Latest Posts by pearletta - Page 6

No because pride and prejudice isn't "I changed myself for you so you would love me back." It's "your blatant rejection and disdain for me made me realize things about myself no one had ever been bold enough to tell me so I sat down and evaluated all my behavior patterns and why they came about and came to the realization myself that I had to work on myself. Also I don't expect you to love me now that I'm a work in progress, so I'm just going to do nice things for you because I don't like seeing you hurt." No wonder P&P fans refuse to settle.

fucking forehead to forehead is so intimate like pls... be careful........ our souls are gonna get intertwined........

Great time to remind y'all that being an atheist and being anti-religion are not the same thing. You see, one is about not believing in any gods/not being religious, the other is being a fucking bigot.

The explosion in the 2010s of atheist white YouTubers who were so anti Christian that they because antisemitic and islamophobic was insane. I don't fucking care that Christianity traumatized you - if you use that as an excuse to be a bigot, then you better expect people not to care about that trauma. Because you're not taking into consideration that WE come from a non-marginalized religion (in the West).

And yes, the way organized Christianity in the West is, is often very fucking traumatizing. I had luck and I didn't come unscathed. But if you choose to fight other religions instead of the system, then I'm sorry but you're just a huge fucking idiot.

10 or 11 little ducks have been spotted crossing the dash board

Always feel bad when I see someone say something like "I don't have a disability but I have [something that is a disability but society doesn't treat like one]"

Migraines. Food allergies. GERD. Vision problems. Skin problems. For people that menstruate, conditions that cause irregular and painful cycles. Those are all disabling. Anything that impairs you from functioning or completing a basic life task without accommodation is a disability. Anything that makes you spend days in bed during a flare up is a disability! Not everyone experiences your symptoms and you're not being weak or whiny.

Mental illnesses that people treat as "mainstream" these days like anxiety, depression, or ADHD are still disabilities. Overcoming a massive struggle just to get out of bed, slow down your thoughts, or focus on what you need/want to do is disabling. Starting the day with less mental energy than most people is disabling.

For the migraine people: yes, everyone gets headaches, but no not everyone gets migraines. It's a condition that can be inherited in which our nerves are literally wired differently and more sensitive than someone who doesn't get migraines.

For the food allergy and digestive disorder people: if you eat something your body can't tolerate, you become sick. Doesn't matter if it's a trip to the ER or skin irritation for a few hours, that's a negative response in your body. Going hungry at social events because you can't eat anything, that's not something you just have to grin and bear. Prohibitively expensive or hard-to-find accessible food. Most people have the privilege of not worrying about eating.

For people with abnormal menstrual cycles: you don't have to suck it up because "lots of people get periods, no one likes them, but they all deal with it." Majority of people who get periods don't spend days in bed with debilitating pain or nausea. Your heightened struggle is real. Going months between cycles can increase your risk of health conditions down the line, and it's good to speak to a gynecologist if you have access to one.

If you are feeling discomfort on a regular basis in any part of your body, or if you usually feel unwell after eating, that isn't normal and you deserve medical attention and support

Edit to reiterate this list is not exhaustive!

Eris is a massive asshole with many layers of trauma so I need his mate to be fucking insane, like worse than him. Jude and Cardan style but they’re both murderers <3

I think a big reason why "children are an oppressed group" gets (wrongly!) read as a "pedophile talking point" is that everyone treats children so terribly that actual child molesters can speedrun winning a kid's trust by like, actually respecting their needs and perspective, at least at first. Which means that the only way out of this mess is for all of us adults to treat children with respect, so that abusers can't use the rareness of that respect as a weapon.

The Clone Wars arcs that I would write if I were a showrunner and Disney were smart:

The lead general dies early on in a mission, the commander is injured and incapacitated, and the clones are now tasked with planning and properly executing a battle plan with little cohesion or unity in thought

The republic has succesfully seized half a planet and is moving on to the other half. A squad of clones gets separated from the main battalion and is forced to face the results of endless war when they come face to face with civilians who do no like or appreciate the Republic and barely respect the clones

A clone commander contemplates desertion. 

Half a squad of clone deserters avoid capture by their brothers but are eventually forced to confront their former families and come to terms with their decision. 

(subplot) A clone has romantic feelings for the first time and has absolutely no idea how to handle them. even better if the romantic feelings are for a Jedi CO

(standalone) barhopping

A Jedi and a squad of clones are captured and imprisoned within a separatist testing facility. The jedi goes to work freeing every last one of her men and very nearly sacrificing her Jedi morals for the dark side/attachment when she abandons the emergency transport that arrives to go save her commander (they all do make it out)

A peak into clone culture: a rift forms in a company when two members of a squad disown one another and everyone starts taking sides

(subplot) some troopers are clearly mentally ill and in need of serious help, but the medic (the only one aware of mental illness in any capacity) is helpless to do anything because of the stigma surrounding appearing “weak” in that way

Two battalions switch generals after a mix up during a battle. Battalion A gets Jedi B, who has to learn to leave behind their stiff and detached battle style/personality in order to gain the trust of their new men. Battalion B gets Jedi A, who has to learn to act like a “normal Jedi” and apply some more careful thought to how they interact so they can stop freaking out the men and gain a deeper respect from them.

A couple of clones accidentally witness a deal gone wrong, lose all their communication devices, and have to find a way back to the surface so they can report the crime without being killed by the gang hunting them through the underworld. 

Anakin, Ahsoka, and Rex have to attend a formal gala and mingle with the upper echelons of Coruscanti Society at the request of the Chancellor. Anakin inflates battle stories to appear cool. Ahsoka gets patronized. Rex experiences a microaggression. Someone tries to kidnap a senator.

If you ship Obi Wan x Anakin (or any other master x padawan ship) you’re gross pass it on

I have a wild Eris Vanserra theory. It's a little dark and very unfounded, but I'm just having fun, so bear with me.

So. You know how Beron and the LoA only have sons, right? Well, what if they didn't?

What if the LoA had daughters at first, and Beron was so disappointed in her that he...y'know. And so the LoA's daughters kept "disappearing." Shortly after birth or months later, idk.

And because she didn't have anyone in her corner in Autumn, and because she was grieving for years on end, when she had Eris and realized "another daughter," her distress and grief were so powerful that she convinced herself Eris was a son instead, and by accident, everyone else, even Beron.

And like. A decade later, when she can finally process her trauma and the massive dissociation she caused between her daughter, Eris, and the entirety of Prythian...wow. Just wow. She comes to the conclusion that she's a daemati. And helps Eris become so good a glamouring that no one suspects a thing.

Idk. Just food for thought.

Tradition and Blood

Chaos.

Tarquin took a long drink from the goblet in his hand as he leaned against the balcony railing and watched his palace erupted into bedlam.

He’d thought to have a drink after dinner, even thought to invite Lady F—

No, the Cursebreaker.

He’d even thought to invite the Cursebreaker. She looked so wound up during the day and at dinner, there was no question sleep would’ve eluded her tonight. With their impending return to the Night Court, he’d foolishly allowed himself to believe that the rumors were true. That she was stolen from Spring, that she hated Rhysand, that she dreaded having to return with him. Maybe even that she found solace here, in his court, in his palace.

In him.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tarquin slowly leaned further onto and over the railing, watching the seas below. Turbulent, choppy, angry, where just a few hours before they’d been calm. He sipped from his cup, ignoring the shouts, ignoring the footsteps. And when they came to his door, he’d ignore the knocking too. He already knew what they were coming to tell him. He’d felt it as it happened, too slow and powerless against its magic to stop it.

He drained the last of his wine in a single gulp and turned to the small table on his left. Two empty bottles, and a third half-finished. The wine was disappearing at an alarming rate, but no amount of drink could cover this feeling of shame. The other High Lords looked down on him, he knew. Many in his Court did as well. Too green, they all said. Not enough experience. Too young, too naive, too trusting. A few years and he’d make a fool of himself, they said. It hadn’t even been one since Prythian was freed from Under the Mountain and he proved them all right.

And for what? Some lofty ideals? A chance to prove himself? Friends? He wanted to laugh. Laugh like Cresseida laughed when he told her his hopes and dreams. Not to be cruel, never to be cruel. Cresseida was just a realist.

Change is slow, she’d said more than once.

It doesn’t have to be that slow, he’d replied every time.

And while he still believed that, still believed the phrase was used by many to defend and justify lack of action, maybe...maybe there was a grain of truth in the thing. Maybe if he'd taken his time, gathered more intel, built a solid foundation and started slowly within his own court, he wouldn't have been humiliated tonight.

A small breeze that carried a fresh scent of the sea blew past him from his left. He reached out the hand holding the cup. Wordlessly, Varian picked up the half-empty bottle of wine and poured him a drink before taking his own straight from the bottle.

"It's gone."

His words fell from a hollow throat, needing no confirmation from his cousin. They felt heavy yet meaningless. Varian, he knew, would never throw it in his face, but maybe Tarquin would feel better if he had. If his cousin reminded him that he'd tried to tell Tarquin not to trust the Night Court or anyone that came with them, that he tried to get him to listen when Cresseida said the same, maybe he would have felt better, or at least different. Anything other than what he was feeling now.

There was a reason Rhysand had no allies. There was a reason he was welcome in no Courts. And those reasons started before Amarantha. It made him wonder what he could've done, what Tamlin could've done, to turn the Cursebreaker into another one of them. Another Night Court monster.

And how he'd hoped that wasn't the case. Felt it was his personal mission to prove that the Night Court wasn't full of monsters. Those who'd lie, steal, hurt, and betray for their own cause, for their own benefit. After Brutius, he'd hoped. He banked on that hope.

This was the price he paid for hoping.

He wouldn't make this mistake again.

Tarquin pushed off of the balcony, decades of thoughts in his head. He looked over at Varian, who was watching him silently as he drank. He must've read the question in Tarquin's eyes because he said, "No one's dead."

He scoffed. Small mercies. He could hear Rhysand now, as clearly as he heard the knocking at his door. Yes, we stole your greatest treasure, but at least we didn't kill anybody. He'd say it as if Tarquin should be grateful. Maybe he should be.

"And Cresseida?"

Varian hesitated, as if he knew his next words would only make him feel worse. "Trying to work through the magic left lingering in her mind."

Of course. The picture was getting clearer and bloodier by the second. Came into his home under the guise of peace, dangled Prythian's hero in front of his face (not unlike how he dangled her in front of those Under the Mountain), distracted and deceived him while they schemed for his treasure, destroyed his temple, harmed his people, and on top of it all, messed with his mind to ensure their success.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage like the seas below him.

"I always thought tradition was for fools," Tarquin said quietly.

Varian looked to the sea. "Fools do cling to their traditions," he admitted. "Never wanting to see anything new, try anything new. That's why you want to change things, no?"

"Mm," Tarquin hummed. "Indeed. But then what? Do I want transient gratification? Do I change things only for them to change again in another few decades, and then another few decades again?"

"I would hope not, cousin," Varian said.

Of course he didn't. He wanted his change to last. A thought he'd been having since the call of his land upended his night spilled forth from his lips. "The truth is I don't hate tradition. My arrogance demanded that I create my own and discard the ones that came before me."

"A new revelation?"

"Mere minutes old." And with that, he left the balcony.

Tarquin walked into his room and past his bed to the far western wall, grabbing three bottles of wine as he passed. A hand swept over an inconspicuous stone opened the way to a secret passage, a portion of the alabaster white wall shimmering blue. He let Varian step through the wall first, then followed closely after. His cousin took two of the bottles out of his hand, freeing him to open his and take a long drink.

They made their way through the secret corridors of the palace, a place known only to Adriata's royal family and the High Lord of Summer. After Amarantha, Cresseida and Varian showed him, and he was forever amazed at the twisting, turning tunnels that wove through the palace and led to the sea. Even now, the sight filled him with awe.

They continued on their way, only stopping briefly at a certain spot for Varian to pull Cresseida through another wall before continuing on. He shoved a bottle at his sister, and together the three of them drank in silence as they neared their destination. No words had to be said. They all knew what was to come next.

When they finally stood in the middle of the treasure chamber, Tarquin almost faltered. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she'd gotten too curious of a ruin and set off the alarm by accident. Maybe she got scared, and immediately knew they'd think the worst of her because of the company she kept, and so fled.

But if that were the case, his guards wouldn't have been injured. And she'd have tried to send a note to explain, no?

Her guilty eyes haunted his mind. She'd reeked of guilt the entire trip. Now he knew why.

"Cresseida," he said.

She moved, and within a few minutes came back with a box. Inside, the three rubies she'd chosen were shining. The size of chicken's eggs, he knew they were three of the largest they owned. Fitting.

Tarquin set his bottle down on the floor and gently took the box from her. No reprimand passed her lips either, for which he figured he'd be grateful. Enough of that would come from his advisors and courtiers with the morning.

"It feels like this night has gone on forever," he said, not sure if he was speaking to himself or his cousins or no one at all. "It has been hours, and yet I've lived a lifetime in this one night."

He picked up the ruby in the middle, turning it over and over. The first time he'd heard of the blood rubies, he laughed himself hoarse. The thought of being so beside oneself with anger that you...send valuable jewels to the offending parties? For years, he thought it was a joke his cousins were playing on him. But now that he held it, he felt it. The depths of darkness and malevolence radiating from the jewel called to him, as they could only call to one whose soul mirrored their own.

Like calls to like.

"Are you sure?" Cresseida asked.

"Are you not?" he answered, still staring at the gem.

"There will be no going back," Varian said.

"That was true before I held this," he answered. He never thought he'd be here, get to a place where he'd send one of these, let alone three. A thought that could have driven him to madness. He remembered sailing summers long past, laughing to the point of tears.

"Even if I were High Lord, I'd never send one out!" He'd been ready to swear it, but Varian stopped him, warning him against making a vow he might one day have to break. It was painful to think of how he was then and where he was now.

As he looked at the gem, he thought of his predecessors. They probably all had a point in their lives where they thought the same.

"I see now," he said to the ruby, "why you lived as we now live. Why you did what we now do. I didn't before. Forgive me for my blindness." He lowered it back into its place. "Will you share in this with me, cousins? Will you take part in my revenge?"

"Your revenge is ours," said Cresseida. Varian simply nodded.

Tarquin sighed, then held up his hand. Slowly, his skin shifted from smooth to rough. Razor sharp scales formed on his skin, glowing blue as the oceans beyond them. With his other hand, he took hold of Varian and Cresseida. For a minute, the three of them stood, holding hands at the precipice of magic, just like they often did as children.

"Tonight, I've learned valuable lessons. Many traditions are adhered to for a reason. They are not things to spit on, but things to understand and respect, even should we not necessarily agree with them. And we won't always; they were established during different times than the one we live in. My predecessors were not barbarians who simply didn't know any better, they were complex beings leading complex lives. I see now how they could be pushed to drastic action."

As he spoke, the rubies began to glow.

"On this neverending night, our court has been weakened. I cannot even say that we were blindsided. We—no, I invited the blight in this time, just as my predecessor did half a century ago. Only this time, I knew what evil I was inviting in. I simply convinced myself that everyone in Prythian other than me was mistaken. My arrogance has died tonight. To tell the truth, it was killed."

The rubies pulsed, and in return he began to warm. Without having to see his cousins' faces, he knew he'd begun to glow himself. Shining with the power of Summer.

"This night may feel endless, but the sun will rise. Here in Summer, but also in Night. Our sun will rise in the Night Court. Let it blot out the stars they hold so dear."

And with one swipe, Tarquin slashed across all three hands. Deep gouges formed and blood spilled, intermingling with one another until they were one. The blood and magic fell upon the rubies, who desperately sucked it all up. This was a curse, one born from only the darkest of desires. What Cresseida and Varian desired, he couldn't know. But for him? He only wished upon them all exactly what they'd wrought on him. For them to trust someone wholeheartedly, despite every point of logic telling them not to, only to be violated in the way he had been. Not being able to trust his own mind in his own home, having things placed under his care stolen from him, using his hospitality in a time where such things were hard enough to come by, preying on his good nature and harming those he was meant to protect. He wished it all on them.

And then, once they experienced it all, he wished them dead.

Such desires were deep, and the stones drank until they had their fill. Once they shone with murderous promise, the three Summer fae unclasped their hands, now sticky and stained. Tarquin closed the box and handed it to Varian carefully. His scales were still out, and they refused to go back in for now. Being High Lord was so different than anything else he'd known. The land heard his desires and imbued him with power, but he was aware that in some ways, he was just a vessel, a conduit. They were tied inextricably, he and his Court, and what angered him enraged his Court. His beast roiled underneath his skin in response. It would be a while before he could rein it back in.

He wasn't even sure if he would want to when he could.

He hesitated handing these to Varian. The curse would take root once the recipients laid eyes on them. He thought of her, looking at the rubies. Rhysand would be there to explain what they meant. Would she feel devastated? Would she want to apologize? Would her heart sink to her feet and through the floor as his did when he heard the land scream and found her room empty? Would she shake in disbelief as he had when he found the other rooms vacant as well and realized what they'd done?

He thought of her and how easily she charmed him just to get to his Book. Is that what she did, seducing High Lords to get what she wanted? She seduced Tamlin, didn't she? He read between the lines and connected the timeline. She seduced Tamlin and her family regained their wealth. She seduced Rhysand and became feared throughout Prythian. And in this short time, she'd seduced him and made off with something that could neutralize the Cauldron. Next, he'd hear of her with Helion, leaving him with empty libraries.

The thought pissed him off. He shoved the box at Varian rougher than he meant to.

"These are in the Hewn City by morning."

Still collecting the full alphabet of the “live, laugh, love” variants if anyone has some good examples.

Bonus if they can fit the “We can’t ___, _____, ____ our way out of this.”

reblog to take a bite out of this styrofoam cup nobody can stop you go ahead and do it

u ever in such a bad mood u feel urself turning evil?

under violet skies | azriel

summary; the dusk court has been hidden for many millennia. with a new ruler who no longer wants to hide, threats break out. azriel was tasked with protecting the high lady, the queen, of dusk court, from an assassination attempt.

word count; 9644

notes; I love the plot, I hate the smut, so be gentle with me, okay? ki just hit 3k, and a while ago she asked for something dusk court, and azriel, and hate fucking. I hope this lil gift meets all those expectations. 🤍

You really weren’t sure how you’d ended up here. In fact, everything felt like a blur. Surely, it had only been moments ago you’d been sitting at the table with Azriel, eating breakfast, laughing with the man who was your bodyguard as he whispered jokes about your court under his breath. 

Now, you watched as his shadows swirled frantically, through bleary eyes that were beginning to blacken around the edges. The pressure on your back rose, your fingers digging so hard into the cold stone tiles that your nails were tearing. What was it that Azriel had taught you, in all those months of training? You couldn't remember, your head was spinning. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear him screaming, yelling, the chains he was locked by rattling and shrieking as the metal gave nothing. 

Just when the darkness was reaching the middle, when you were so desperate for breath your heart was no longer racing, the pressure loosened. You sucked in a breath, so deep it hurt as it stretched abused muscles, and a cry fell from your lips. A steel-capped boot hit your shoulder, a rough kick that flipped you over onto your back, onto the wounded muscles that were already giving you hell. 

The room was a mess, what had once been your dining room, what had once been beautiful pillars of carved marble and moonstone was destroyed; smoking and flaming, debris littering the room. The dining table was cracked in two, you remembered the centuries-old oak giving way as Azriel had been thrown right through it. The windows were smashed, the pretty stained glass at the end that had cast a lavender haze over the whole room, you remembered the way flames had birth through it like shooting stars falling from the sky.

Footsteps crunched through broken glass, following where you’d rolled to a stop, one arm twisted awkwardly under your body, and the feeling of hot, sticky blood dripping from it was enough to make your stomach twist. He had a crazed look in his eyes as he waved his free hand around the room, head tipping to the side as his feet came to a stop near your head.

Azriel pulled tighter on the chains, the accomplices holding him back yanked so hard you heard something pop, and you took a shuddering breath, as best you could. “Let him go. You only want me.” Cold pressed to your throat as he crouched, your eyes snapping back, lips trembling, skin burning from the tears pouring down over them as you met the eyes of your attacker. Of the assassin sent to kill you, the one you’d known was coming, had been preparing for, and yet you’d never have been ready for this.

“Let him go?”

“Yes. Let him go.” Your voice trembled, weak as you tried to assert authority, the power that was your birthright, your power as the rightful ruler of Dusk Court, and he only laughed, bloodied teeth from his bleeding lip showing, a result of the one punch you’d managed to land before he’d gained the upper hand over you. 

“See, this is why we’re here. This is why you can never rule, you’re nothing like your father.”

“I take pride in that.” He sneered, eyes blazing with a kind of rage you’d never seen before, the insanity fuelling it terrifying you to your very core. You blinked back tears, refusing to let him see any more vulnerability from you than he already had. “Kill me now, or I’ll kill you for hurting him.”

He laughed again. The sound of it made fear strike down your spine, a cold slash that left everything alert with feeling, left every damaged nerve electrified and screaming. “You’d risk your life for a piece of Night Court scum? You change things, you are doing everything wrong. Your father knew how to rule, you’re nothing but a disappointment on that throne.”

“It’s sweet to know the family has such a loyal following.”

“You have no loyalty from me.” He spat, the mixture landing on your cheek, a searing hot reminder of just how powerless you were. Your eyes closed, bile moving in the back of your throat. Your hand shook so badly as you tried to lift it that you could barely smear it away. He stepped back, rounding your body, until he was hooking a hand under your armpit. Hauling you onto your knees, the rocks and splinters dug into your skin through the thin layers of gauzy, ruined dress, until you were facing Azriel. 

His lip was split, a trickle of blood running down from it, dirt and soot covered his face, a bruise forming along the right side that made you wince as you remembered the kick that had caused it. His wings were drooped, his left arm hanging limply by his side, and you wondered if that pop had actually dislocated it. His eyes were wide, his whole body all but vibrating with rage, and he struggling against the chains once again. 

“Look at him, an Illyrian. We all know of their reputations, of how they act. Bastards, monsters, degenerates, killers. You’d have, what, have our noble court follow in their footsteps? I hope dying for one of your precious Illyrians is worth it.”

Azriel was screaming now, shadows whipping in a violent frenzy as that cold knife pressed to your skin once again, not breaking the skin but enough that you could feel the blood throbbing in your neck against it. Your heart slowed, breath catching in a sob you tried to hold back, offering a shaky smile when Azriel’s desperate gaze met yours. “It’s okay, I’m dying for my mate.”

The room fell silent.

So quiet, you could hear your own heart beating in your ears.

“You’re dying for nothing.” His hand pulled back, ready to send the blade piercing into your neck, your heart, you didn’t know. Your eyes met Azriel’s, a shaky smile finding your lips. 

Then, the room went black. 

An explosion, swirling darkness like you’d never seen from Azriel before, barely catching glimpses of light through the hurricane of shadows closing in and in on you like a suffocating mass, until the light was gone entirely. Metal strained, shrieked, before giving way, and then blue cut through it. A solid burst of sapphire, a terrifying shot of power that illuminated the dark just enough for you to see him as he moved. There was a look on Azriel’s face you’d never seen before, a look that suggested that wasn’t Azriel at all, not the one you knew, not your mate, but someone else entirely. Someone much, much darker. 

That blast hit the man behind you, the force of it sending your body flying along with his, and when you hit the stone was again, your skull collided with the ground. It was dark again, the power gone, and you were left alone. All you had to guide yourself with was the screams, the sounds of gut-twisting torture as bodies were torn apart, the wet sounds of flesh tearing, the sounds of bones breaking, the sounds of lives ending. You didn’t pity them, but it didn’t stop you from being terrified. 

You did all you could, you pressed yourself close to the floor, forehead to the tiles as you wept, a hand over your body, body shaking so violently your joins scraped the rough floor. You could only hope it was Azriel who found you first. 

You waited.

And waited.

Eyes closed, soothing yourself with the sounds of your own cries, until the screaming stopped, until only one man’s heavy panting echoed off of the wreckage of the room. You cracked an eye open, watching the shadows crawl back, slowly, slowly, until you could see your own hands in front of your face again, until you could see the wreckage of the room. 

Blood, spattered everywhere. Across the tapestries and walls ad painting. Guts, hanging from bodies, the metallic smell in the air only making the queasiness worse. And then, Azriel, on one knee before the very same man who’d had a knife to your throat. The knife, still clutched in his hand, his hand clutched in Azriel’s, was now buried in his throat. 

It was a sickening sound as Azriel pulled the blade free, wiping it on the thigh of his leathers as he stood, and sheathing a new blade on his belt. A trophy. Rivers of red ran from him, along black leather, along golden skin, from raven hair. You hoped none of it was his. 

His eyes met yours, his shoulders still heaving, something cold and emotionless sitting in them, but as your gazes locked, you felt the bond in your chest hum. That golden thread that had been dead for so long pulled tight, and you watched his body stiffen, heard his sharp intake of breath.

The rush of it, it gave you just enough strength to get to your feet, to stumble over your shredded dress and the ruins of your home towards him. He remained still, so still it was like he was a statue, watching you move until you collapsed into him. Your hands smoothed up his chest, coming away red-coated, but you didn’t care, not as you cupped his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheek as you took in your battered mate.

“Az..”

Your lip wobbled. His didn’t. Instead, it curled down in a snarl, a sound that echoed harshly along your body. His hands come up, wrapping tightly around your wrists, yanking your trembling hands from his face. 

“Do not fucking touch me.”

You gaped, the thread in your chest going dead once again as his walls snapped up. Cold and hard and heartbreaking. 

You reached for him again when his hands let you go, only to watch as he turned, watching his back as he stormed from the room, shadows dragging with him like a cloak of pure darkness, until he was gone. 

Once again, you fell to your knees, one hand clutching at your chest. 

This time, you didn’t hide your sob, nor the loud wail that tore from you on a sore throat as you reached the ground.

“The threat is taken care of, so you’ll no longer be needing my services.” Azriel appeared as he always did, silent and terrifying, all but manifesting out of the shadows as he walked through the door, refusing to even show the decency of knocking. He was clad in his leathers once again, but no longer did blood streak down them, no longer were they torn and burned. He looked better than he had the last time you’d seen him, a week of healing had done him good, those Illyrian genes had fixed him up far faster than you had. There were still bruises along your back, your neck, your soul. He didn’t observe you the way you looked at him, he refused to look at you at all, stalking towards the desk on the opposite side of you and slamming a letter down onto it. “I expect you’ll be wanting this.”

He slid it with two fingers across the polished oak, before pulling back, hands tucking firmly behind his back, wings pulled tight. You didn’t pick it up, but continued to stare at him, watching him observe the space of your private office. He’d never been here before, not this close to your bedroom, the door behind you to it still wide open. You’d been on bed rest all week, waiting for him to visit you, to talk to you. He’d never come, so you’d had to pull rank and summon him. 

A muscle twitched in his tight jaw as though he was thinking the same thing. Finally picking up the letter and running your thumb under the seal on the back, three mountains and three stares glared at you from within the swirling grey wax. It popped open, your fingers delicately folding it open. 

It didn’t say much, a small, hastily scrawled letter in his unique cursive, bluntly explaining how he’d be leaving in the morning. His duties as a bodyguard and nothing more were completed, and when dawn broke, he would leave for the Night Court once again. Permanently. 

He stayed silent as you read, only daring to glance in your direction when you pressed it down flat onto the wood before you, smoothing it out, reading it again. And again. Your threat stung, an entirely new pain from the one you’d been recovering from all week, and when you looked up at him, that same empty look was present in his gaze. Vacant, unfeeling, void.

“You’re leaving?” He only nodded, stiffly, maintaining the eye contact for a second before dropping it once again, holding his chin high and staring over your head. Azriel had never made you feel small, never made you feel weak or helpless, not like he was now. He was leaving, you’d laid everything bare for him, your bond, your love, your life, and he wanted none of it. “I see.”

You lifted a pen, dipping it delicately into the ink, the tip hovering for only a second over the paper before you were signing it neatly. He let out a slight sigh as he watched the signature be drawn. Whiskey-eyes narrowed on you, as though he’d expected more; a fight, and argument, a royal demand like the one you’d used to get him here in the first place, but you had no fight left to give. 

“Thank you, Azriel, of the Night Court. Your services were more than I could have asked for.” It ached to even speak, to put a distance between you both like this, like he hadn't become your best friend, your confidant, the only man you’d ever loved. The only man who’s made you feel safe. This office felt far too small with him in it, and the palace felt far too big with the idea of him gone. “I’ll write to your High Lord, thank him personally for your services. I’ll be sure to send-”

Your voice cracked, his wings twitched behind his body as his head snapped back to you, and you only cleared your throat, putting on the same smile he’d trained you in months ago, to hide everything you really felt. You never thought you’d have to turn it on him. 

“I’ll be sure to send ample rewards for your services.”

He lingered a moment longer, hands flexing behind his back, before one reached out, spinning on his heel. He was almost at the door, hand hovering over the handle, when he turned back to you. “How long did you know?”

There was only one answer. “The night of my coronation.”

He visibly blanched, shoulders locking so tight you swore it must hurt. “That was almost a year ago.”

It was your turn to nod. Almost a year ago, Azriel had found you, surrounded by piles of lavender tulle and silk, sunken down onto the floor with your crown gripped in your hands, unable to even breathe. Almost a year ago, scarred fingers had wiped tears from your face and told you how to be strong, taught you how to be fearless, promised you it would get better. Almost a year ago, you’d realised exactly where the shadowsinger belonged. It had always been right there, at your side. 

“You’ve known for almost a year?” The cold mask of indifference broke, that simmering anger you’d known had been there breaking through as it rose, but at least it was something. You stood, walking around the desk slowly, intending to pour yourself and him a drink, but Azriel had other plans. “You kept this from me for almost a year?”

His shout was so loud that the glasses on the tray rattled. “Look at the way you’re reacting now, Azriel. You pretend to feel nothing, but you feel everything so deeply. If I had told you, can you say you wouldn't have run scared, let that fear consume you?”

“I have waited five hundred years for my mate, I have told you such, I had laid the deepest parts of myself and my wishes out for you to see and you still didn’t tell me? I told you how much I wanted you, and you never told me.” Beneath the anger, beneath all that fiery rage was hurt, just like the hurt you were feeling, and it bounced down that strained bonds between your bodies, no matter how much he tried to hide it or keep you out. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie, Azriel. I simply just didn’t tell you the truth.”

His scoff felt like a slap. “Oh, such a political thing to say. I don’t know what you were ever scared of, you’re a natural politician.”

That felt like a knife. 

If he could make cheap shots, so could you. 

“This is why I did not tell you. I knew you’d run away, like a coward. Just like you are now. I have waited for you for days, and for days you have avoided me, hidden away like a scolded child, and now you’re going home. You’re going back to hiding in your shadows, so you can observe the world from afar, longing to be a part of it, but never having the guts to join it.”

“You don’t know me!” It was an uncharacteristic burst, a few footsteps closer to accompany it, and you shrugged. 

“I know you better than anyone. Including, perhaps, yourself.”

His shoulders were heaving, ragged breaths sucked into his lungs as he glared at you with such hatred it lit you up from the inside out. His wings flared, chest tightening, and then he was stalking towards you. 

You backed up, all the way until your back was pressed to the wall, until he was so close you could smell the night lingering on him, the swirling mists and dewy forests, all heightened with his emotions, rolling off of him in waves. 

“I hate you.”

The feeling was mutual, he was running scared, breaking both of your hearts because he was too scared to give his to you. “I hate you t-”

His mouth descended onto your own, a kiss that knocked the very breath from your lungs, that had your head slamming back into the wall behind you with the force of it. Hot and angry, he wasted no time, the months of tension building between you two finally coming to a head like the eruptions of a volcano. Large hands settled on your hips, pressing you back into the wall, a dull ache in your back forming, a cry on your lips, and then it was gone. 

Gone, because in that moment of weakness, in that sound, he’d slipped his tongue into your mouth, powerful kisses growing deeper and wetter, overpowering you in every way as he crowded in closer. Close enough that you could barely slip a hand between your bodied, close enough that you could feel his heart racing against your chest, beating against his ribs, searching for your own. 

Mates.

That bond was singing, pulling tight, wrapping around you both as you tried to keep up with him, to kiss him back with everything you had. To show him you loved him, you were sorry, you just wanted to make him happy after all, you didn’t want it to end like this. 

To show him it didn’t have to end at all. 

His teeth bit your lower lip, hard enough to sting, to draw another cry from you as pleasure and pain blended into a mix that made your head spin. His teeth all but knocked against yours, your lungs burning for breath once again as he took the trauma you’d felt a week ago, and rewrote it into something new. Every nightmare that had plagued you for days felt so small now, as he held you, as he caged you in, broad frame tall enough that all you could see was him, all-consuming and devastatingly handsome. 

“I hate you,” He growled it into your mouth, one hand sliding up along your front, so confident in his touches that you almost whimpered as he grazed over your breasts, before his fingers were skimming lightly over the bruises on your neck, settling there comfortably. “I hate you for making me wait four hundred years for you.”

“I hate you for running away when you found out.” He squeezed, your oxygen cutting off for barely a second, and his lips moved down to your neck as you gasped. Biting, sucking, marking you as his with his mouth until you felt like every bone in your body was bending to his command. He let you go, let you take a breath, his lips grazing your jaw. 

“I hate your smart fucking mouth.”

You brought a hand up to his face, pulling his lips back to your own, a grateful hum leaving you as your mouths met again, your sighs tangling in the middle, and the bond in your chest jerked happily at the contact. 

It may not have been a loving kiss, it may not have been a kind kiss, in fact, every part of it was utterly brutal, but you loved it. 

“I hate the way you never tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m doing it now!” And then it changed, the hand on your neck smoothing down, sitting over your neck rather than squeezing it, thumb swiping over the purple marks littering your skin almost tenderly, as his mouth slowed from fervent to deep, something so erotic that the world seemed to slip away around you, nothing but the feel of him, the taste of him, remaining. His hands moved, tugging at the strings on the front of your dress, and you supposed that yes, he was telling you how he felt. Desperate, needy, betrayed and hurt and most of all scared. It was there to read in actions like a book. “I hate all these fucking strings.”

Fabric tore, the simple ties on the front of your dress giving way, and you tore your lips from his to look down at the mess. The corset was laying on the floor by your feet, the simple undershirt pooled around your waist, barely holding onto your arms it slumped down to your wrists, taut nipples exposed, shining skin with a glisten of sweat as you panted, and Azriel merely smirked when you looked back to him. “I hate that you’re such a fucking brute.”

His hands skimmed down your body, silently pushing away the rest of the material until it could pool at your feet, cold air sweeping in from the open window and making goosebumps rise along your exposed flesh, nothing but your panties and your crown left on your body now. He was still dressed, it was entirely unfair, and you began to tug with unsteady hands at the clasps holding his leathers shut. 

“I hate these fucking leathers.” The front came loose, your hands smoothing over his ribs to behind his body, drawing the two of you ever the closer as his hands roamed across your hips, toying with the lace scrap covering you. 

“No, you don’t.” He knew just how good he looked in them, a spark in his eyes that said he knew what he did to you, the arrogant prick, and whatever semblance of softness had formed in the last few seconds was wiped back out by the smug look he wore, your anger sparking at him once again.

But, he was right, and when he snapped the elastic against your skin, kissing along every mark he’d made on your neck already, your gasp was submission enough for him. “No, I don’t.”

“Good girl,” He mumbled, a rasp to his voice that made you heady with the thrill, nipping at your collarbone enough to make you jerk against him. His body only pressed you further into the wall. His fingers skimmed down, over the front of your panties, pressing at your clit softly through the material, and you were putty in his hands. He dragged the drenched material covering you to the side, one finger skimming through your folds, and you swore you forgot how to breathe as the anticipation became suffocating. “See how much better it all is when you tell the truth?”

A single, long finger slammed into you, sheathed in a single movement and a scream tore from your lips in shock. Your back arched, body curling as his thumb found your clit, pressing in rough circles that had you gasping against the hand still curled loosely at your throat. “Oh, fuck, Azriel..”

His finger crooked, rough scars dragged against you as he pulled it back, only to slam in again. It was an assault, the kind of stimulation that made your breaths shallow, eyes rolling back in your head, hips jutting up to roll into his palm as he used that single digit to throw you into ecstasy. Your fingers felt numb as you continued to tug at his leathers, as those final buckles behind his back you hadn’t managed, tearing at them until your fingertips hurt and they finally came loose. 

You shoved at them, dragging them from his body in a frantic motion to get your hands on as much of him as he had of you, your breasts bouncing with every rough pound of his finger into your core. A hiss left his lips as a buckle grazed the bottom of his wing, wings that flared out as you finally stripped him of his leathers, more heavy fabric dropping between you both and revealing miles of inked, golden skin for you to explore. 

There was a dark look in his eyes, one as dark as it had been days ago, only for entirely new reasons, and instead of scaring you, this one set every cell in your body alight. He met you halfway, instinct acting for you both as your mouths clashed together, a hot mess of tongues and lips as he claimed dominance over every part of you. That free hand slid up, until he was rolling one nipple between a thumb and forefinger, pinching to make you cry out, and he chuckled darkly against your skin. 

“I spent months imagining what kinds of sounds you’d make for me, but nothing compares to the sweet sound of my name on your lips.” He pressed a simple peck there, like a drug you were already hooked on you followed for more, and he slipped his hand back to your throat, pressing you back into the wall. His finger stilled for just a second, your body clenching ceaselessly around it, and you whimpered, needing him to keep going. “Say it again.”

“Earn it, and I will.” Your hips bucked against his hand, a challenge sparked in his eyes, and his hand moved. His touch left you entirely, until he was stepping back, only his hand at your throat keeping you from following him, from pathetically latching yourself to him as you stared. He looked like a god of old; rippling muscles flexing with every breath, whorls of dark ink, messy hair that matched, swollen lips still shining with your kisses, and eyes bright as he stared at you in the same way. “Azriel, please.”

“There we go.” He muttered, thumb swiping across your jaw in a soothing reward, your head tipped a little further into his touch as his hand slipped up to cup your face. He leaned in, dipping so close your lips parted, and he diverted just as his mouth brushed yours. A kiss to your jaw, to your neck, a flick of his tongue over your nipple as he lowered himself further and further, until he was mouthing at the sensitive skin below your navel. Your panties were dragged down your hips until you were stepping out of them, and when he looked up at you from his knees, you swore reverence and devotion lay in his eyes. He kissed at your knee, then the other, hands on your ankles yanking your legs apart and you grasped at the wall for balance. 

“You’ve moaned my name for me, but now I want you to scream it.”

His tongue swept along your core, punctuating his sentence and your entire body keened, almost collapsing into him right then and there. He did it again, rough strokes that ended at your clit, your fingers lacing into his hair, pulling on it while pushing him closer. His lips sealed around the bud at the apex of your thighs, sucking harshly as fingers crawled up from your ankles once again, swiping through the mess you were surely making, swirling in the build-up gathered there. 

You gasped, a whispered plea falling from your lips but even you didn’t know what for. He seemed to know, the tip of his tongue swirling lightly at your entrance, before sipping inside, wet muscle stretching you slowly, thicker than the width of that one finger, and every thought emptied from your head. 

The cool breeze from the window did little to soothe the heat inside of you, did nothing to ease the tremors wracking your body as you jerked and pleased, his tongue fucking you as his thumb played with your clit, filthy sounds that would haunt you every night when you touched yourself for the rest of the night as he moaned against you. “Oh, gods, Az..”

“I thought I told you to scream, sweetheart.” Two fingers slammed into your body in place of his tongue as he moved his attention back to your throbbing bud, and scream you did. His name bounced off of the walls, and you didn’t care if every worker and every guard and every citizen in all of Dusk could hear him taking you apart, you needed him more badly than you needed oxygen. 

He bit at you, just enough to tease, before soothing licks were taking over once again and you were rocking your hips again this face, holding him where he was, his name like a mantra on your lips over and over as he carried you toward the brink of the best orgasm you’d ever had. It was building, like an inferno, burning you up from the inside out, and when you came, it was with a scream that snapped off to silence, head thrown back and banging on the wall so hard it hurt. The throb eddied away, as everything in you focused on the way he kept going, riding you through it like it pleased him as much as it pleased you. 

If the noises he was making between your thighs were anything to go by, he was. 

He didn’t stop, fingers still going, your body spasming as he took your pleasure for his own, moaning against you as he licked up everything you had to give. When your legs buckled, he lifted one knee over his shoulder, supporting your weight with his own frame and diving even deeper. 

Wet fingers pulled out of you, gripping your other thigh and hauling that one over his shoulder two, smearing your arousal across your skin as his tongue moved back to where it had once been, sending a sharp surge of pleasure so acute up your spine you felt like you’d been electrified. 

“Azriel.. Az.. oh, fuck, I can’t- I-”

“I want you to come again, on my tongue this time. Let me feel you, sweetheart.” Your head was tossed back, whimpering weakly against the wall as he worked, your body never relaxing as he worked you right into another orgasm, dirty whispers from between your thighs with the abuse of his tongue and lips until everything was shaking and trembling, the room spinning with dizzy bliss. 

A single finger, again, knowing it was enough that one finger could drive you wild as he pressed down on that spot inside of you that made a scream louder than the rest break free. He knew you, knew your body like he’d had you for years, and you called for his attention by yanking on that bond in his chest as tears welled in your eyes, so fucked out you could barely even draw breath. He ignored it, pace only picking up.

He didn’t stop, not the rough drags of his tongue over your clit, so sensitive every touch felt like delicious torture, not as you shook and pulled on his hair, hips bucking. 

He didn’t stop, not until he was the only thing holding you up now, as tears streamed down your face, your desperate begging falling on deaf ears, until you pulled his head away from your abused core by a handful of his hair. 

Golden skin glistened, and you took shaking breaths, head falling back against the wall as your body twitched. That one finger slipped out of you, a broken cry leaving your lips as a gush of your arousal followed, and he twisted his head, a wet kiss pressed to the inside of your thigh, marking you with your own scent. 

He lowered one of your legs to the ground, the other following, and your knees buckled, his arm sliding around your waist and acting as the only thing holding you up as he rose to his feet once again. He kissed as he went, kisses that would taste like you, kisses to every twitching muscle, every spot that was still trembling, until his forehead was pressed to your own, soothing strokes of a big hand over your ribs as you calmed, hiccuping through your breaths as you recovered. 

“What a mess you are, look at you,” His words were mean, but his tone was soft, and you whimpered, nudging your nose against his own, any shred of affection would warm you. You were scared, scared that he’d take you apart, break you down and reduce you to tears and then leave. “If only your kingdom could see you now, crying for the bastard.”

Your lips parted, words ready to roll off your tongue when his mouth closed over your own, a surprised moan leaving you as his tongue languidly spread the taste of yourself to your own mouth, his skin still damp with your juices, his slick finger tipping up your chin. A mess indeed. 

“What was it you were going to say? You finally wanted to speak up?” He was mocking you, stealing your words from you. 

“You’re-” He did it again, silencing you with his lips, lazy kisses that you could get lost in, hands exploring every inch of one another’s body slowly as that frantic haze had cooled into something far more passionate now. 

“Try harder, High Lady.”

“I said, you-” Again, his mouth quieted you, and despite your whine, despite your desperation to speak, you clung to him, arms thrown around his neck as his found a home around your waist, hauling you his body until you were on your tiptoes to kiss him. His hips sat snugly to your body, his erection pressing firmly into your hip as layers of thick leather tried to hold him back, tried to hide just how much he wanted you. 

His mouth left your own, lips soothing softer kisses over the drying tear tracks on your cheeks as you panted. 

“I’m trying to say,” You paused, waiting to see if he’d cut you off again, but he didn’t. You cupped his face, pulling him back to be able to truly look at him now. His brows were furrowed, lips twisted in a frown; he was just as prepared for more pain as you were, and your heart broke at the sight. The last thing you’d ever wanted to do was hurt him, not when you loved him this much. “You’re not a bastard, Azriel. Not here. Not with me.”

He let himself sink into the moment, the love, for just a second, before adoration was glazing over with lust once again. It took little effort for him to scoop you up, for him to stride with you in his arms across the room, and to toss you down onto the bedding. Shadows writhed across it, encasing you both in murky darkness, sliding away to the floor in sated reams as Azriel stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at you. 

You knelt up, crawling towards him and smoothing your hands up his chest as his own fingers toyed with the laces of his leathers, freeing his cock, and tossing his head back with a groan as he wrapped his fingers around himself. “Oh, fuck. You have no idea how many times I’ve touched myself, just like this, thinking of you.”

“Yeah?” You kissed his jaw, his free hand smoothing around your waist, over your ass, dipping down until he could thrust two fingers into you in a single motion, and your body toppled forward into his. “Oh, fuck, Azriel…”

“Imagined what you’d feel like wrapped around me,” his fingers moved, pounding within you at the same pace he pumped his cock, matching thrust for thrust until you were shaking against him once again. “How good you’d take me. Imagined my cum dripping out of you, making a mess on all these expensive silk sheets. I imagined fucking you dumb, until you couldn't lie anymore, couldn't even speak anything except my name.”

You were teetering on the edge of an orgasm, one that was ruined as he pulled back, and your nails scraped lines into his chest as you clawed at him desperately, at his arm, pulling his hand back to your body, gasping his name as the feeling ebbed away. He kicked off the remaining clothes he wore, hands closing over your hips, turning you around and tossing you like a rag-doll, dragging you up to bed until you were where he wanted you. 

Giving it all up, ass up in the air, forehead to the mattress, surrendering everything to him, and he teased the head of his cock through your folds, nudging against your oversensitive bud until you cried out, writhing in his tight hold. There would be fingertip-shaped bruises on your hips in the morning, you had no doubt. 

The crown atop your head rolled off as you bucked back against him, the head of his thick cock gliding into you, thick enough to stretch you out, jaw going slack at the slight burn even that offered. He paused, fingers flexing on your hips. 

“Put that back on. I want to look at it while I fuck you, princess.”

Indignant rage sparked in your chest as he leaned over you, planting the crown haphazardly on your head, having the gall to not only handle it, handle you, so roughly, but to demote you within your bedroom. “I’m a fucking queen.”

“Not in this room. In this room, you’re just my cock-drunk little slut,” He sheathed himself within you in one solid thrust, your fingers twisting in the bedsheets as nothing short of a pornographic sound left your lips. He didn't go slow, he didn’t go gentle. He treated you as he always had, not royalty, not something to be protected, but his equal. 

He was angry, at himself and at you, at the world, and it showed. 

Every thrust that had his hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin bouncing around the room as you tried to push back, body trembled as you hurtled towards another mind-bending orgasm, every point he touched lighting up like standing too close to a flame. He was your everything, every sense and cell honing in on him, the bond in your chest glowing with so much light you felt heat pouring off of it, felt the vibrations as you panted, screaming his name in broken thrusts as he fucked you. 

He was right, you were no queen in this room. You were debauched, ruined, covered in the smell of sex and cum, his mess, his mate.

Yet, despite it all, something far more important shimmered underneath. It showed in the softer touches, the smooth of his fingers over your ribs, the kisses placed on every still-fading bruise along your spine as he made his way up your body, covering you more and more. It showed in the way he held you, reverent and needy, even in his anger.

He all but smothered you as he leaned over you, needy pants of your name spilling from his lips as he reduced you to nothing but ash, sweeping away on the wind, and it became more than just sex. It wasn’t hate fucking, it wasn’t just two people giving up to the tension, it was mates finding one another, it was so much more. His hand closed over your own on the bedding, lips pressing to your shoulder as he fucked into you, whispers of your name in your ear. 

“You might give the orders outside of this bedroom, but just look how well you take mine. Now, cum.”

Your body sparked alive, the knot in your stomach snapping and it was only his arm around your hips holding you up as he fucked you through it that stopped you from falling into a twitching mess on the bedding, your arousal seeping from you, dripping down your legs, making exactly the kind of mess he had wanted. His thrusts faltered a little, the growls and moans he’d been making were becoming needier, frantic, his wings flaring out and covering the two of you like a shield from the world as he neared his own high. 

Your fingers parted beneath his hand, spreading until his own digits fell through the cracks, wrapping around yours in the bedding until he was holding on so tightly you thought he may even leave an imprint. You wanted him to. You’d get it tattooed if you could.

“Azriel..” He groaned, the only indication he was listening at all, and you twisted your head to him, his forehead pressed into your shoulder from behind as he sat snugly up against you, hips snapping together frantically. “Az, honey, I want to face you when you cum. I want to see you.”

“Oh, fuck..”

His motions were jerky, quick, like he couldn't trust himself not to cum as he pulled back, stepping away from you entirely. You rolled onto your back, propped up on weak elbows to look at him. He was destroyed, shining with sweat that made him look like he was glowing, wings drooped out by his sides, shadows twisting around his ankles and calves, cock glistening with your arousal, standing tall before himself, and he bit a swollen lip as he let you stare. 

“Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful, and so fucking good for me..”

“Come here, Azriel.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, falling back into your arms, body crushed down, pulled in, by the weight of whatever was shifting between you both. When he slid into you once again, his fingers wove with your own, pinning you down to the bed and setting a harsh rhythm, chasing his own high as you both balanced on the edge. “I hate you..”

You could barely breathe, his gaze locked on your own, fingers squeezed together as you bucked up to meet him, back arching against the bed, ecstasy drowning you in waves and you were clinging to his words for air.

“I hate you, because I don’t hate you at all. I love you more than anything in this fucking world.” His confession sent you tumbling over the edge into another orgasm, your eyes rolling back in your head, crown tipped to one side, and when your lips parted, he dipped down, mouth meeting yours. 

This was different to all the other kisses, it wasn’t threats and anger and hurt, it was promises and love and forgiveness, it was intoxicating, it was blissful, and you could barely kiss back, but it didn’t matter. His mouth stilled, groaning long and deep into your mouth, a cry of your name as his whole body locked. 

Heat exploded as he came, filling you up so deep, so much that you could feel it leaking out of you around him even as he stayed tucked deep inside of you, his hips pressed to yours. You panted, tasting him on every breath as he came, your fingers running soothing touches along his body like he had done for you, until he collapsed down. Too weak to hold himself up, too weak to leave, strong enough to come back at all. 

Your arms looped around his body, linking behind his back as his wings dropped their tension, following down, shadows crawling up over your bodies like a blanket. You stayed like that, long enough to catch your breath and calm your racing hearts. Long enough to clear the fog from your mind, allow you to think clearly once again. Long enough to feel the cold from the open window, to feel the weight of him pressing down, your only source of warmth. 

Long enough to feel him start to grow restless. 

You freed one hand from his back, selfishly stealing another moment or two for yourself before he was gone, running your fingers through silky, damp hair and trying to commit every part of him to memory, before he was nothing but a ghost, only living on in your memories. 

He pushed himself up on shaky arms, his warmth leaving you as he rolled away from you and onto his back, wings tucked tight to his body, and he stared at the ceiling. You felt used, his cum still leaking from you, hating how good it felt when you knew the pain that was coming. It was almost enough to make you sick.

“I’m sorry, Azriel.”

His head twisted in your direction, brows furrowed, and you could see him from your peripherals but couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze properly. Instead, you sat up, crown discarded in the bedding, the last piece of armour taken off. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But, more than that, I’m sorry I never came to find you. I couldn't but that didn’t mean I never thought about you, before I ever knew who you were.” 

His fingers reached out, dragging along your spine until they fell to the bed, a phantom touch you’d remember for the rest of your life. Comfort, even when you didn’t necessarily deserve it. 

“For centuries, I’ve dreamed of meeting you, of meeting my mate. I walked to that border so many times, held my hand over the air until I was too close, until the spell burned my fingertips and warned me back, until the pain was too much to bear. So many times I wished I could come and find you. I knew you had to be out there, over the years I was sure if you were here, I’d have known you, you were right on the other side of that goddamn barrier and I couldn't get to you. When my father died and that wall came crashing down, I felt awful, because I didn’t feel awful at all. No sorrow or sadness for a cruel man, all I felt was relief, and happiness, and freedom, even if I was chained to a throne.”

You took a deep breath, no tears coming at the memory of your father or the kingdom you now had, but tears came at the idea of doing it all alone, forever. You’d had love, you’d had Azriel, and if come morning he was gone, you knew you’d likely never love again. 

“If it’s been too long, if my cowardice of losing you when I finally had you pushed you too far, if it’s too late and it hurts too much, I will understand. I will love you no matter where you are Azriel, but I don’t expect you to love me back if it hurts, and I won’t blame you if-”

You felt the bed shift, turning to look at where Azriel was now sitting up, his hand finding your cheek as his lips closed over yours. The tears in your eyes spilt over once again as he kissed you, smearing between your cheeks as he gave his best to show you how he felt. “I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t know, what it was like for you, how scared you were. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words only brought a fresh wave of sobs, disbelief still etched into your mind, and he kissed along your cheeks, soft strums on the bond that felt like kisses to your spirit as he eased you across, back down toward the bed with him until you lay facing one another. 

“I love you. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You said you were! You were going to leave me at dawn, you were-” He mumbled an apology onto your lips, coaxing you to kiss him back until the frantic fear you felt had ebbed away. He ran the back of a finger over your cheeks, wiping away the tears. 

“I think it would kill me to leave you now.” Azriel lay his head down on the pillow you used, his nose brushing yours with every deep breath he took, concern still swimming in his eyes as he watched you. “I was scared too.”

“I know.”

“But you were wrong to hide it from me. We have to tell the truth from now on, I have to know your heart fully.”

“My heart is already yours, Azriel.” He only smiled, the first honest and genuine smile you’d seen since that fateful morning at breakfast before everything had gone wrong. “The truth, always, I prom-”

His hand cupped over your mouth, eyes wide as he stared. “Do you know what making a promise to someone from the Night Court means?”

“I do.” Your words were muffled behind his hand, his eyes only widening further. “And I promise, Azriel, to always be honest, even if it scares me. To love you the way you deserve to be loved, if you’ll let me.”

Your wrist burned, a sharp strike of pain before it was vanishing, and Azriel lowered his hand from your mouth, agape as you took in the new mark on your wrist. A small, perfect whorl now marred perfect skin, and you smoothed your thumb over it. He took your wrist gently, raising your hand to his mouth so he could kiss it softly. “I promise to match that, to match you, with honesty and love.”

He didn’t flinch as a matching mark formed on his own wrist, but when you kissed it like he had done for you, he smiled. That arm then snuck out, over your hips, tugging you in closer until there was barely a sliver of space between you anymore. Your hand smoothed through his hair again, before coming to rest on his cheek, a look of love on his face you thought you would never see. “I’m so happy I found you.”

“What made you come to the Night Court? When you realised you were in danger from one of your own people, you could have gone to anyone. Day would have been safer, Helion would have been able to trace the spell on you, and believed you right away. You wouldn't have had to convince him as you did Rhysand. Or Dawn, or even Summer. Why Night, when we had a reputation even you must’ve heard.”

You didn’t really have an answer, but he wanted one. “I don’t know. I just felt like that was the place to go. It felt like the right decision.” Azriel tugged twice at the bond between your bodies, already so strong, you could only imagine how much stronger it would get once you’d officially confirmed it.

“It’s going to be hard, y’know.” He rolled away, rasp in his voice as he untucked the blankets from your bodies, lifting them up and over you both slowly, his shadows pushing shut the open windows silently. 

“What is?”

“This.” He waved a finger between your bodies as he settled back in, sitting up among the pillows and letting a heavy sigh out, and you propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “Hiding this, I mean.”

“Why would we hide it?”

Insecurity crept in, and a ragged sigh left him as you felt his own equal insecurities come flooding toward you. It was accompanied by sadness, and longing for you, even though you were right there. It broke your heart, it broke his heart, and you had no idea why. “I’m.. I’m your bodyguard. I’m a hired killer from the Night Court, it would not be approved of. It would make your life so hard.”

It was like a splash of freezing water, like stepping in the crystal pools of Dusk in the depths of the winter season, frozen right down to the bones within seconds. Reality was a bitch. Pressing your lips together, you sighed, a single thought flittering through your head and as you tried to suppress it, the bond on your wrist burned, hot and painful until the words spilled from you; “I’ll abdicate.”

“No. You can’t.” He shook his head, you both knew it wasn’t an option. “You worked so hard to build this kingdom back up, to make relations with other courts, to make alliances, you love it.”

“I love you more.”

“I won’t let you give it up.” His voice was firm, an end of discussion, and hard boundary, but there was one more option. You didn’t need the prompt of your promise this time.

“Fine. Then you become King.”

A startling laugh left him, self-pitying and shy, and you stared, unwavering until he calmed. “I can’t be a king.”

“Says who?” 

He didn’t laugh this time, he just lay, quietly, holding your gaze for as long as he could bare it before you felt his shame force him to snap away, swallowing thickly against the upcoming tidal wave of emotion he was doubtless fighting. “I can’t.. I wasn’t born for this. I was born for war and blood, I’m a bastard and a brute from the Steppes. I can’t rule. I’m not noble. I’m already a tarnish on you.”

“Do you know where shadowsingers come from?”

“What?” He was covered with confusion once again as he dared to turn back to look at you, at the change in topic. “They come from the dark.”

“No, Azriel, they do not.” Your fingers reached out, dipping into the swirling mass of black that surrounded you both, and a single shadow crawled up your arm, Azriel’s eyes widening as he realised it was not acting of his own accord, nor his, but yours. “There are no shadows in the dark, Azriel. Shadows require light to exist. Shadows do not come from Night as there is no light, they do not come from Day as it is too bright, nor Dawn, as dawn is the awakening, not the sleep. Shadowsingers come from Dusk. That is why there are so few in your world, because the genes stopped being passed down. I don’t know how repressed, how far back, but you, my love, have Dusk blood running through your veins. This is your heritage, right here.”

Azriel was speechless, a sudden breath leaving him as his chest deflated, and he turned to face you a little more. “There’s more like me?”

“Many more, Azriel. I had no idea you thought you were alone. I’ve met hundreds of shadowsingers in my lifetime.” He let out a wet laugh, shock taking over his face as he flopped back into the pillows, one hand scrubbing down his face. “You belong here, and if you want to go back to Night, I will abdicate. If you want to stay, I’ll crown you King myself. But I will not love you in secret, Azriel. Not when I have so much love to give you.”

“You have too much faith in me.” His voice wavered, but it sounded like he’d made his mind up as he took a shaky breath. 

“Well, I have to have enough faith for us both until you believe in yourself.” Picking up the discarded crown, you knelt up, and raised it high enough to place shimmering gold into his hair, adjusting it perfectly and brushing the hair it flattened away from his face. “What a handsome High Lord you’d make.” 

You teased him with his own wording, a term that had been overruled by your father to place distance between yourselves and the other courts, and one you looked forward to taking back. His grin split his face like sunshine through clouds, nervous laughter following as he reached up to touch it. 

“And what a pretty smile. You’ll have everyone eating from the palm of your hand in no time, they’ll like you more than me.”

“Impossible.” He leaned in, sweeping you up and into a kiss, one that was bursting with smiles and laughter and love, and your hands came up, holding the crown firmly to his head as it tipped. You’d make him his very own, one that was his, that showed just how much he meant, and you’d place it on his head yourself. Crown him before everyone. Your love, your mate, your High Lord. “It’s heavy.”

“It takes some getting used to.” You whispered back, stealing a couple more kisses from him before settling back, admiring him lounging in the bed. Naked, silk sheets pooled low around his waist, crown sitting askew in his hair with a smile on his lips. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on Rhys’ face when he realises he’s not the only High Lord in the family, now.”

if one (1) more cishet man looks me in the eyes and lies to my face to manipulate me into liking him i’m gonna lose my mother-freakin’ marbles.

ACOTAR if the books were written from Tamlin's perspective

Exploring the nuance that the fandom often overlooks.

The ACOTAR series is told in first-person perspective. Although this allows us insight into the inner workings of certain character's minds, it also means that these accounts can be biased, or lacking nuance. To this day, Tamlin's perspective has not been shared, and I want to attempt to do that.

Please note that although the books were predominately told from Feyre's viewpoint, it doesn't mean that her thoughts and feelings are invalid. I am also not condoning Tamlin's actions (explaining ≠ excusing). These are fictional books; breaking them down and considering different angles is of great merit - even if you don't personally agree.

The story of Tamlin; how it all started.

Tamlin grew up in an extremely violent and abusive household - the extent of which largely remains unknown to the readers. We do know that his parents did not love each other, and that his father and two older brothers were canonically worse than Lucien's (and we know how bad they are).

Tamlin's father was even friends with the King of Hybern and Amarantha; two of the most insidious individuals in Prythian. In fact, Tamlin's father would regularly drag him along to visit them. It was during these visits that Amarantha grew to desire Tamlin, presumably when he was still rather young.

Amarantha then continued to sexually harass Tamlin for centuries. As readers, we do not know exactly what Amarantha did to Tamlin during that time; he is yet to open up about it.

An unlikely ruler.

Tamlin never wanted to rule the Spring Court. He stated that if he did, his brothers would have killed him "before he could reach adolescence." As a result, his only choice was to join the brutality of the army.

Instead, what Tamlin actually wanted was to become a travelling musician, spending his days playing the fiddle.

However, when Tamlin's entire family was (justifiably) murdered by Rhys and his father, he was forced into the role of High Lord of the Spring Court. Unlike Rhys, Tamlin had no friends or Inner Circle to help him, or to offer him support.

Although Tamlin rightfully shares the blame in what happened to Rhys's family, we still never received his version of events. Many have theorised that Tamlin was tortured by his brothers and father for the information about Rhys's family (as at this point, Tamlin and Rhys were best friends); I believe this to be likely.

Whatever the circumstances, one thing was now clear - Tamlin was entirely alone.

A reign ravaged by Amarantha.

Despite the circumstances, Tamlin does his best to rule the Spring Court. Although he is still largely inexperienced, he is vigilant about not following in the footsteps of his abusive father and brothers.

However, his efforts are halted when Amarantha, the woman who has relentlessly sexually and romantically pursued him for years, curses his entire court, and turns his heart to stone. Tamlin is forced to watch all of his companions and court advisors either die, or suffer tremendously, as a result of the curse.

Despite this, Tamlin does what he can for his people - even those outside of his court; offering shelter and employment to countless refugees.

In fact, when one of Tamlin's civilians was killed by Amarantha, he carried the faerie in his arms and into the gardens. He then buried the faerie with his own hands; "a High Lord, digging a grave for a stranger."

Meeting Feyre; the beginning of the end.

By chance or fate, Tamlin met Feyre Archeron. She was the first person he had ever loved in 500 years - the only one to make him feel "less alone."

Tamlin brought Feyre's family out of poverty and healed her father's leg. He rebuilt the art gallery for her. He was the first person to recognise the sacrifices she had made for her family. Most of all, Tamlin fell in love with Feyre in her human form - exactly as she was, with no mating bond to biologically pull her to him.

Prior to the events of Under the Mountain, Tamlin tells Feyre that he is "not her jailor." He tells her that she doesn't need a "keeper," as he kneels before her, and dedicates a song on his fiddle to her.

So, what changed?

Under the Mountain.

Amarantha happened.

Tamlin was forced to witness the woman he loved be brutalised and tortured. Knowing Amarantha was in love with him, Tamlin is powerless to help Feyre; to make his feelings known, means instant death for her. It is why Tamlin gets on his knees and begs Rhys to keep Feyre's identity a secret.

However, Feyre is ultimately killed. She was only brought into this situation because of Tamlin; he is riddled with guilt and despair.

Yet, by some miracle, Feyre is resurrected. Tamlin now has the chance to protect Feyre, to save her, in all the ways he was unable to before.

However, he goes overboard. He becomes possessive and controlling. Despite promising Feyre that he was not her "jailor," he locks her in the manor. He shuts Feyre out. The trauma only festers - for both of them.

Tamlin's behaviour was abusive. Feyre had every right to leave, and she was far better off for it.

Readers react (but, is it fair?)

It is for the above reason that Tamlin is one of the most hated ACOTAR characters. That hatred is justified.

But, where is that same hatred for all other SJM characters who behaved just as badly as Tamlin? Or, those who behaved even worse?

Rhys is still the character who:

Drugged Feyre and made her dance provocatively Under the Mountain (until she threw up). Rhys later admits he did this in part to make Tamlin jealous.

Twisted Feyre's broken arm to enforce consent.

Kept a 24/7 shield around her (the same sort of action Tamlin is criticised for...).

Refused to tell Feyre that her pregnancy would likely be fatal (despite their 'no secrets' promise); stripping her of the autonomy to make decisions over her own body.

Then, threatened to kill Nesta when she revealed this information.

And I hear you - "Rhys was just trying to protect Feyre!" Yet, wasn't that Tamlin's motive too?

This double standard exists for most other SJM characters:

[TOG Spoilers] Rowan, one of the most powerful fae warriors to ever exist, punches Aelin, a 19 year old who is newly discovering her fae abilities, so hard in the face that she hits a wall and bleeds. He then tells her that she should have "died long ago". Tamlin never directly laid his hands on Feyre. Yet, Rowan does, and his behaviour is always excused (and even romanticised). What's more, is that his relationship with Aelin is one of the most highly regarded.

[TOG Spoilers] We then have Manon who committed literal mass genocide for centuries (and delighted in it), even killing her own sister in the process.

There's Azriel who has a twisted affinity for torturing people.

Nesta who was verbally and emotionally abusive towards Feyre throughout their childhood.

Don't get me wrong, I love all of these characters. They are nuanced, morally grey individuals; this complexity is what makes SJM books so great.

Yet, why does this same nuance rarely exist for Tamlin?

Considering the events from Tamlin's perspective.

Readers criticise Tamlin for collaborating with Hybern to 'get Feyre back.' However, from Tamlin's perspective, Rhys was the person who willingly served Amarantha for the past 50 years. Tamlin also believed Rhys's facade that he was the insidious dictator of the infamously cruel Night Court. What's more, Tamlin is also aware of Rhys's mind control powers. So, when he receives a vague letter from Feyre (who as far as he knows, couldn't read and write), of course he is suspicious.

Tamlin truly believes that Rhys has kidnapped Feyre, and that she is in danger. In order to rescue her, Tamlin pretends to work with Hybern. He jeopardises the safety of his civilians, puts his entire court at risk - all to save the woman he loves.

If Rhys sacrificed the Night Court to save Feyre, we would deem it an act of true love. So, why do we condemn Tamlin?

What's more, both readers and characters blame Tamlin for the King of Hybern's actions; that Elain and Nesta went into the Cauldron because of him.

However, as soon as Tamlin realised Hybern's true plans, he blew his cover in an attempt to stop the King. He was the ONLY character who lunged for Hybern in an attempt to save Elain (whilst everyone else stood there in shock).

Shortly after, Tamlin realises that Feyre left him willingly. That she is with Rhys, and they are mates. Then, Lucien, Tamlin's only friend, leaves for the Night Court too.

To top it all off, in an act of revenge, Feyre orchestrates for the downfall of the Spring Court - an action that risks the lives of countless innocent civilians. As a result, Tamlin now has no one. No court.

Tamlin has nothing left.

Tamlin's choice.

If we are all being honest with ourselves, most people in Tamlin's position would feel immense resentment. Many would resort to revenge, just as Feyre did. However, Tamlin never takes this path - he never gives in to the hatred and bitterness that could so easily consume him. He chooses otherwise.

Not only did he turn the tide in the war, saving Feyre and Elain's life;

Not only did he resurrect Rhys - the man who took so much from him;

But above all else, he wished for Feyre to "be happy."

Yet, despite all of this, although most other characters got their happily ever after, Tamlin now roams around the decimated Spring Court. He stays in his beast form, as if he doesn't even feel worthy of being fae - of his humanity. Tamlin is depressed, and very alone. He has always been alone.

To me, his character can be summarised by this quote;

"I sat with my anger long enough, until he told me his real name was grief."

Tamlin's redemption.

Some believe that Tamlin deserves no redemption. That instead, he is better off dead. However, I think that sends a rather grim message to the myriad of people who suffer in the same way that Tamlin does.

To those who externalise their pain, rather than internalise it. To those who were never shown love as a child, and therefore struggle to display it as an adult. To those who were hurt by the people they trusted most, so they hurt others in return. To those who still hold onto guilt over their past. To those who try to be a better person, but still feel like a failure deep down.

That doesn't mean that Tamlin's past actions should be excused, or even forgiven, But, just like every other character, it does mean he should have the chance to heal.

In her most recent interview, SJM says it herself; that no character is doomed to be an "asshole" forever, and that any day you could choose to wake up and be a better person - to live a better life.

A fairytale ending.

Ultimately, ACOTAR was inspired by Beauty and the Beast, and Tamlin is the perfect personification of the Beast. Not just for his shapeshifting form, as we came to believe in the first book. But rather, just as the Beast in the fairytale was a man haunted by his past mistakes, so too is Tamlin.

Yet, as the tale goes, the Beast's once hardened exterior begins to melt away, and he is able to look towards the world with kindness. To love again. To love himself. When this happened, the enchanted rose came back to life.

I believe this foreshadows what will occur with Tamlin in future books. As he begins to heal, to find his place in the world, he will blossom.

And, so too will the Spring Court gardens around him - vibrant again, once more.

Answering this ask because my clumsy ass deleted the draft of the ans as well as the ask idek how that happened

HERE'S THE COMMENTARY ON ACOFAS CHAPTER 11: THE ONE WHERE RHYISE VISITS A SUICIDAL TAMLIN AND TELLS HIM TO ROT IN HELL 🥰

A tomb.

This place was a tomb.

How can someone be proud of doing something cruel to someone? If they are the saints they claim to be why do this to Tamlin bro? Istg i will NEVER to this understand how on earth did the editors agree to the plotline of the destruction of Spring Court?

Lucien had not come here to make amends during Solstice, I realized as Tamlin opened the door to the dark library.

Lucien had come here out of pity. Mercy.

Bruh why? why? wud he underestimate their bond like that? he speaks as if they hadnt been each others only family for centuries

Tamlin claiming an ornate cushioned chair on one side of it. The only thing he had that was close to a throne these days.

oh fck u little shit atleast tamlin doesnt OPPRESS his people!!

“If you’ve come to gloat, you can spare yourself the effort.”

Tamlin is so non-combative here and people still have the audacity to say Rhysie is the bigger male????

“Do you see any sentries around to do it?”

Even they had abandoned him. Interesting. “Feyre did her work

thoroughly, didn’t she.”

THATS NOT SOMETHING TO BE FUCKING PROUD OF RHYSIE

ISTG this asshole someone needs to kick him in the balls. HARD.

I smiled. “Oh, no. That was all her. Clever, isn’t she.”

No sir she is a dumb teenage girl who taught to destroy a court DURING WARTIME?

tbh if Spring wouldn't have fallen the war would have never gone down i said what i said.

I didn’t smile as I countered with, “I suppose you think I should be

thanking you, for stepping up to assist in reviving me.”

“I have no illusions that the day you thank me for anything, Rhysand, is the day the burning fires of hell go cold.”

my boi tamlin is so savage like??

SLAY

Tamlin deserved what he’d brought upon himself, this husk of a life.

He deserved every empty room, every snarl of thorns, every meal he had to hunt for himself.

Seriously? Tamlin, sweetheart, for the love of good kick this man and his bat dick pls.

Tamlin had burned them long ago, Feyre had told me. It made no

difference. He’d been there that day.

I really want to emphasize that Tamlin DID NOT take part in their death.

Had given his father and brothers the information on where my sister and mother would be waiting for me to meet them. And done nothing to help them as they were butchered.

BRO????

U expect a boy to go against his evil, physically abusive father? NO, strike that.

U WANT A BOY TO GO AGAINT A HIGH LORD?

No tell me? how was Tamlin supposed to fight a HIGH LORD and his brother??? Three against one??

And even if he tried to help them? we will never know? we get only rhysie's side of the story never tamlin's pov

“You brought every bit of this upon yourself,”

Yes yes lets go tell a suicidal person he brought every bit of his misery on himself

Yeh lets all applaud him

“You won,” he spat, sitting forward. “You got your mate. Is that not

enough?”

"No."

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK???

MANNNNNNNNNNNNNN

I WANT TO SCRATCH MY EYEBALLS RHYSIE'S EYEBALLS OUT AT THIS POINT

"You deserve everything that has befallen you. You deserve this pathetic, empty house, your ravaged lands. I don’t care if you offered that kernel of life to save me, I don’t care if you still love my mate. I don’t care that you saved her from Hybern, or a thousand enemies before that.”

THIS UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH?!?!?!?!?

PLSSSSSSSSS

Why doesnt he care that tamlin has saved BOTH their lives on MULTIPLE occasions???

at this point 50% of the IC owe their life to tamlin

“I hope you live the rest of your miserable life alone here. It’s a far more satisfying end than slaughtering you.”

well he isnt even strong enough to keep his people in line and not a hair's breath away from rebellion, i doubt he'll be able to slaughter the HL who tore apart Amarantha, who fought a hundred of Hybern's monsters and soldiers in their camp ALONE, at the same time helping feyre escape AND was able to "drag" another highlord to war

*Drops mike*

But Tamlin only stared. And after a heartbeat, his eyes lowered to the

desk. “Get out.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the bigger male

Tamlin didn’t have shields around the house. None to prevent anyone from winnowing in, to guard against enemies appearing in his bedroom and

slitting his throat.

It was almost as if he was waiting for someone to do it.

This breaks my heart so much. No, Tamlimn doesnt deserve this. NO ONE deserves this. Imagine being OKAY with someone being suicidal?!

A Court of Thorns and Roses Locations

⤷ THE AUTUMN COURT

For @moononastring

If SJM doesn’t compare Gwyn’s freckles to the stars and constellations of the night sky as Azriel kisses her skin remembering the times he used to pray to those same stars as a child trapped away then what’s the point ?????????

uhhhmmmmmmm..........

(when a guy who joined one of your classes three days ago who you literally have never even made eye contact with and stares at you constantly and you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours and he’s verbally violent and just gives you budding psychopath vibes writes you a full six page love letter along with an illustration of you and him together)

so i’m currently working at a law firm and the other day one of the attorneys was talking to me and he mentioned that he’s “not very confrontational” and i was like you are?? a lawyer???

and he said “yeah but in court there are rules. i can argue with some shmuck in a suit in front of a judge no problem, but when i leave the courthouse and go home i’m not gonna argue with my wife about dinner. there are no rules in our kitchen. i would die.”

ever since i turned 20 i feel like i’ve genuinely just become so much more restless. i think i’m just reaching a point in my life where i’m ready to tap into that version of myself i’ve dreamed about for so long. like i’m just so ready to be her. nothing but love for current me, bc she got me through a lot. but i want to move w that new energy i’ve had on my mind for so long. i think i’m getting closer to being there

Feysand with Nox

*I’m not crying, you’re crying*

Art by: neural_art_v

Azriel after the mating bond finally snaps into place:

stinkytofubaby on instagram

some of you are a little too pretty to be on tumblr i think you should be luring people to their watery demise instead