen one of these in the flesh, and wonder if the smokes that come out will be from 2024 or 1986.

You shake your head at the strange, intrusive thought, and absentmindedly pull the knob. It’s not until you’re holding the box in your hand that you realize you didn’t choose your old favorites, Marlboro Reds. You examine the desert scene behind the plastic film with fascination. If you had looked closer at your own hand, you would have seen that the onyx on the mood ring you picked up along with Sweetheart and the guitar pick necklace has turned an opalescent blue-green. But you didn’t do that. Instead, you went back into the now empty motel office to grab a box of matches from the fishbowl next to the guest book on the counter. Again you’re struck by the idea that you have entered a sort of time warp, this place seems stuck somewhere between the past and the present. 1986 with Wi-fi.

1986. The year means nothing to your conscious mind, but for some reason it is conjured once again. You think that Sweetheart will be safe enough in the trunk of your car tonight. Keep the ghost, or whatever is calling to you through the foggy veil between life and death, out of your dreams tonight. The necklace, too. You need to clear your mind or risk being swallowed whole by whatever this is.

—

Eddie is following two things - the string from his mind that is connected to your own, and a faint glow somewhere in the distance. He is trying to think, but his mind is labyrinthine, and he’s somewhere in the middle unable to see the twists and turns that lead him there. Instead, his body moves on its own accord, and he focuses on the light.

There are things following him, he can hear the solid foot falls land with every step of his own. The things, whatever they are, do not register as a threat to him. He feels no need to turn and fix his gaze on them. They won’t bother him. They share the memories of the hive mind, and remember the way his teeth felt biting into their flesh. They remember when his wings beat, and the ground trembled. They remember the things that Eddie forgets.

That light, blue-green and glowing through the darkness of Eddie’s world, takes his feet beyond the places he has traveled. The following footsteps fall away as he continues his journey, the unnatural light frightening the beasts. For Eddie, it’s a beacon of sorts. With each step, his skin grows warmer.

In the void where the light shines for him, a building slowly comes into his view. He would be confused if his mind knew how to perceive the things that he has been experiencing. Instead, a feeling of relief sweeps over his body when he sees that it’s a motel. His legs are tired, and his head feels too heavy on his neck. His feet carry him to the room on the end where the light glows brightly. The bed in the center of the room is where the source of the beacon is found, and he is more than glad to climb into and sleep in its warm glow. It smells like home here, something he hasn’t known for so long. Tears streak down his cheeks while he slumbers, a different kind of rest than he knew in the coldness of his bed that was not his bed in that monster realm.

—

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