#he spent most of this in silence as he ought

[silkenwinger]

natural predator

ghost x reader, shifter x shifter. strangers to friends to lovers with a little push. based on this and this. MDNI. cw: stalking, implied manipulation, scent kink, mating cycles/in heat, the slightest dubious consent, biting, implied knotting (it's still rather vanilla). dividers by @/strangergraphics

There are many ways to pass the time. 

You can walk around the block once, twice, until the winter frostiness gives out. Clean your one room apartment from top to bottom, taking care in picking soft scents not to overwhelm your nose. Enter the same shop every Wednesday, never buying anything because it is expensive. It’s a way of living. Perhaps not the best. You wouldn’t know any other, now.

It wasn’t always like this. You used to have parents and friends. Shared dinners. Warm faces by your neck and vice versa. It was scary, seeing it all change. And not being able to do anything about it but flee, thinking it’d be fine somewhere else. A space for your kind doesn’t exist anywhere. You make one by picking a corner and sitting there. And you’re fine here. These past months have gone by smoothly, if a little lifeless.

The one light from the canopy outside keeps flickering beat by beat through the glass doors as you check the register.

“Real issue, that one,” says your manager, Joe. Joe is nice. He lets you do as you please as long as you do the bare minimum. It’s just the two of you, most evening and night shifts in this gas station, and he takes frequent naps he calls resting his eyes.

“When did the repair man say he’d come?”

“Between tomorrow and Friday.” It’s Monday. “I swear my eyes are about to pop open. It’s always just behind them.” He says, making a gesture towards his head.

You close the register. The shop’s jingle plays while you bend over to fix the leg of your pants. When you rise to your full height again, you see him.

Imposing. Dressed in black. Silent and overbearing. He’s wearing the usual surgical black mask, and a cap. Outside, he wears the sweatshirt’s hood on the latter, but he has the sense to take it off inside.

“Good evening,” says Joe, throwing the man a suspicious look. Joe is wary of anyone he can’t get a full report of age and provenience out of, not to mention someone who doesn’t entertain his small talk. Bar you, since you’re a great listener.

The man doesn’t answer. Just lingers on the “sports and health” section for a minute, before grabbing a powdered protein bottle and taking it straight to the counter. You grab it without even looking at him in the eye. Scanning it, you chance a look. His black eyes are focused on your hands, a scar runs on his temple, jagged. His hair looks almost white in the cold, artificial light, his hands in the sweatshirt’s pocket. His eyes leave your hands and meet yours. A sensation crawls on top of you: the need to run. You ignore it and unlock your elbows. Prey instinct isn’t well received in human society.

There’s no nicer way of saying he has a smell. It’s not unpleasant, not at all. But it’s not quite a scent you can name either. Not vanilla, nor a spicy breeze. Not even a heavy musk. It’s just… odd.

You drop the bottle on the counter and tell him his total. He pays cash. Always. His nails brush against your palm as he drops it in your hand, and your breath is quivering. You snatch off your hand in a rush. In the corner of your eye, you can see Joe glaring at the both of you. He must be thinking you’re loony. You more than him, since you’re neglecting basic customer service pleasantries. 

He leaves. Your shoulders relax. But you can still smell him all around. 

You take a walk to the storage room. 

—

You skip around, the limited space hindering your jumps. In the distance cars speed and drive away, the sound muted by the rustling of foliage around your legs. The full moon shows your way through the arms of the trees, silver rays making a stone path on the green high grass. Your ear tickles to the left when you hear a sound, some sort of raspy screeching that has you raise your head. Unsettled, you turn back from where you came from, the meat in your thighs turning sour.

Joe is still asleep, his shiny head falling over his chest. When he wakes and sees you sitting at the counter, he makes an off comment about your hair being messy, voice still slurred by sleep. You fix yourself through the metal reflection on the fridges’ handles and clean the dirt from your nose.

—

Two teenage girls keep shoving their phones in your face. So far from their conversation and monologue towards you, it seems they’re on the lookout for something they call a “dupe”— a lipstick or something. You tell them all the makeout you hold is by the register, on their left. Their expressions clearly show their dissatisfaction with the selection, hands slapping to their sides when they let go of something. 

“Girls! We have to go!” Yells the children’s mother from near the exit, and the twins huff in perfect synchrony. They give the makeout shelf a final disparaging look and exit the store, not minding you one bit. You finish stacking up the bandaids, the sunset outside flooding the enclosed space in orange. You go back to the register when you hear someone entering, so used to the shop’s jingle it’s not annoying anymore.

When the hooded man comes to stand before you, you don’t even think twice. There’s something weird in the air, and he hasn’t come in two days. Maybe he was busy. But the eyes and face you find aren’t of the blonde man, and the fabric covering his mouth isn’t that of a surgical mask. The startling blue colour of his irises freezes your mind. The barrel of a gun is pointed straight at you, an extension of the man’s long arm. 

The first instinct is always to run. But you find yourself stuck to the place, the thump of your heart resounding in your ears. The man is yelling at you, demanding you to open the register, the glossy finishing of the weapon almost blinding. Your right hand twitches, flexes. You’re sure he’s going to shoot you in the head. The muzzle of the gun is moving side to side, diagonally, shifting lightly enough that it would be almost imperceptible to less acute eyes. The man is shaking. The scent is that of fear.

He shifts as if hit by a train. An unstoppable force. The robber falls to the ground, his body making a loud thunk, the gun dropping from his hold. The spell broken, you lean over the counter, your sweaty hands holding the edge of it. On the ground, the man is on his belly, a bigger body over him. You recognize the cold shine of blond hair.

The police come after you finally call them. You think the blond man might have knocked the robber out, because he’s still prone on the ground while he sits on his legs. He hasn’t said a word to you. Just sent you a glare that said call the cops. While the police take the man away, you call Joe and tell him everything, still looking at the mystery man through the glass doors. Joe says you can close the shop, his voice worried. 

You find him still smoking outside. Shifting on your feet, you take his appearance in more carefully. The scent is less intense now, covered by the smoke and dispersed in the open air. The only lights are that of the canopy and the lit cigarette. He’s regarding it as if it’s an ancient book worth revering, the stick looking dwarfed in between his fingers. Tapping your heels, you tuck your nose inside the neck of your coat.

“Thank you,” you let out.

He looks at you like you’ve told him to go jump off a bridge. The blood in your vein chills. 

“Common where you’re from?” He asks, his voice even more rough than you’ve expected. You swallow and take a step back. 

“Excuse me?”

He makes a vague gesture towards the station, the woods behind. You follow his hand with your eyes and tilt your head to the right, confused.

“Putting your smell all over. Calling everyone to come here.” He then takes a long look, up and down your body, that makes you want to crawl back inside your skin. “Don’t look like the type to enjoy the attention.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, offended, but don’t move from where you’re standing. He is smelling you, as well? That can’t mean… His expression is annoyed, like he’s had this conversation with you a hundred times and more. Your nose twitches. He doesn’t reply to you, choosing instead to put out the cigarette on the ground and walk back to his car. You’re left, speechless, looking at his back.

—

It’s your free day. You can do everything you want during your free day.

You go running, of course. Choose a little spot off the running track, a clearing with tall grass. You take a few bites, but you’re never really satisfied when you eat in this form. It’s only instinct that makes you do so. 

All of the sudden, the air changes. The needles on your back multiply, as do your look backs. At some point, you’re certain you’re being stared at. Your hind legs kick, the jump propelling you inside the trees, and you disappear among the foliage.

—

“You should use this.” 

A green container is dropped in front of you on the counter. It’s not something you sell in the shop. You look up to the blond man with a dubious face.

“To hide your scent.” He says nonchalantly. You scrunch your face and ignore the unasked gift. You get to the heart of it.

“What’s your name?”

“Simon,” he answers flatly, while his eyes shift to look at the blue plate on your chest. “That your real one?” He says pointing to it with a long finger.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“These,” you say, taking the container in your hand. It’s full of white, small pills, “work… for our kind?”

“Yeah. More for territory issues than anything else.”

“But you still smell.” You shake the bottle in front of him. From above the mask, one of his eyebrows shifts.

“Better than nothing.” His tone is ironic. Ugh, no one wants to be told they reek all the time. You pout, but pocket the pills. His eyebrow is still quirked.

“Just like that?” He says, surprised.

“Uh? You told me to take them.”

“You don’t know me.”

You roll your eyes. You can’t read him at all, but you suppose he’s made you a pet case of his, a new shifter who needs help in his turf. So why preach stranger danger now?

“You already saved me once.” You lower your eyes. “Does that mean there’s a lot of us here, in this city?” You try to keep your tone neutral, but you fear it sounds more hopeful than it ought to be.

He looks uncomfortable now. Like a mother who promised her son a new toy and can’t buy it for Christmas.

“I know a couple of people,” he scratches the back of his neck. “John Price, good man. Big.” He pauses. “I’ll give you my phone number. If anyone else but him pops up here, or at your house, you call me.”

That’s when Joe makes his entrance. His face tells you that he’s not thrilled you two are having this conversation. 

“Everything alright here?” He asks you as he spreads his hands on the counter, and you realize he’s worried Simon’s bothering you. His figure, small and round, pales against the solidity of the taller man’s body, but he holds his head high. And Simon, maybe now conscious of how he’s coming across, shrinks.

“Yes, don’t worry,” you smile shyly to Joe, happy he’s worried about you. But Simon is not necessarily bothering you. You enjoy having someone to talk to about that. Someone who is just like you.

—

He offers to take you home when your car won’t start one rainy night. You tell him you can wait for the tow truck beneath the canopy but he’s unremovable. You don’t question why he was waiting for you to finish your shift. In his car, you just keep your hands in between your thighs, the warmth of the heater thawing your toes. He fiddles with the radio, big fingers turning the dial, the slightest amount of light hair on them. His face is neutral, but you wouldn’t call it relaxed.

“You've been taking them? The suppressants,” he adds, while he turns for what seems the tenth time.

“Yes. Does it not seem so?” You ask, now self conscious.

He doesn’t answer your question. A bit put off by his lack of politeness, you cross your arms and look outside of the car window, limiting your indications to one word replies. He doesn’t seem to need them anyway. When he stops at your house, you put a hand on the door handle and look at him. Something is missing.

“... Do you want to come upstairs?” You ask, voice trembling less than you’d expect from yourself. Again, he doesn’t answer. He just exits the car, long limbs getting out the seat and into the drizzle. You scramble to get out as well. He feels even bigger at your shoulders as you guide him up the stairs. When you enter your apartment, you’re embarrassed by the state you left it in that morning. Simon doesn’t seem to mind, still looking around the space like it might reveal some great conspiracy. Then, he lifts his gaze at you, implicit question in his brown eyes. You look down, biting your lower lip in anxiety.

“This is all I could find on my budget,” you try to justify your living situation, like he’s owed an explanation. He shakes his head.

“It’s nice,” he says, maybe not completely genuinely. But you’re so surprised by a compliment coming from him you almost stutter.

“Please sit,” you say, gesturing to the small table. You make tea in your electric kettle, feeling his eyes behind you all the time. Uncomfortable with his staring and the silence, you try to make small talk, the way Joe has taught you makes customers feel at ease.

“Does it always rain so much here?” You ask, while bringing the mugs to the table. Simon grabs his by the main part instead of the handle, uncaring of the heat. Probably just to do something. He looks huge at your table, the size of the apartment not matching the size of his body.

“Yes. The whole region is rainy.”

“Alright.” You fiddle with the teabag in your cup by its string. Unprompted, you attempt to find the answer to something you’ve suspected for a while.

“Have you been watching me while I’m changed?” You ask, the words flowing out of your mouth like a river in full. He doesn’t answer at first, his whole figure completely still, and you think he’s going to start yelling at you. Maybe you’ve offended him greatly, and the way his kind goes about it, he’ll tear your throat apart. But you don’t even know what kind he is, really. Then, his lips part.

“Just keeping an eye on you,” he says, looking you in the eye, the warm light of the ceiling fan casting shadows on his face. His voice is earnest, and honest, and you want to ask a thousand questions but you think you might already know the answer to some. You tilt your head to the left.

“Worried I’ll commit a crime?” You joke, remembering the way he subdued the robber.

“Worried about others, more like.” He answers flatly, and a flame stokes in the center of your chest. 

“Come say hi next time,” you whisper, the blood in your cheeks scorching hot.

He really does scowl at that, as if he’s tasted something rotten.

“Don’t think that’s wise, pet.”

—

He digs a place for himself in your life and sits there quietly. Always in the vicinity.

The days he comes to the station are more than the ones he does not. He buys mundane stuff, necessities he could easily get when he gets groceries, and starts even getting his gas from you. Requests your service specifically. Joe only looks at you with knowing eyes nowadays, and you’re victim to an unstoppable rush of implicating jokes once you leave Simon.

“You’re the only client I’ve gotten the whole month for gas, you know,” you tell him while he sits in the car, the window lowered. His face is even harder to read with sunglasses on.

“Pity. I find myself well serviced,” he says, and your hackles rise at the friendly, even flirting tone of his. You smile to yourself as you pump the gas, tapping your nails on the black varnished trunk.

With the gas in his tank, he drives you around. Actually, he helps you buy a new table. He says the other one makes his back hurt, so you pick a taller version and he pays. He sticks to your side even when the majority of your time together is spent in silence, or with you recounting your shift at work. He points to you clearings nearby you can shift in more covertly, big places where hunting is always forbidden. The itch to know more about him is always at the back of your throat, but you never ask Simon anything that would stab in too deep.

You meet John Price. He’s been itching to see you, Simon says– and they’re ex coworkers, too, so Simon trusts him implicitly. The moment you see him, you think he must be a bear, his long moustache, the slope of his brow bone. He tells you as much himself, freely, after taking a big sip of his beer.

“You’re a deer, right lassie?” You nod demure at the question. “Only ruminant of the area. Can’t say the green spaces are ample, but,” he smiles, eyes crinkling, “it’s a quiet city thanks to us.” He shoves at Simon’s chest, the latter staying still. The shadow of a smile plays on Simon’s mouth.

It’s not like you don’t know there can be animosity between shifters. You remember there being scuffles back home too– but it’s just little old you here. You doubt anyone would even notice you. When you say as much, the look you receive from the two men is focused and sharp, and it tells you all you need to know. No more of that talk.

You start smelling the others in some parts of the city, and immediately draw back when it happens. When you tell Simon as much, that you’re being careful after his and John’s advice, he smiles a full smile, his canines sharply white, his hand coming to pat your head.

In this idyllic moment of your life, when things aren’t just fine but great– a small sense of community again, a stable good job, and a budding link–

Your heat comes.

It’s not your first. Back then, you had your options. Taking care of each other was the norm. But lately, as stressed as you’ve been, you’d forgotten that this, too, is part of your nature. And you didn’t prepare accurately– including having some relief the days before the actual heat comes. Before you pass out, you have the sense to call sick at work. After that your finger hovers on Simon’s name, but you abandon the idea. He can’t always come to help you.

Hazily, you think back on the pills Simon gave to you. You ran out some weeks ago, but didn’t think about asking for more. After all, you’d lived for long without, and he couldn’t even tell the difference himself, as shown by his silence on the matter. Maybe he grew too dulled to your smell. 

Maybe he knew that they were finished. Maybe he did it on purpose.

You cough. The slick between your legs doesn’t have time to cool down before a new fresh wave comes, and you curse your animal side as you writhe on the bed. Through the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, you hear your door opening. Panicking, your eyes cross to watch the entrance, the tall, dark figure making its way inside with familiarity.

“Simon,” you pant, “what are you doing here?” You ask, voice rough, when you recognize him. How did he even open the door? You try to stand on your elbows, but fall back over your face in the pillow. You hear his footsteps coming closer and closer to you. He sits on your bed, hand coming to pet your hair, and you muffle a groan, fabric between your teeth.

“Y-you need to leave. I’m not well–”

“Shh,” he just says, still petting your hair. When you raise your head again and turn to look at him, he’s looking at you curiously. You swallow your saliva and try to keep your eyes straight, but it’s growing incredibly harder.

“Why didn’t you call me? I had to ask around…” He says, voice quiet and reproaching. You lean your head into his palm, hands covering your face.

“Didn’t want to bother you…” you whisper, eyes peeking from behind your fingers. “Did you bring the pills?”

He doesn't answer your question. When you’re about to ask again, you feel his body move, his chest coming to press against your back. His arm stirs, makes contact with his head, which then moves. You hear an inhale, his big chest rumbling.

Is… Is he smelling you?

“Simon… I’m really unwell, but I’ll be alright, so you can-” Your voice trembles, but you get interrupted. The tone of his voice is harsh enough to make you cry.

“No. I’m staying here. I know how to handle this,” he says, decisively, but his eyes soften when he sees your scared expression.

“Hey. It’s alright. You know me, right? And I know you. This is just what happens to our kind. I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, hand holding your neck and face buried in your hair. 

And just like that, you surrender. 

He takes off your clothes calmly, with clear intent, lays them orderly on your chair when he’s done with each part. The moan that comes out of you when he takes off your pajama pants is almost vulgar. Before you turn your head in embarrassment, you see a flash of something else but determination in his eyes. An hunger, even.

“Come. All fours,” he orders, and you follow his words blindly. You’re in no state to oppose him truly, and anyway, this is what your body wants. And the mind is not far to follow. He guides you, rough hands on your waist and hips, and positions you the way he wants.

“Look at that,” he remarks, once he has the full view of your aroused cunt in his face. You mutter an offended remark in your elbow that turns into a yelp when he starts spreading your lips, examining you to his heart’s content. One of his fingers comes to brush at the edges of your hole, bringing some of the wetness lower, on your clit.

“Built for it,” he hisses, fiddling with it, your hips grinding against his finger with their own mind, chasing that limb numbing feeling. Once your moans are getting high enough for his judgment, he adds two fingers into your pussy, his reach far better than any you could have by yourself. You move in tandem, a wave of power that starts from him and crashes into you. He starts curling his fingers into you, his palm still grinding against your clit, that’s the moment you let go. You come with a muffled scream into the pillow, your back arched, your pussy trying desperately to milk his fingers. You fall prone, momentarily exhausted, and catch your breath for about ten seconds when you feel Simon’s arms encompassing your waist. 

“Up. C’mon now,” he says, and you let yourself be manhandled. His arm brushes against your stomach. Has… has his arm hair always been so long?

You hear rustling and movement behind you, but you’re still in the aftershocks of your orgasm that you just keep your eyes shut and enjoy the closeness with Simon. When your thigh comes into contact with something, though, your eyes open wide. You try to turn your head to look at his body, but he won’t let you, he just keeps your head firmly into the pillow. At least he shifts it a bit so that you can breathe with your mouth.

“Just enjoy this,” he says, a bit peeved, but with an undertone of shame. What could he possibly be ashamed of, when he’s helped you so much? 

“Thank you, Simon,” you let out breathlessly, and he groans, the sound reverberating through your whole body. The blunt head of his cock breaches inside, finds a clear way from your previous orgasm and the hormones. He starts fucking you with with a punishing rhythm, the snap of his abs against your ass resounding in the room, your slick rendering his shoves almost liquid. Whenever you try to shift a bit you’re hurriedly moved back against him, no chance of moving somewhere else. His mouth moves against your ear, muttering something intelligible, more groan than speech. More animal than human. The sounds, the smell of Simon, the warm air, it’s all getting to your head, filling it with foam. When you start moving back against him, a second climax descending upon you, his thrusts become more sloppy, and you feel his legs tensing, shifting in preparation.

“Take it all now,” he grunts out, and you feel a rush of heat by your entrance, and– and– 

With a snarl, long teeth bite into the meat of your shoulder, breaking skin. You moan in pain and pleasure both, the heading sensation going straight to your pussy, a trickle of blood running down your flushed breasts and on the mattress. You feel twitching and an unmistakable wet sensation inside you, and the feeling is so overwhelming you try to twitch away from his imposing body but find yourself stuck to him. Simon retracts his maw from your shoulder and licks the wound he caused with long, careful swipes, an apology of his own. Once he’s satisfied with his care, his tongue licks the salty residues of your tears on your cheeks, leaving a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re mine,” he whispers huskily, just as you pass out.

When you wake up again, to the warm and damp touch of a towel, you whimper in pain. The movement stops then, and you open your eyes to Simon pondering what to do next, his hands on his hips. You cough out a laugh at the sight in front of you. When he sees you are awake, Simon’s mouth quirks down in mock scorn, but you read the implicit laugh behind his lips. He bandages your wound and you fall asleep again, worn out by your vulnerable state.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a wolf?” You break the silence later, leaning on your good side while he spoons you from behind. His sharp nails brush against the skin of your stomach.

“You never asked.” He says, almost bored, but it’s a farce, and you both know it. You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see you. There’s probably an ancient taboo regarding shifters of different species being together, but then again, you hold the very human belief that you can do what you want as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else.

After all, being in the middle between animals and humans means you always have two ways to approach things.

taglist: @rafaelacallinybbay

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (15) - Acquaintances

Summary: Astarion meets a friend of old and quickly realises it might have just cost him something very dear to him.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past trauma and abuse. Mentions of abuse.

Note: This post on reddit shed some light on Cazador, so I definitely giving it a read!

Word count: 3.3k

Series masterlist . Ao3

In times past, Astarion would have found momentary solace in the person standing right before him. After all, silence and whatever could be called normalcy were hard to come by in Cazador's palace.

The servants had been the very embodiment of the life he had long lost. In fact, they had been the only life that roamed the vast halls. All had accepted  being there willingly and under the foolish illusion that Cazador would one day grant them the gift of immortality. 

If you could actually call it a gift…

And even though they were loyal to the vampire lord to a fault, they were, for the most part, quite amicable to his spawn as well. Some would even tend to the vast and deep wounds inflicted by Cazador after he had spent his wrath.

Astarion had been quite fortunate to be on the receiving end of their mercy on numerous occasions, when his field of vision was nothing but a pool of blood – a sore reminder that crossing Cazador Szarr was not to be taken lightly.

Eyla?

He did remember her name and her kindness and gentle touch amidst his wails of pain.

“Surprised to see me?”

The slim figure took a few sure steps in his direction as he cradled your limp form in his arms, still overrun with shock.

Astarion tried to talk, but no words left his mouth.

“I suppose your silence is a novelty,” she said, coming to a halt as she pushed the hood down, revealing her pleasant face. “After all, you were always the loud and troublesome one.”

For better or for worse, navigating through undeath and the unpredictability of his circumstances ever since he was snatched from Baldur's gate, had taught him a thing or two about being prepared and always on guard.

The dagger tightly strapped to his thigh was proof of it. He would only need to move his hand slightly under you to reach the hilt.

“What have you done to her?”

The woman's lips were pressed into a fine line for a long while, as if examining his question.

His patience was running thin, and he tried hard to keep her engaged enough so he could find a way to incapacitate her.

“Do not fret – she will be fine,” she said with a sigh, drawing even closer. “Not that it wouldn't give me great pleasure to put an end to the so-called hero of Baldur's Gate and her role in what you did to the master.”

Ah.

He should have known that this had something to do with Cazador. It seemed that he was destined to have him haunt him even in true death.

The sudden realisation hit him so hard he held you even closer to his body, shifting along the bench as if that would create a safe distance from Eyla.

Surprised was soon drowned out by the ever-growing anger that took root within him. He was known for his temper and outbursts, and clearly not the most sensible man when cornered.

But this was something else entirely.

Astarion had over two hundred years of having the worst atrocities being inflicted upon his body and mind. As far as he was concerned, he had managed to find useful ways to deal with imminent threats to him.

But he wasn't so lenient when it came to you.

You were off limits to anyone.

And he wasn't going to allow any harm to befall you.

“You'd be wise to undo this right now, or this conversation will be rather short.”

She had the nerve to snicker, eyes flickering under the moonlight. “Freedom has made you even more insufferable and entitled. Godey ought to have been harsher to you back then. I reckon one hundred more lashings would have made a difference each time you crossed the master.”

Rage swirled throughout his body like poisonous fumes, and he found it hard to stay put through the taunting.

But she was a fool to think she could best him in his natural element. After all, he had a tongue sharp enough to rival the blade of his dagger.

“Well, darling,” he started, slipping nearly effortlessly into his usual demeanour, “Godey is now nothing but a pile of dust, so unless you intend on joining him for a tea party in the afterlife, I'd make sure to tread lightly.”

And like clockwork, the first cracks began to show.

Her face dropped ever so slightly and he figured he had one - maybe two if the gods above even cared to bestow him any grace - sneer remark left before she lashed out at him.

“You insolent and ungrateful brat,” Eyla spat out through gritted teeth, both fists clenched at her sides, allowing him to infer 

Well, he had clearly exhausted her patience already, hadn't he?

No bother.

His right hand now gripped the handle of the dagger firmly, as he readied himself for an imminent physical confrontation.

But something made him freeze almost instantly, and his gaze dropped briefly to your face.

Maybe, just maybe, it was merely his mind playing tricks on him and feeding off his desperation, but he could swear he felt you shift slightly against him.

And then he saw your face tense.

A sudden wave of relief washed down on him, his free hand giving you a reassuring squeeze.

Good girl.

It was in moments like this that he vaguely wished – much to his utter disgust – that the wriggling worm was still a . He would have made good use of them right now.

More than relief, he felt pride.

He had yet to meet someone quite as resilient as you. Whatever incantation had been cast on you surely wasn't enough to contain the tempest within you.

You had been shaped by the elements and woven into a sorcerer whose magic wasn't so easily put out. He had been foolish to think a mere vampire lord servant could ever be a match against your mind.

“Isn't it enough that you turned on your master and betrayed him?”

Oh, what a bloody nuisance. He had no patience to entertain speeches of heartbroken servants whose wet dream had been crushed.

However…

You shifted again, but no sound came from your parting lips.

Astarion knew then he had to play the waiting game. There was no denying you were slowly but surely coming to your senses, but he couldn't draw attention to it.

More than friends, you two had grown to become teammates, taking in on each other's queues to know when to make the right move.

He knew you needed time, and time he would give you.

Meeting her eyes with defiance, he took on the challenge. “What Cazador sold you was naught but a fantasy.”

Your hand shifted next.

Mentioning his name so blatantly made her visibly shudder. “How dare you? You utter his name with no regard that he saved you from certain death.”

He leaned back with a roll of his eyes, further reeling her into his trap. “Oh, please. And what would he save you from, exactly? Idiocy? I am afraid it would take more than a vampire bite to fix such ailment, dear Eyla. Eternal life can only do so much.”

Warmth began spreading under his palm, letting him know that you were returning to him.

Still, you needed more time.

“Your words might work on the weak, but not on me.”

“And yet… you managed to serve a vampire lord who had no intention to ever deliver his promises.”

Eyla was young and naive, so he couldn't truly fault her for being so passionate and loyal. Cazador's grasp reached far and viciously. Astarion had once fallen for his 

“That does not make me weak.”

A crooked grin curled his lips. “Just an idiot, then.”

He tugged on his dagger slowly, allowing his fingers to glide down across the blade, knowing that, sooner or later, he would have to make use of it.

Eyla scoffed, crossing her arms, apparently unaware that you were no longer unconscious.

Come on… you're almost there, darling, he urged sweetly in his head as if his words could ever reach you.

“The others warned me that you had become rather insufferable.”

Others?

“Oh, how very interesting,” he said, trying his best to ignore your hand clawing at his shirt. “Ava?”

Were they… friends? In on this together?

Her brows furrowed. “The monster hunter whore you befriended? Don't insult me.”

Clearly not.

Well… 

“Does this rendezvous even have a purpose?” Astarion said with a forced yawn. “Are we to swap snarky remarks until one of us perishes? I had more engaging plans for this evening.”

The serenity in her face had given her away. 

She wasn't alone and he was a master of shadows.

Even in the poorly lit area, he could see silhouettes drawing near right behind her. That was certainly yet another nuisance he would have to deal with.

“Astarion…”

Your voice snapped him out of his bloodbath scheming right away.

For a brief moment, he let his guard down by meeting your hazy eyes.

“There you are.”

His voice was almost shaky from relief, but it would come at a cost.

It had been an unfortunate distraction.

He wasn't sure how he managed to tap so quickly into his reflexes, but he soon felt the warm and familiar splatter of blood hit his face, making him wince from bloodlust.

In the midst of chaos and footsteps and hisses surrounding him, he was able to spot the man he had hurled his dagger at, slicing clean through the pulsing artery in his neck. The obscene gush of blood that ensued as he hit the ground was enough to drive any vampire mad.

And he was not immune to it.

He hadn't fed in days and he could use this to his advantage. In fact, he reckoned it would be the only way out.

Droplets streamed down his face, hitting his lips, and he wasn't strong enough to deny himself of an added burst of power. As such, his tongue darted out and a rumbling groan tore through him as the liquid progressively took over his senses. One by one.

Blood was blood.

He would have preferred yours, but he was far too hungry to be picky.

He had pushed you right behind him as he leapt from the bench, determined to take on anyone who dared to come close.

By the time he had managed to retrieve his dagger, Eyla had a smile dancing on her lips. One that had his eyes wide.

Astarion was fast and agile, but he was also severely outnumbered.

Two other men had rushed to his side, and he flinched as something began poking at his lower abdomen, as they looped strong arms around his own, immobilising him in place.

Wooden stakes.

“Astarion…”

Your voice was still void of the life it usually held. It was evident that you were still weak and in no condition to fight.

And, in truth, he wasn't even sure he wanted you to.

“Drop the dagger.”

It wasn't a request.

It was a command and he wasn't sure how to dodge this one. He usually carried knives and other daggers on him just to be on the safe side, but he didn't think he would need those tonight.

Fucking idiot…

No amount of self-deprecation would get him out of this one.

They wanted to kill him for what he had done to Cazador. They wanted revenge and he wasn't sure how his wits and snarky replies would talk him out of this one.

He groaned as one man drove the stake harsher against him, from under his shirt. Still, the pressure wasn't enough to break skin. Not yet, at least.

As a reflex, he immediately let go of the dagger, hearing it land with a muffled thump on the grass.

Eyla's spirit had been renewed and she took measured steps towards him. 

He heard grunts from his side as you struggled to sit down on the bench, flickering snaps of lightning emerging from your hands.

That almost made him smile.

You were a fighter through and through, and he wouldn't mind parting this world in these terms. Knowing you had been enough to ease the pain of centuries of hurt. He had been given a second chance at life when he met you and not when he was made immortal. 

He had never felt more alive than in the moments he had spent with you and he would wish to have more, but he couldn't wish for that at your expense. After all, you had your whole life ahead of you. 

He had had his fill. 

He was ready to meet whatever fate awaited him, as long as you were kept safe.

“You're coming with us.”

His brows furrowed, caught by surprise.

“Do not harm her.”

Eyla was so close he could feel her hot breath on his skin, fanning the blood on his face that had begun to dry into sticky patches.

“We are not harming anyone,” she said viciously. “But we've had enough of you running around unscathed after what you've done.”

He wished he could tear his eyes from you, but it was like a force field. Your arms trembled as you tried your best to rein in the elements inside you. Lighting and fire swirled erratically from your hands. 

Yours was wild magic.

Hard to harness and bend to your will.

Even harder when thrown off balance unexpectedly.

“Look at me, Astarion.”

The two men pressed the stakes harder and he had no choice but to comply, meeting her eyes again.

“Did you really think we were going to allow you to have your happily ever after? That you could off into the sunset with her once you found a way to not burn to ashes?”

She was mocking him… goading him, knowing he was rendered immobile.

“Have you been the ones sabotaging this all along?”

A surge of outrage nearly burst from deep within as her silence answered his question. 

“Surprised?”

That would be an understatement. He couldn't even begin to describe the turmoil that gripped him from the inside out.

“Why…” His voice faltered momentarily, “why not just kill me right when you had the chance?”

At this, Eyla laughed. “Is there a bigger punishment than the illusion of freedom? Killing you would have been the kinder way out for you,” she went on, each word dripping with poison. “No. No, Astarion. You were a fool to hope. You were a fool to hope your misery was over.”

A part of him was still in shock at the revelation, and he had no smart jabs that could possibly help him right now.

But the truth was that, the rest of him, had begun to accept that. He had been a fool indeed to think he could have had any other ending than this.

That he could have had a semblance of happiness with you.

“But I think that we are tired of playing this game. Maybe it's finally time to kill you.”

Just like a punch to his gut, he was quickly overtaken with dread as he heard a faint whimper from you.. “If you're going to kill me, don't do it in front of her.”

“You are in no position to make demands.”

“Please.”

He was running out of time. 

He thought he had bought enough for you to recover, but you couldn't even bring yourself to sit upright, let alone save him from whatever awaited him.

Most importantly, he was running out of ways to ensure you weren't scarred for life for witnessing him being destroyed.

“Oh, you're going to beg? The way you used to beg Cazador to stop carving the scars you carry on you, hmm?” Eyla said, visibly satisfied with the effect her words had on him. “Get on your knees and beg, then.”

“No… fuck…” you said in between groans. 

He'd rather you had lost consciousness once again, for each word from you was as a dagger that was carved into him.

“Astarion. Do not kneel…”

The two men holding him tight chuckled darkly as his knees began to cave in, but before he could go through with it, Eyla raised one hand, halting him.

“What if we kill her instead?” she chirped, making her way to you. “I think we should. Astarion would have an eternity to suffer for having killed the only person he has ever truly loved.”

Blinded by anguish, Astarion lurched forward, feeling both men struggling to keep him in place. He felt the sharp tips of the wooden stakes break skin just enough to draw blood, but he powered through the fear that loomed over him.

“I will fucking kill you if you touch her!”

With a click of her tongue, Eyla sat next to you, one hand caressing your head as you spilled curses at her, still drained from whatever magic had been cast on you.

“You'd be staked before you could even reach me, silly boy,” she said, revealing a knife from under her sleeve. “Now that I think about it, killing her seems the most reasonable choice here.”

You tried to flinch away from her grasp, and Astarion felt himself go mad from the sight in front of him.

He was about to scream when they muffled him with a piece of cloth, robbing him of his voice.

Reflexively, he tried to break free once more, but he was far too weak to put up a fight.

He knew it was futile, but he had abandoned all reason. Even though he had savoured blood, he was still too weak to break through the hold they had on him. Each pull from him and each attempt to break free were quickly met with an immovable force.

When his eyes met yours, he saw you mouth something.

And it broke him.

He didn't need to hear it.

He knew what you were attempting to say.

Thank you.

He doubted any torture Cazador had ever inflected on him could ever match the pain he was currently experiencing.

Eyla suddenly grabbed a vial from her robes, spilling the clear liquid along the sharp blade.

“Isn't it poetic justice that you are a master of poisons, and she gets to die at your hand?”

He recognised the vial as his.

It was his poison.

He couldn't tell which one, but it hardly mattered. Each poison he concocted was terrible through and through. They were designed to hurt and, ultimately, kill.

Soon, you began to sob, swirls of fire engulfing your hands as frustration gripped you. You were unable to get your magic under control and you were going to die.

For him.

Because of him.

Eyla threw him a final glance, positioning the top of the knife right across your neck. You stilled immediately, knowing any sudden movement could have the blade slice right through.

He tried to speak again, but all his words came out unintelligible. 

“If you scream, they'll stake you.”

Eagerly, he nodded, and they swiftly removed the cloth from in between his teeth.

“Please. Don't!” Astarion said in sheer despair. “I will do whatever you want!”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. “You have nothing to offer us.”

He had to try.

He had to try to buy himself more time in the hopes that someone had heard him and might 

“You want eternal life, don't you?”

Silence. Dreadful and agonising silence.

“I can find a way to help you. There are other true vampires out there.”

Eyla tapped the side of her blade to your skin as she pondered his words. She then exchanged looks with both men.

“Should we take his offer?”

Had he made it? Had he managed to bluff his way out of this one? To possibly get you somewhere safe?

Hope.

Eyla lifted the poisonous blade and Astarion felt a crushing weight being lifted from him.

She locked eyes with him for what seemed like a lifetime.

Please. Please. Please. 

Eyla clicked her tongue with a pout. “I don't think so.”

And he watched in horror as she moved her hand to swiftly bury the knife into your abdomen.

“NO!”

Astarion felt his body go limp as his field of vision got flooded with a golden and warm beam that tore through the night sky akin to how the sun breaks the dawn. 

Next chapter: When All Things End

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Two

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him—perhaps it has something to do with you. - ao3

previous

Kyle Garrick—who instructs you to call him Gaz, explaining it as a nickname—drives you out of town in a two-horse wagon. The countryside is dyed in pastels by the softening light of a just-setting sun, every bit as beautiful as Hans had written when he told you about it.

Like a painting, he said. Everywhere you look could be framed in gold. I wake up every day in this land and thank God I have the fortune to live in it.

Here now, as the wagon rattles down the wheel-carved trail, you understand his words. You feel that if you brushed your fingers against the sky overhead, towering with lavender-bottomed clouds as thick and soft as cotton on the stem, that they might come away smeared in blue and pink and violet. The surrounding landscape is a cornucopia of vibrant greens, rich browns of trees and soil, and clusters of orange, yellow, and white wildflowers.

You keep looking all around you to take it in, jostling your driver beside you, but Gaz seems not to mind. At least, he doesn’t say anything.

You’ve been trying not to feel so aware of his presence, but the endeavor is impossible. He is a solid weight beside you on the driver’s seat, exuding warmth where your shoulders brush against each other, and the earthy, masculine scent of him is inescapable. Every time his elbow or knee or thigh nudges yours during the natural sway and jostle of the wagon ride, you have to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. Ever since you stepped foot off the train, you’ve felt like a lightning rod set out in anticipation of a storm.

You ascribe it to displaced longing for your husband-to-be. You’d spent the whole journey west imagining how you’d meet, longing for the moment he took you into his arms for the first time. Gaz is a handsome man—it’s only natural that your unfulfilled anticipation would transfer onto him. Especially considering he said you were perfect.

But then said very little after that. He’d seemed—well, not friendly, but at least amicable on the train platform, so you wonder if your manners have offended somehow. He’s spent most of the drive now with his eyes ahead, partly obscured by the brim of his hat. Occasionally he glances at the letters in your hand, but otherwise does not acknowledge you.

After one such glance, your discomfort with the silence becomes too much to bear.

“I read my favorites every night,” you tell him.

If Gaz is surprised when you break the silence, he doesn’t show it. “That so,” he murmurs.

All you have is his profile, very handsome in the light. The line of his mouth is taut.

“I know it’s silly,” you continue nervously—you have a bad habit of rambling when you’re uncomfortable. Adjusting your carpetbag in your lap, you go on, “but you must understand, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I never expected to marry, you see.”

He grunts.

“Much less to be a mail order bride,” you say. “I always thought I would be an old maid, for lack of available suitors if nothing else. Mama and Daddy thought I ought to learn to read and write, to improve my prospects, but most folks where I’m from don’t care much about all that.”

“I see,” replies Gaz. He still does not look at you.

“Sometimes I think it even made them like me less, like I was putting on airs, being smarter than them.” You realize immediately how arrogant you must sound. “Oh, but I don’t mean any offense! I don’t mean to suggest I have ideas above my station. It’s only just that, I wondered for years and years why no one offered for me, and it was the only thing I could think of. Why would a farmer’s daughter need to read and write? And why would a wife need to, if her duty is to tend to her children and her home? So that must be why no man has ever been very interested in me.”

You realize with horror that words are pouring out of you faster than you can keep up with them. And your driver’s attention has not shifted; his eyes remain on the road.

You look at your lap, face burning. “I’m sorry, I’m just annoying you, Mr. Garrick. I’m sorry.”

Shame grips you, tight and awkward. If you’d wanted to endear yourself to this cowboy at all, you’ve already failed.

But Gaz finally says, “Most men are idiots.” You look at him; he does not look at you. “I’ve only just met you, and I like you fine.”

He says it matter-of-factly, as if no more need saying on the subject. Simple and to the point; an economy of feeling you imagine must be characteristic of men in this part of the country.

Hans was like that too, in his letters. Communicating feeling without dancing around it, with a bluntness that ends up soft in its honesty.

It eases the tension frothing poisonous in your belly. “Thank you,” you say.

You ride in silence for a stretch. A cool breeze catches the free-floating ends of your hair, rustles along in the tall grass by the wayside. The steady thump thump thump of the horse’s hooves, and the creak of tackle and leather, are the only sounds populating the air.

Home was quiet like this, too; the fields stretching endless and green beneath the sky, the silence there so blank and open that birdcall traveled for miles, and the lowing of the family milk cow sounded sometimes like the trumpet of God.

You peek again at Kyle Garrick. There’s a furrow to his brow, the kind a man gets when he’s in a mood and won’t admit it if asked.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quietly, because he made you feel better about things, and you’ve done little more than whine.

He finally looks at you, the edges of his face lined and glowing in the evening light. Studies you, for a moment. The furrow eases.

“No,” he says, “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m afraid manners are secondary on a ranch, without a good woman nearby to remind about ‘em.”

You give him a small smile. “Have you worked for Hans very long?”

He turns his gaze back to the road. “Six or seven years, now.”

You toy with the clasp of your bag; you’re brimming with questions. “Is he really all that tall?”

“Oh, yes,” Gaz says. “Like a giant.”

“What’s he like?”

Gaz gives a great breath through pursed, full lips. “Fair, I guess. Asks a lot of us—but then most bosses out here will. Worked for his father for a few years before him, too.”

“You must be a good hand then,” you say.

“I work hard,” says Gaz. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m sure Hans is grateful,” you reply. “He must trust you very much, to send you for me.”

The furrow returns. “He must.”

It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him, and it’s nothing you will resolve between now and when you make it to the ranch. Perhaps it has something to do with you—a new face, an unknown quantity that threatens to knock the balance of his livelihood askew.

You sigh a little. Of course, you should have expected to have to win Hans’ people over. Their loyalty to the late Mrs. König will inevitably be challenged by your arrival.

Neither of you speak again—you decide not to push what little grace Kyle Garrick has given you, and he does not volunteer any more conversation. The rest of the ride is unremarkable, leaving room for anticipation to grow in your stomach; soon the wagon crests the slope of a hill, and your destination comes into view.

Long Mask Ranch sits at the base of a range of mountain foothills, fed and watered emerald green by spring runoff. You’ve been on Hans’ land for a while now; opening up before you is the ranch proper. A collection of buildings form a semicircle around a large corral in the valley: stables, a barn, some cabins, and a large two-story gabled manor, painted white.

The sun sinks further toward the horizon as you approach, painting the world in liquid orange. Figures resolve themselves, people moving tables and chairs around, and on the manor’s front porch, observing the proceedings, stands a tall man in a rancher’s coat and hat.

Lightning suddenly bolts through you. You sit very, very still as Gaz pulls the wagon through a cast iron archway adorned with LMR at the apogee. Your heart thrums in your throat like a picked guitar string. When you finally come to a stop, the man’s head turns to toward you.

At the worst possible moment, shyness grips you. You look around, at anywhere but him, at the house, the corral, the cowboy beside you.

You startle to meet Gaz’s eyes. The expression he wears is a mask of seriousness.

“This is it,” he says.

Your voice leaves your chest trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Garrick.”

“Just Gaz is fine, Miss.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” you reply. Propriety feels like the only solid thing to cling to just now.

He looks away. The line of his mouth tightens. “Of course,” he says.

He dismounts the wagon in one smooth motion, boots hitting the packed earth hard. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tall man start his way over to you. Gaz rounds the back of the wagon, and you give your bag to him once he’s at your side. He offers his hand to help you down.

You’re dazed as you take it, lightheaded as suddenly the present moment becomes very, very real. It’s warm, his hand; rough in all the places you expect a cowboy’s hand to be. Yet there’s something soft in the way your palms meet, how the dips and contours align with each other and fit together. You’re shaking very hard as you ease your way from the seat, gripping him tightly until your feet meet the ground, and his grip circles yours with a solidness to it in a way unlike any man has ever held you.

You meet his eyes again when he hands you your bag. Gaz gives your hand a squeeze, averts his gaze, and lets you go.

“There she is!” an accented voice announces.

You pull your gaze from Kyle Garrick and the mystery of his tension with you, and turn to face your intended husband.

Hans König has loomed large in your imagination for half a year. He’d described to you what he looked like, of course, as best he could, but you find as you look upon his face that no written word can convey what it means to meet for the first time the man you will marry. You’d fallen in love with someone formless, absent, but inscribed in other ways with enough distinction to nurture your tender feelings.

Looking upon him now, though…his appearance offers nothing to that distinction. He’s neither ugly nor handsome. As he comes to stand before you, you think he rather looks like every other middle-aged man you’ve met in your short life, although certainly much taller. You meet his eyes—pale blue, as he’d related—and the rush of love you’d expected to feel, once you knew who he was, simply does not come.

This man is a stranger to you.

You reprimand yourself immediately. He isn’t a stranger. You’ve known him for six months. His face is simply not one you have attached any love to yet; the measure of his character is contained in the stack of paper in your hands. In the promises he made to you to make your quietest dreams come true.

So you smile the way you’d dreamed you would—like watching the sun crest the horizon after a long night of darkness, seeing the bounty of the near future coming toward you. Summoning joy by making room for it to exist.

“Hello, Hans,” you say, “it’s me.”

Hans König steps forward. He looms over you truly, now, eclipsing your vision. “It is you, indeed.”

Without another word, right there in front of Gaz, Hans grips your shoulders, bends down, and kisses you on the mouth.

Your brows shoot upward. It’s the first time anyone has ever kissed you. His lips are…hard, and motionless against yours. Almost perfunctory. You are so shocked he’s done it that you don’t think to respond, and then as suddenly as it happened, it’s over. He pulls away, pats your shoulders with a little smile, and then looks at Gaz.

“Get that wagon put away and then go help the others,” says Hans to the cowboy, slinging one arm around your shoulder.

Your brows lift further. Is that all he has to say to him, for delivering you safe and sound?

Gaz doesn’t seem to share your feelings. “Yes, sir,” is all he says, even and toneless.

But he looks between you and his employer for more than just the span of a heartbeat. Eyes going from him, to you, to the arm around your shoulders. Then he meets your gaze, expression stony.

If Gaz is wary of your presence here—if you’re going to win him over—the best time to start is now. “Thank you very much for seeing me here safely,” you say. “I was so glad of your company, Mr. Garrick.”

To your dismay, his expression only tightens. Gaz looks at Hans again, then back at you.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he says.

Then he climbs back into the wagon, gives the reins a snap, and drives away.

-

next

a/n: fun fact, the ranch and neighboring town are based off Valentine and Emerald Ranch from rdr2 :) the ranch layout is more like Pronghorn Ranch however.

[heich0e]

"i won't be able to see you for a while."

the tokyo streets slip past outside your window, but your eyes aren't quite following the scenery. you feel a little dizzy thanks to the wine satoru kept pouring over dinner—filling only your glass, as usual. it was a vintage you could never have dreamed you'd get the chance to taste only a few short months ago; a luxury so distant that you'd never once even thought about what it might be like to try. now it lingers on your tongue, stains your lips slightly, feels familiar in ways you still struggle to reckon with.

you tilt your face towards the man sitting beside you in the back of the car that's taking you home.

"a while?" you ask him curiously, though that's perhaps not the most important query.

satoru hums, smiling a little to himself as his fingers press against the pulse point on your wrist. he's been toying with your hand ever since you left the restaurant, but you've hardly paid it any notice.

satoru's touch used to be limited to the spectacle. his hands only reaching out for you when someone was there to witness it. at one time, satoru would have changed cars before his driver took you home. at one time, he would have dropped your hand the moment the door shut behind you. but he doesn't now.

you've grown strangely used to this, too.

"are you going away for work again?" you ask him when he offers no further elaboration. it's not that you're particularly concerned with where he's going, or why, or for how long. satoru's life always has been, and always will be, solely his own. you're no more his keeper than you are his true fiancée—and the funds that will be deposited into your bank account by the time you make it home this evening are testament to that truth.

but you ask because it feels like the natural thing to do.

though very little about anything you do with satoru ought to be considered natural.

"no," the blonde answers, with that troublesome lilt of mirth in his voice that always seems to precede something unpleasant. you don't ask any more questions in an attempt to ward it off.

soon you reach your destination, the rest of the car ride spent in silence after your brief but relatively benign exchange earlier in the drive. you glance out through the window towards your apartment—a building so utterly unremarkable that the sumptuous interior of the restaurant you visited that evening feels palatial by comparison.

satoru's not allowed to walk you to your door anymore. his harsh, obnoxiously unfiltered criticism of your building—of your home—each time he so much as caught a glimpse of the interior had grown so grating, you'd barred him from entering any further than the entrance to the lobby.

instead, his assistant nanami is the one who silently escorts you to your unit door each night, at satoru's unyielding insistence. he'd been surprisingly terse about it when you'd initially attempted to dissuade him, reminding him (more than once) that you make the walk to your own door every day alone and have thus far lived to tell the tale. but the options he firmly presented in reply—the only two you knew you had to choose from—were either to be escorted by nanami, or let him walk you there himself. you knew that there would be no reasoning with him otherwise, sensed it in the way he held you so fixedly in his stare that day, so you chose nanami.

now each night after satoru accompanies you on the ride home after your engagements, his stoic, well-mannered assistant dips in a polite bow at your door and wishes you goodnight before departing once he knows you've made it safely inside.

behind the wheel up front, nanami slips out from his seat, exiting the vehicle and coming around to your door to open it and let you out. the door cracks open as he pulls the handle, but all of the sudden it comes clacking closed again.

satoru is leaning over you—his weight, his warmth, the sheer breadth of him a little staggering from this close up, especially so unexpectedly—holding the door firmly shut by the handle. he stares at you down the bridge of his nose, unblinking.

"i'll see you... when i see you," you breathe out, surprisingly meek, as you sit frozen in your seat beneath him.

satoru says nothing, just watches you curiously. there's a glimmer of something that swims behind his eyes—that look he gets where you can't help but be reminded of a child playing with a new toy—that makes you shift nervously.

"you really don't want to know?" he asks you, and he's so close you can almost taste the words on his lips.

this is too near, even by his peculiar standards. satoru's hand is still wrapped tightly around the door handle to keep it closed. his body pinning you into the corner of the backseat.

you can't help but feel on edge when you're trapped like this with nowhere else to go.

"know what?" you ask him. your head is still spinning from the wine, but it's almost worse now. maybe it's only just really beginning to hit your bloodstream.

"where i'm going," satoru goads, "how long i'll be gone."

you swallow thickly. "that's none of my business."

"of course it is," satoru replies, feigning hurt. "we're engaged. it's a fiancés right to know where their partner is and what they're doing, any time they'd like."

your brow pinches in confusion. you have no interest in knowing those kinds of things, much less feel any right to know them, given the circumstances. your bewilderment leaves you at a loss for words.

"my rut's coming, you see," satoru explains, his lashes fluttering softly as he says it. it wouldn't feel so strange if his lip weren't curling up in a smirk all the while. "so for the next week or so i'll be... indisposed."

your mouth feels dry.

"oh," you manage to say, though it's not really anything at all.

one of satoru's brows quirks curiously at the sound.

"it wouldn't normally be an issue," he continues, though you didn't ask him to. "but this will be my first rut i've spent alone since i presented, so i'm not sure how long it will last."

your lips part in shock.

"alone?" you sound every bit as astonished—as scandalized—as you feel. an alpha of satoru's rank spending his rut alone is unheard of. "what about the omega servic—"

"i would never pay for those kinds of services."

satoru's tone is uncharacteristically cold as he dismisses the mere notion of it. even as a beta, you know that omega services are perfectly legal, and are strictly regulated nowadays—but upon further reflection, you're not all that surprised by his seeming revulsion towards the idea. a family as powerful as the gojo clan likely has their own reserve of omegas, each one of the highest pedigree, to attend to the needs of their unmated alphas. hell, the most eligible omegas in the country would willingly accompany him if he were to ask. you avert your gaze under his cold stare, you feel a bit silly for even suggesting—

"i have no interest bringing any omega into my bed."

your eyes snap up to meet his.

that little glimmer is still there, behind the impossibly clear blue of his eyes.

"will you take suppressants?" you find yourself asking next. still meek.

satoru's face screws up in disgust.

"that garbage is toxic," he sniffs indignantly. "snake oil like that wouldn't work on me anyway."

you remember learning about this in health class as a teen. remember how shocked you were to learn that the efficacy of suppressants decreases depending on how strongly someone's secondary gender characteristics present. it's always felt a bit backwards to you—shouldn't the strongest, least-controllable members of the population be the ones there's the most interest in subduing?

and an alpha as high ranking, as dominant, as satoru is every bit the example.

"no," he sighs, and suddenly any trace of irritation or sterness dissipates as though he's released it along with his breath. his weary tone is too thickly affected to be sincere. "i'll just have to suffer through it on my own."

from the corner of your eye, you can see nanami shift where he stands and waits outside the door, and all at once you remember where you are.

you turn your body away from satoru, angling yourself (as much as you're able) towards your exit.

"well, good luck," you attempt to sound encouraging, but the words still come out slightly ill-at-ease. you reach for the door handle, hoping satoru will get the message and release it so you can take your leave. "let me know if you need anything."

satoru's hand doesn't move.

"do you really mean that?"

you flinch a little as his lips brush the shell of your ear. he's pressed up against your back now—the planes of his chest firm against your shoulder blades as he drapes himself over you.

you're frozen again, your hand still outstretched towards his at the handle—poised in midair. the lights from outside the car glint tauntingly in the diamond on your ring finger.

his breath is hot as it breaks against your throat.

your chest feels uncomfortably tight.

"would you really help me if i were to ask?"

[mutualcombat]

bg3 kinktober day 18 - body worship

from this prompt list!

word count: 1.3k

rating: explicit

pairing: (spawn) astarion/fem!tav (oc - adriannu)

additional tags: postgame. body worship, but with a vampire spin on it (BLOOD WORSHIP?) aggressive scent kink. astarion being a creature and thinking nasty, creature thoughts. cumplay, sort of (i told you guys).

anyway, im sorry

Astarion curls around his wife like a cool shadow, sealing his chest against her back. His arms smooth over hers, bicep to bicep, forearm to forearm, hips and thighs caging her body firmly. He finds her hands, but as he moves to hold them, she’s turning hers over to lace their fingers, locking their palms. 

It’s as disconcerting to be away from each other just as it is to be in such close proximity without the chance to speak, to brush an elbow even. They’d more or less spent the evening like celestial bodies, spinning on their axes yet never touching.  

Now that they’re alone again, the pair fall into silence as Astarion’s desire leads. He sweeps his thighs up under her knees, brazenly stretching her legs wide.

After giving her hands a reassuring squeeze, his retreat to stroke the swell of her hips and thighs, to palm her knees before dragging them back up her body to rub and squeeze at her breasts. With his focus entirely on the task at hand, he doesn’t leave any part of her untouched.

They both adore this; the closeness, the drawn-out touching. She’s often sore after a day like this, and though she finds his touch a welcome comfort, she's brave to offer her skin knowing just how shamefully greedy he is tonight.

And tonight, he shows her just how much he needs in the pinches and pulls, the rubbing and kneading of his fingers. Though for her sake, he tries to keep the claws under control.

Adriannu's head falls back against his shoulder. Can’t help the soft little breaths and the way her toes flex and curl. He’s sure she can feel his eager little ruts against her, his cock rubbing firmly between her backside and his belly.

He returns to her breasts, working her nipples with the pads of thumbs, until she finally surrenders a mewl and a quiet, breathy utterance of his name that breaks the silence like wonderful magic.  

With that, he zeroes in and firmly overstays his welcome, groping her breasts as she begins to twist and her thighs shake in protest. A shiver and a gasp, she throws her head back against his shoulder again in muted prayer, beseeching the powers that be to sate her need, and bring an end to this carnal torture at the hands of her vampire lover. Her unlikely husband.

A hazy, libidinous thought crosses Astarion’s mind as he notes her slick, so generously spread over the bedlinens, that it wouldn’t be so bad if he never washed them again.

Ah, she wouldn’t like that though, would she?

Then he ought to have her like this as often as possible, he surmises.

But how wonderful would it be to have a niche to return to when work took his love away? A little nest that smelled of her even at their most intimate, when the tired notes of her manufactured soap faded and only the heady, natural scent of her remained. Just for him to writhe in it—to touch himself, knowing even when she’s away, he’s the one she chose. 

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, nosing away the lock of hair from her shoulder to drag his lips over the scars at her throat. He feels his body prime itself to bite. Fangs aching and suddenly feeling much too big for his palate, lips swollen, and tongue drowning in saliva.  

He swallows twice, sucks his tongue, then grinds the dried flat of it up the slope of Adriannu’s neck. Her breathing comes deeply as high color ignites her throat, and he presses his open lips and the flats of his teeth to her jugular.

Astarion goes stock still.  

He stays that way for some time, unbreathing. Concentrating. Immersing.

"Everything alright back there?" Adriannu gives his hands a grounding squeeze. He can feel the little smile against his hair when he squeezes back. 

"Listening," he murmurs.  

She makes an intrigued noise with her tongue. “To what?” 

His words bubble against her throat, like molten lava at the bottom of some volcanic chasm. "Your blood." 

Behind his eyelids he can very nearly see it all. Can follow the way her blood traverses her veins like roots through moist soil, filling even the most delicate of capillaries under the surface of her skin.

This close, and so familiar, he can scent it through muscle and bone. He can see the color, imagine the viscosity on his tongue, how hot it would be splashing down the back of his throat as it opens his mind to her memories, her feelings and secrets. Her old pains and new fears. Her love.

It all belongs to her, but she shares it willingly. And with him, of all people.

Of all the creatures...

A shiver starts in-between his shoulder blades and rakes through him, up to the crown of his head and the tips of his twitching ears, washing down to his feet. He gasps. 

He feels the already taut muscle behind his navel pull achingly tight and gives in to compulsion, pumping his hips to chase after the feeling lest it get away from him. By the noise of shock Adriannu makes he wonders if she's upset, but she leans into him instead, as if to egg him on. His hands unlatch from hers to hold her firnly at the waist while he grinds into her hard from behind.

He digs his sweat-soaked brow into her shoulder as his orgasm quickly overtakes him, whimpering and whining as he watches himself release. Cockhead swollen and red as he labors to rid himself of every last spurt, all in tribute to that flushed skin of hers, and the delicious blood that nurtures it all from underneath.  

When he’s spent Adriannu shifts, testing their connection. He's sure she can feel his hand snaking between them to pinch and rub his shaft through the little aftershocks still sparking through him. His seed pearling up the curve of her spine has her giggling in a way that makes his skin burn and his dead heart flop over like a fish out of water.   

With a coy smile, she tilts her head into his cheek, eyes fluttering shut. 

“That sounded nice,” she whispers. “Was it good for you?”  

Astarion inhales as he finds he hasn’t any air left in his lungs. When he gently bites into her shoulder, grinning lecherously up at her, Adriannu dislodges his mouth with a sharp nudge of her shoulder, only to turn around and press their lips together in a long, passionate kiss.

When they break away, the sound is audible, and his breath tracking across her wet lips makes her shiver.

"You wretched little mountain witch--making me come untouched like that." 

"Untouched? Please.” Her scoff is entirely undignified, and so terribly charming. “Grinding into me as though my ass were a whetstone..." 

"And what a large, smooth stone you were.” He sighs contentedly, in a way he knows she’ll find infuriating. “Perfect for sharpening my blade.”  

Adriannu groans, whirling on him with hands raised. “Rion, you bloody tosser--”  

Before she can properly shove him away, Astarion snatches her wrists and brings them to his lips to nip at her in jest. “Toss her? My love, I’m barely done with her.”  

They break into a playful scuffle then, laughing and kissing furiously as he wrestles her onto her back.

[ramp-it-up]

II Most Wanted Pt. 2: Pedal so heavy 

Pairing: Syverson x OFC Reader "Buttercup" (w/ Betty Bronco)

Summary: The feelings are getting real as you make a decision about giving Jake Syverson the time of day (or night, rather) at your 20 year reunion.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. RPF. S MUT, Angst, pining, fluff. Flashbacks, horny teenagers being horny (over 18 tho). Prom night, early 2000's music, mentions of sex acts, "Captain" kink, mentions of teenage pregnancy, divorce, breakups. The Powerpuff Girls, old automobiles, 20 year high school reunion, drinking, swearing. Reckless driving?

Read at your own risk.  Not Beta’d. All errors my own.

A/N:  This is the second installment of II Most Wanted. I'm in love with these two; they are bringing my writer heart back to life. If you like it, please reblog and comment.

I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

Previous part here

-----------------

May 2024

“Well, now Buttercup, that’s a long story. I know you want to hang with your friends. And I don’t know what you’re doin’ later tonight, but I would like to go somewhere quiet and talk about it.”

When you heard that, you went into fight or flight mode. Rage, regret, and sadness all flooded your body at once, and Sy’s eyes flicked down to your dominant hand which was curling into a fist. A wry smile started on his lips, and then he straightened up and looked you in the eye as he started to speak again.

“Butter-”

You shook your head, which silenced him. Then you raised your chin, released your fist, and turned your back, walking toward your friends.

—---

Get out (LEAVE!)

Right now

It’s the end of you and me

It’s too late (NOW!)

And I can’t wait 

For you to be gone…

Carla and Tiffani followed as you fled to the restroom.

“Why did you even tell him I liked him? I blame both of you.”

You were hurt, so you brought up a 20 year old slight and lashed out weakly at your friends. You were trying to ascribe meaning to your emotions.

How could everything still hurt this much? 

Carla wasn’t having it.

“Unh unh. No. Nope. We were sick of you running your mouth all the time about how cute he was. And Jakey boy had heart eyes for you since the day you walked into school, despite Becca the Bitch. After they broke up, we had to put you both out of your misery. It had to be done.”

Tiffani was nodding her head in agreement.

You sighed.

“‘M sorry guys,” you sat on the bathroom vanity and smiled to yourself about your Powerpuff councils in the 3rd floor Central High bathroom all those years ago. Then you grimaced when you thought of Sy.

“I just… Can’t…”

“So what just happened?”

Despite your surliness, Carla was ready to go to war for you.

“He wants me to go talk with him, ‘someplace quiet.’”

“Wow. Your air quotes are kind of aggressive.”

Sweet Tiffani was also calling you out.

“Maybe you do need to talk to him. I heard what happened, and it’s kind of a lot. A hell of a story.”

“Tiff has a point. You forbid us to say his name after you two broke up…”

You interrupted Carla.

“After he found out Becca was pregnant, you mean..”

“...That is a part of the story you need to hear. She did him dirty. They split when he finished his first tour. He asked about you, but you were already engaged to Scott…”

You’d heard that Sy enlisted instead of going to State for football like he planned when Becca fell pregnant, but the bit about the split hit you like a ton of bricks.

But why? And what did it matter now? 

“Sy spent the better part of the last 20 years in Afghanistan, and I think it’s because…But that’s not our story to tell. You really ought to talk to him.”

“I don’t have to do-”

Your voice was a little shrill and you closed your mouth when you heard yourself. You stood in the bathroom awkwardly until the familiar beginning of a song wafted into the room:

“Teen drinking is very bad.”

Carla and Tiff started screaming the next line:

“Yo, I got a fake ID tho.”

The beat dropped and they pulled you out of the bathroom onto the dance floor.

One, here comes the two to the three to the four Everybody drunk out on the dance floor Baby girl ass jiggle like she want more Like she a groupie and I aint even on tour...

…..Everybody in this bitch getting Tipsy.

This was your thot song, and after a minute of standing there, fake offended by their dancing, soon you were shaking your ass with your lifelong friends.

—-----

Sy knew how much he was trying it when he asked you to talk, but he had been waiting 20 years for this chance. 

Tonight was the night.

And he wasn’t going to let the night pass without shooting his shot. But the truth needed to be told first. He hoped that you still cared enough to let it happen.

When you stared at him blankly, he started to sweat. He knew you lived your life since then. He feared that any feelings you may have had for him were over and done with. But then he saw your hand balled into a fist, and hope entered his heart.

Sy never shrank from a fight; hell, he’d started too many, but he never wished for someone to sock him in the mouth as much as you.

He wanted to fight with you. 

And he wanted to make it up to you. 

His heart dropped when you walked away, but he decided to let it ride and give you some space. After you disappeared into the bathroom with Carla and Tiffani, Sy ventured into the venue, ready to interact with others now that he had laid down the challenge with you.

—---

You were having a ball dancing with the girls until that song came on. You stopped moving, the hair raised on the back of your neck. When you turned you found Sy staring right at you. You’d managed to ignore him the entire night, but this song and his blue eyes were wearing you down.

I'd sure hate to break down here Nothin' up ahead or in the rear view mirror Out in the middle of nowhere, knowin' I'm in trouble if these wheels stop rollin' So, God help me, keep me movin' somehow Don't let me start wishin' I was with him now

You walked toward Sy, drawn to him as if on a string. You had that feeling in the small of your back as you stood before him, the one that you hadn’t felt in ages, and suddenly everything felt inevitable.

Just like it did 20 years earlier. 

—---

May 2004

On Prom night, you came out of your bedroom and Sy’s mouth dropped open. His eyes never strayed from your face as he murmured,

“You look amazing.”

You blushed and smiled while your mom ‘awwwed’ and went to get her camera. You approached your boyfriend and he took your hand to twirl you around as he appraised the rest of you in your sleek emerald green dress. When you faced him again, he was licking his lips, trying to make the look on his face respectable. You smiled because you could read his mind.

Sy didn’t flinch as your mom called him “Jacob,” and you didn’t have it in you to be annoyed as she took a couple of pictures. Sy’s hand on your waist and his thumb gently stroking the exposed skin at the opening on the side of your dress made you shiver in anticipation.

You were caught up.

Soon, Sy was loading your bag into the back of Betty, and pulling off, your mom having accepted your explanation of staying over Tiffani’s after going bowling with the group after the prom.

In reality, a bunch of the crew were renting a huge chalet in the mountains, 45 minutes away. You and Sy had your own room, and you were ready to give him everything that night. You were distracted, imagining having your way with him that night.

And Sy was right there with you.

“Y’know, Buttercup, we can just head on up to the chalet.” 

He cut his eyes over to you to watch your reaction. When you didn’t answer and just bit your lip, that’s when he knew.

“Our suite has its own bathroom with a shower in it. We’re definitely using that this weekend. Can’t wait to see you all soapy and wet. ‘S all I could think about in the shower tonight. Almost jerked off to the image, but I decided to save it all for later…”

Sy knew you too well, and had keyed into how you responded when he talked dirty to you. He was priming the pump for later.

You pictured Sy in the shower, his lithe muscles clenched as he fisted himself, made you suddenly need a drink of water. You cleared your throat and found your voice.

“We have to go, Sy. I spent so much time getting ready. And you look so handsome in this tux….”

You skimmed your hand down his lapel, down his torso to his thigh, and you quickly ascertained his situation. He grinned at you.

“You’re right.”

Sy winked, smiled and concentrated on the road while you tried not to be a slut in the passenger seat. By the time you reached the venue, you had yourself under control. He parked, then turned toward you. 

“Let’s have a good time tonight, Buttercup. Think you can keep your hands offa me for a couple of hours?”

You scoffed, and Sy took your hand and kissed the back of it, then turned it over and kissed your palm, smoothing the joke away because in reality, It was him who couldn’t help touching you.

“Don’t want to mess up your makeup right now… might ruin it later tho.”

You whimpered in his grip as he kissed up your arm and you tucked a long errant curl behind his ear. 

Sy’s eyes went soft and he held your hands in your lap.

“Y’know, we don’t have to do anything tonight. We can dance all night if you want to. Bowl the blue balls away.”

You laughed and Sy fell in love even more. You were so beautiful.

“I love you, Buttercup, and us having sex or not won’t change that, not one bit.”

You melted as you stared at your handsome fella. He was fiddling with your hand, and then you felt something cold on your finger. You pulled your hand back and saw the delicate white gold ring with a tiny perfect diamond in the center that had been his grandmother’s.

You gasped.

“Sy!”

You looked from him to his grandmother’s ring. You’d come across it the first time you were over his house, ‘studying’ in his room on a chilly November night after football practice. You were being nosy and looking at everything you could touch as he went to get some snacks.

Sy was embarrassed when he came back and saw you with it. You thought he was mad at you for snooping, but he wasn’t. He’d told you that it was just a ‘tiny little ol’ ring, not worth anything,’ and that no one would want it, but that his Gran had left it for him to give to his future wife. 

“But, I’ll propose to someone with a bigger ring than this.”

Sy’s denim blue eyes held yours for a beat. Your heart flipped. You didn’t know why, because you’d only been talking for a couple of weeks and this was the first time you were alone together. 

You didn’t know that Sy was repeating something Becca had told him when she turned her nose up at the antique when she happened to see it, and you didn’t care as you took the black box and sat down on his bed. You stared at the ring inside like it was the crown jewels, and after about 5 minutes of studying it, you looked up at him. 

“Well. I think this ring is beautiful and precious. The detail is stunning. Your future wife would be lucky to get it.” 

That was exactly when Sy realized that he was in love with you.

Back in the Bronco outside of the prom, you were in disbelief.

“What are you doing Sy….?”

All of a sudden, you felt too young for this moment. But after only six short months together, Sy knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Calm down, Buttercup, this is just a promise ring.” 

He kissed your hand again. 

“I know we're jumpin' the gun, and we're both still young.” 

Those eyes held you in a trance.

“But one day, we won't be.”

“Oh, Sy…”

“It’s my promise to you, Buttercup. I will love you ‘til the day I die.”

And it seemed kinda crazy. But you believed him.

—-

May 2024

I made it this far without cryin' a single tear An' I'd sure hate to break down here Oh, no

It was either the music, the dancing, or the alcohol, or all three that made your mind up, but you were ready to listen to what Sy had to say. 

Stephanie Prince, the class president, was calling the Homecoming court up to the stage, and Sy looked that way. Anger bloomed again inside you.

Damnit, Sy needed to choose you this time.

“You still wanna talk, Sy?”

Your body language that screamed aggression: the cocked hip, the crossed arms that pushed up your tits, the tapping foot in those heels, all made Sy soft on the inside and hard on the outside for you. When he answered you, his voice broke. 

“Ye– yeah.”

Christ, you had him weak. But he made a decision, found his strength, and grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the Marriott.

You followed him obediently, and that set him on fire. He stopped and turned around when he reached the Bronco. 

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

You two stared at each other in the late spring night air, stars winking down on you two.

“So where we goin’, Sy?”

Being this close to him again, and the feeling of his touch made all those 20 year old pheromones perk up again. Damn, this man. 

This huge, handsome, hairy man.

“Where do you wanna go, Buttercup?”

What your brain was doing was insane, so you just kept silent.

Becoming mute was one of your tells. Sy was elated that maybe you wanted him, at least physically. He was so thirsty for you.

“Hm.”

Sy grunted, straightened up, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, all while still holding your hand. It was like he didn’t want to let you go. 

And he didn’t.

“Tell you what. Let’s take a spin in Betty. See what’s up in the ol’ town.”

Your eyes flicked toward the truck, and you knew it was dangerous.

But you were grown now. 

And so was Sy.

Sy led you around to the passenger side door to help you up into the high profile vehicle, leaning over you to buckle you in, only releasing you to put his hand on the door.

“I can’t believe you still have her,” you whispered, indicating the Bronco. “How is she still the exact same condition?”

“She’s been in storage for the better part of 20 years. Thought about her everyday though.”

Sy was looking at your lips, and the memories came flooding back.

“I bet she missed you.”

Sy cocked his head and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. His voice came out gruff and he had to clear his throat again. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Sy.”

Any smooth line was lost as his brain short circuited with the concentration it took to not kiss you right now. 

“Well, we’re about to have some fun together again, you, me, and Betty. Sit tight, pretty lady.” 

Your cheeks heated at the compliment.

“Ok, Captain.”

Sy actually blushed, shook his head and closed the door, leaving you to breathe in the old leather smell of the Bronco with your eyes closed, conveniently leaving him to pump his fist behind the car unseen by you. 

He got back in the car, jacket off. And he leaned near you to place it on the back seat, you got a whiff of him, the familiar cologne adding another dimension to your roiling senses.

When you opened your eyes, you witnessed him rolling his shirtsleeves up his forearms. He caught you ogling him and you gulped and crossed your own arms and legs, angling yourself to look out of the open window.

Sy looked over at you closing yourself off from him, then smashed the gas to make sure that you'd squeal and grab his arm like the good ol’ days as he peeled out of the parking lot, pedal so heavy like you were the two most wanted criminals in town.

—---

Hit reblog if you like it!

Next part Here

[lavenderchqn]

Hello!! If reqs are still open may I ask for an enamel cup of rooibos tea :'). If you're taking fic suggestions too, I've been thinking about office workers au.. or where you're both forced to go to an office party and wind up drunk!!

✧・┆airén — alhaitham

— after finishing your first big project at your current workplace, you as well as your secret partner are forced to attend a party full of alcohol... and well, chaos ensues

content warnings mentions of alcohol, being drunk, people forcing others to drink for their own amusement

thank you for the request! I really enjoyed adding a secretive relationship~

Keeping a secret can be gruelling, not to mention keeping a relationship undercover when it is clearly against the rules of the workplace. 

You sigh, dotting the last sentence of the report you had been writing to finish the biggest project you’d ever taken since starting to work at this job. You can barely keep your eyes open, having spent over four hours just on the damned thing. 

Your fingers ache from typing, and your brain feels like mush, but at least it’s done. You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head as you glance at the clock on your desk — 1:47 p.m. Everyone else had long gone to have lunch, leaving the office in eerie silence, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.

You’re muttering to yourself, trying to figure out what’s the next thing you ought to do. Well, sending the report would be the wisest thing to do, followed by having some food. And yet, despite having opened the platform, for some reason you seem to hesitate to forward the files. 

This project had been something of a breakthrough of yours. You’ve grown quite attached to the idea of it, as well as to all the people involved with it. Letting it go like that… makes you feel like you’ve lost a part of yourself. 

“Done.” Out of nowhere, Alhaitham comes over to send the report to your place, causing you quite the scare. The bloody man, who not only was the one you’ve been in a relationship with for the past few months but also the complete opposite in terms of work ethics. 

Ever since you could remember, you had always put so much effort into everything you did — school, work, hobbies… Staying to work overtime was basically second nature to you by this point. How on earth did you end up with a guy who’s out of the office the second clock strikes 5 o’clock. 

A notification ping is what gets your focus back in order, your partner still hunched over your chair. Everyone in the office has now been notified of your accomplishment. 

“Good job on that, [Y/N],” Alhaitham says, putting your laptop in sleep mode. “Time for lunch.” He says, straightening his back and offering his hand to help you stand. 

You blink up at him, still a little stunned by his sudden appearance and the swiftness with which he took over. He has a knack for stepping in at the most unexpected times, and his calm, composed demeanour always leaves you slightly off balance. 

“Could you not sneak up on me like that?” You say, placing a hand on your chest to steady your racing heart. Oh how glad you are, that the office takes the small gestures the two of you share as just being friends. You have been keeping it very lowkey, but with a person of Alhaitham’s personality, any sudden behaviour change would be noticeable. 

He raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable but with a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “You were so deep in thought I figured knocking would be redundant.” 

“You figured wrong,” you mutter, but a small smile betrays your annoyance. Despite yourself, you’re grateful for his presence. Even if his approach is less conventional than yours, he has a way of lightening your workload — and your mood. 

When you hesitate to take his hand, still thinking about the report and the massive effort behind it, he leans down slightly, his voice growing softer. “You’ve done enough for today. Give yourself a break. You deserve it.”

His words strike like a chord. You exhale a deep breath, finally taking his hand. As he helps you to your feet, you can’t help but notice how effortlessly he anchors you, both physically and emotionally. 

“I can’t believe you sent it without giving me a chance to go over it one last time,” you grumble as the two of you walk towards the elevator. 

Alhaitham gives you a nonchalant shrug. “If you went over it, we’d miss lunch. Besides, I know how thorough you are. There’s no way that report has a single flaw.” 

You glance at him, half-suspecting him of sarcasm, but his tone is genuine. A faint warmth spreads through your chest at the single inkling of a compliment from him, and you finally allow yourself to relax for the first time in hours. 

As the elevator doors slide open, you glance around to make sure no one’s nearby before stepping inside together. Although there’s not much risk in being caught at a place like this, having the security of nobody joining you is lovely. 

“We ought to be back at 3 p.m.,” Alhaitham says, picking the ground floor and casually leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. “Silence your phone.” 

“Where are we going?” You ask as the elevator begins its descent. 

“There’s a café down the street I’ve been meaning to try. Quiet, good food, not too crowded. Since we’re thirty minutes late to lunch there’s going to be even fewer people.” 

You arch an eyebrow. “Since when do you scout out lunch spots?” 

His lips quick into a faint smirk. “Since I started dating someone who forgets to eat whenever working on a big project.” 

Your cheeks warm at his remark, but you roll your eyes to cover it. “Well, I hope it’s as good as you say.” 

After a short while, you’ve reached your destination — the ground floor. The elevator dings and the doors open. 

The two of you barely leave the elevator when all you can hear is the hurried steps of somebody getting close to you. 

“[Y/N],” Your manager comes up to you, a cheerful smile across his face. “Congratulations on finishing the project!”

Your heart skips a beat, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. Out of instinct, you step slightly away from Alhaitham, creating a safe distance between the two of you. It’s a subtle movement, but you know your partner doesn’t miss it. It’s almost as if his perception of your behaviour doubles in power whenever at work. 

“Thank you,” You reply, managing a polite despite the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. “It was a team effort.” 

“Nonsense!” Your manager exclaims, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. “You’d led this project beautifully. I’ve already forwarded your report to the higher-ups. They are going to be very impressed with your work.” 

“That’s great to hear.” You say though you feel like you’re barely holding onto your professional facade. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Alhaitham’s lips twitch, as though he’s holding back a smirk at your discomfort. 

Your manager continues, oblivious to the underlying tension. “From what I’ve heard, a party is going to be held to celebrate the accomplishment. Be sure to attend it, you had played the first fiddle, after all.” 

At the single mention of a work event, your chest tightens. You’re probably the second to last person who would show up to one of those — only being after Alhaitham. 

“It’s going to be mandatory.” The manager says, already predicting your decline of the offer. “The official note will probably be sent out by the end of the day. The same goes for you, Alhaitham.” The male looks at your partner with a sharp eye. Alhaitham, on the other hand, only rolls his eyes already tired at what’s about to come. 

With that, you’re left to your devices. Food first, complaining about a mandatory “team-bonding” party second… After all, you both know it’s only a means for the higher-ups to gather costs for tax returns and get drunk, nothing more, nothing less. 

You haven’t even entered the venue yet and you already feel lightheaded at the overwhelming stench of alcohol in the air. It’s far too for your liking, and you barely got here.

“The lady of the hour!~” Nilou, the only sane human resources lady as well as the person you would’ve considered your second work bestie at the company, greets you the second you enter the room with a cheerful smile on her face. “Congratulations on your project, dearie.” 

She envelops you in a warm hug, her genuine excitement so infectious that it momentarily dissipates your dread about the evening. Despite the suffocating air of the venue, her cheerful presence feels like a breath of fresh air. 

“Thanks, Nilou,” You say, managing a small smile. “I didn’t really have a choice but to show up, though.” 

She chuckles, pulling back to look at you. “I figured as much. But hey, at least there’s free food and a chance to celebrate your hard work. You deserve it.” 

You glance over her shoulder, scanning the room for familiar faces. Sure enough, there’s your manager already drunk off his mind and in a discussion with some other department head, as well as a few clusters of employees milling about, drinks in hand. Thankfully, there’s no sign of Alhaitham just yet. He’ll likely be just on time because he doesn’t get paid to show up earlier. 

Unfortunately, you manage to lock eyes with somebody near the bar and they’re already headed your way to offer you a welcome drink. 

“Bottoms up, [Y/N].” The person says, showing a glass into your palm and getting everyone present to look at you. Speak about being put on the spot… and a health code violation. You just hope Nilou has taken note of the person who offered you the drink. 

There’s a slight hesitation in your hand. From what you can gauge, what you’ve been given is an entire glass of rectified spirit — arguably the strongest alcoholic beverage out there. You just hope they won’t be idiotic enough to force-feed you these after this one.

With some drunkards posing as your coworkers egging you on, you drown the glass in one go, feeling nauseous as it goes down your throat. You will absolutely be regretting that the second you get home. You almost take a stumble, but Nilou is right there to help you steady your body and lead you to have a seat. 

“Please—“ You hiccup, getting tipsy off the singular glass already. “Give that person a stern talk…”   

Nilou’s face twists into a mix of concern and irritation. She helps you settle onto a nearby chair, patting your back gently. “I’ve got you covered.” She says, her voice firm. “Don’t worry about them. That was unacceptable and completely uncalled for.” 

Your head feels like it’s spinning, the potent alcohol hitting your system much faster than you anticipated. You try to focus on breathing, hoping to steady yourself before things get worse. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Nilou storming off toward the offender, steps strict and purposeful and her expression unreadable. 

A few moments later, a familiar voice breaks through the haze. “It’s only six p.m. and you’re already drunk?” 

You glance to see Alhaitham standing over you, his hands crossed and an almost imperceptible crease of concern on his otherwise stoic face. For once in his life, he decided to push his hair back and dress in a grey suit. Oh fuck, he’s hot. 

“You’re late.” You mumble, your words slurring slightly as you rest your head on your hand. “Wasn’t there to save me…” 

He quirks an eyebrow, crouching down to your level. “What happened?” He says, his tone unexpectedly soft. You just hope your tipsy state is not misreading his actions. 

“Someone thought it’d be hilarious to offer her a glass of a strong spirit,” Nilou interjects as she returns, her irritation still simmering. She gestures towards the culprit, who now looks sheepish under the sharp glare of Nilou’s superiors. “Is there any possibility you’d be able to look after [Y/N] tonight, Alhaitham?” Nilou asks, taking a pause before adding. “I’m going to be on the lookout for that comedian in specific.” 

Alhaitham sighs, nodding. “Leave it to me, I suppose.” He says curtly.

“Thank you so much!” Nilou smiles at his sacrifice, promising in her mind to stand behind the male tremendously in case HR is ever on his case. 

Not leaving immediately after finding out you were drunk was the biggest mistake Alhaitham had made today. Somewhere along the way he also got tipsy… despite being the designated driver of tonight’s escapade, resulting in him having to witness your drunken antics with a mild headache. The way he had to stoop that low as to message Kaveh to get over to pick the two of you up, was unbelievable. 

“You knoww…” You start, leaning against him. “You’re so mean to everyone but me…” Archons above, you are going at this again? It was around the third time you decided to take pride in being the sole worker who Alhaitham didn’t actively despise. 

Alhaitham groans inwardly, his tipsy state making your slurred words seem both endearing and annoying. He supports you as you cling to his arm, your weight pressing against him, making it impossible to avoid your proximity. 

“You’re exaggerating,” he mutters, his voice low and almost monotone despite the slight flush on his cheeks. “I’m mean to you too, silly.” 

“You aren’t!” You insist, poking his chest weakly. “You’re all stoic and scary… but with me, you’re… kinda sweet. Not to mention… you look fucking hot in grey.” 

His lips twitch, almost forming a smirk, but he quickly composes himself. “Maybe you’re half annoying, ever thought about that?” 

You gasp, your drunken eyes widening as if he’d just confessed the world’s greatest secret. “Oh my god, you do like me more than anyone else!” 

The volume of your declaration turns a few heads, and Alhaitham instinctively glances around, his hand gently gripping your waist to steady you and keep you from attracting further attention. “Lower your voice,” He says, his tone firm despite being full of worry. 

By some sheer miracle, he makes eye contact with Nilou, who smiles awkwardly. She is fully aware you’re less than in your fullest brain space. Although, from Alhaitham’s point of view, she is not aware of your relationship… he trusts her in not reporting whatever you’re doing to the higher-ups.

Tilting her head in confusion, the redhead joins the two of you, worried for your state.

“Maybe it’s best you take her home now?” She asks, crouching slightly to check your face. “I’m worried she’ll get even more unhinged.” 

Alhaitham nods, his hand steady on your waist. “That’s the wisest decision. I appreciate the help, Nilou.” He shifts his weight, ready to guide you out of the venue. 

“Good luck,” Nilou says with a knowing smile. “If you need any help, just call me.” 

Once outside, the crisp night air hits you like a splash of cold water, slightly sobering you up but not enough to stop your drunken musings. Alhaitham leads you to the car he definitely shouldn’t be driving tonight, opening the passenger door for you. 

“Get in,” He orders gently.

You hesitate, squinting up at him. “But you drank too. Who’s driving? You can’t drive. That’s dangerous.” 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Give it a minute. Just get in the car, alright?” 

Satisfied with his answer, you slump into the seat, leaning your head back and mumbling something unintelligible about being betrayed by other coworkers. You barely even notice when your words begin to slur together, not due to alcohol in your body, but from sheer exhaustion. 

“—cking hell,” A curse is what ultimately wakes you up from the lovely nap you were having. “This is the last time that group of pillocks gets me out to go anywhere.” 

“Pillock?” A higher voice questions. “Can’t believe some alcohol turns you into an old man!… Well, you do have the hair for it.” 

“Kaveh.” 

“So-Sorry!” 

Ah. So the driver must’ve been Kaveh — Alhaitham’s unrecognised best friend as well as an architect you’ve grown to become friends yourself. You decide against saying anything, your brain is far too foggy to even make coherent sentences. You’re pretty certain you’re already having the first symptoms of a hangover. 

And tomorrow? Well, you will be joined by your partner in groaning about a massive headache, luckily aided by Kaveh’s good heart… and multiple glasses of water. 

date of posting — december 27th 2024

[sammiknowss]

His Own Little Secret

Louis was laughing happily in a bar, voice still a little scratchy, and comfortably cross faded. 

He and the guys had been lucky enough to have a bit of a break between shows, and they just so happened to be in Tampa, so they spent the day lounging on a yacht just off the coast, enjoying drinks and a bit of weed, before they came back to shore to party for the night.

They had decided against going to one of the more exclusive clubs, mostly because they all spent the day out on the water, and none of them were willing to clean up and dress up to get in. Instead, with a bit of research, they found a hole in the wall spot that was full, but not packed, and most, if not all, of the patrons didn’t seem to know or care who he was. 

He was sitting in a booth, facing the door, sipping on his Vodka Redbull when the door opened, and a small group of girls filtered through. They seemed to share his and his band’s sentiments, if not to a more extreme level, as he could still see the straps of their swimsuits under their still-damp clothes. 

The girls were fit, but relatively unremarkable, so he tuned back into the story that Oli was telling. Oli had just gotten to the good part when they passed back behind his booth once more, and one of them caught his eye. 

She wasn’t his type, really. He tended to go for the overly thin, leggy, model types for a one-off, and with his son and his tour, he hadn’t had anything deeper than that in a long while. 

She was thin, sure, but in a sporty way, with strong, slim legs and a tight little ass that he took a moment to admire as she walked with her friends in search of a booth. Her hair was pulled on top of her head in a long, curly ponytail, and her skin was sunkissed, cheeks a little pink (from a sunburn or alcohol, he didn’t know).

She was cute. 

She wasn’t really his type.

But something about her made the cogs in his intoxicated brain spin. There was something about her…

He stared, unabashedly for a moment (luckily without her noticing) before one of the guys took notice.

“Which one?” Michael asked, tipping his head in their direction.

“Oh,” Louis answered, dropping his eyes from her, and tracing the condensation from his glass that left a ring on the dirty table, “it’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously something,” he muttered back, squinting into the group, like that might help, “been staring for longer than you ought to.”

“One of them is just familiar, I think…” he trailed off, staring her down for a brief moment before it clicked.

“Shit! I got it!” He exclaimed, slightly too loud, “she was at the show last night, second row of seats, looked like she hated it.”

Luckily, the din of conversation in the room covered for his shouting. 

More often than not, Louis didn’t fixate on one or a few people at his shows, but something about this girl had caught his eye enough to make him check back a few times, and she genuinely did not seem to be enjoying herself, like, at all. 

He honestly didn’t have anything against her if she did hate it, or hate him, but something in him wanted to be a little shit. He wanted to go bother her and get to the bottom of it. 

Louis moved to get up, but Michael stopped him, “Where are you going, asshole?” He asked, somewhat fondly. 

“Gonna talk to her.”

“You just said she didn’t like you, mate.” Michael was a voice of reason. We all need friends like Michael.

Louis was, admittedly, a little drunk, but he got up anyways, and Michael didn’t actually stop him.

As he approached, she caught his eyes, and blinked a few times, seemingly trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Hello,” Louis led with, only to be met with silence, as she looked back to one of her friends desperately. Her eyes were brown, and it seemed that she had at least put on eye makeup to make her doe eyes pop before coming to the bar. It was light and simple, but it made her eyes hypnotic. Louis didn’t think brown eyes could be that enticing.

He waited patiently while the girls communicated silently before one of them pushed her towards him and walked away.

“I’ll go on if you want me to, love.” Louis said, taking a sip from his drink, “but I’d love to buy you a drink and find out why you didn’t like the show last night.”

Her already pink cheeks darkened a shade, and she nodded silently.

Mixed signals at best.

She truly hated him, but she wanted a free drink?

He was a bit confused (he’d blame it on the alcohol), but followed her to the bar like a lost puppy anyways. 

“Hey D, what are you - what the actual fuck?!?” A girl leaning against the bar began to greet her before she spotted him.

Louis watched as the back of her head bobbed up and down silently.

This girl, it seemed, was a much bigger fan of his, as she gave him a beaming smile and reached her hand out around her friend, who she had called “D.”

“Louis,” she greeted, a little breathless, “my name is Eliza, it’s actually kinda crazy to meet you. We just watched you play last night.”

Louis took her hand in his and shook it for a moment, “I know.” 

“You know?” She said, a little too loudly, “what the hell does that mean.”

“You guys were close, right? Just past the pit?”

Eliza’s cheeks flamed red, and the other girl, the one who initially caught his attention, used the distraction to slip away.

“Yeah… we were.”

“So what brings you here?” He asked, tipping back his drink and swallowing the last bit. He waved at the bartender and pointed at his empty glass with a kind smile.

“Okay, sure…” the girl narrowed her eyes at him, “but I feel like I should be asking you that.”

“Smart girl,” Louis touched a finger to his temple, tilting his head to the side, “I’m here because I had a show yesterday.”

The girl laughed a little too loudly, “I know that. I was there, remember? What I meant was, why are you following D to the bar?”

“Oh,” Louis said, nodding to the bartender as he handed him another drink, “I just wanted to figure out why she didn’t like the show.”

Eliza’s reaction was almost comical. Her eyes widened, and she pursed her lips in a cartoonish manner. Louis was fairly certain that if she had taken a sip of her drink, she would have spit it on him.

“What the hell do you mean?” 

She only paused long enough to turn and look at her friend before looking back.

“No. No. D’s just shy and has major crowd anxiety. She loved the show. She was one of the ones that really wanted to go. Paid for some of our tickets and all.”

“Oh.” Louis said, a bit dumbfounded. It made sense. Why would she have been so far up if she hated him. No way the tickets were cheap.

“She honestly doesn’t want to be here either,” Eliza tipped back her drink, “funny how all this worked out.” 

Louis agreed, tapping the rim of his glass to hers gently, “too right, you are.”

They both watched her for a moment as she stood with their friends. She was smiling, only slightly, as one of their friends made a dramatic display of throwing darts at a dart board, “I’m gonna talk to her, yeah. At least apologize for judging her too quick.”

“Go easy on her, please.” Eliza said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “she really does love you, and if you’re an ass, it’ll ruin her more than most others.”

Louis was mock offended, pointing to himself, “me? An ass? Never.” 

They laughed together for a moment before he more sincerely muttered, “of course I’ll go easy on her.”

She gave him a beaming smile as he walked over to where the girl, who’s name he still didn’t know… perhaps it was Dee?

“Slipped away from me there, love.” He announced his presence as he approached from behind. She turned to look at him, eyes wide and a bit panicky.

“Can we talk?” He made sure to keep his voice as quiet as he could, gentle, approachable.

The longer he was in her presence, the more he felt like he was unprepared to handle whatever mental turmoil she had going on. She reminded him a bit of a flighty deer, or maybe a rabbit.

So he didn’t expect what happened next. He didn’t expect a small, cool hand to be thrust in his direction with the silent command of, “follow me.”

Despite his better judgment, he took her hand, and glanced back at his group one more time before following her out the door of the bar. 

He halfway expected for her to stop there, with the night air blowing around them, but she didn’t. Keeping his hand in hers, and staying half a step ahead, she led him on a quick, albeit questionable, walk. 

They passed through an alleyway, and between some fences that he was almost certain was private property, before he found himself on a quiet beach. 

She paused to take off her sneakers and socks, picking them up and holding them in her hand before stepping into the cold sand.

Honestly, the sea at night was not one of Louis’s favorite things. What was once a beautiful, shimmering blue-green, was now an angry, churning of inky black.

She dropped to the ground, sitting in the sand and pulling her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them and rested her head on her knees as she looked up at him, a bit wide eyed.

Louis stood, probably looking stupid, for a moment before he joined her, looking out at the water.

There was a silence between them, for a minute or two. It probably would have been uncomfortable, if not for the weed and alcohol in his system. At the present, he was happy to sit next to a pretty girl on the beach.

After a bit, she spoke, voice hesitant and barely audible over the waves, “I didn’t hate the concert. I promise.”

And, God, did Louis feel like a dick. 

“I know, love,” he attempted to soothe, “your buddy sorted it all out for me.”

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she deflated, body relaxing, grabbing a fistful of sand and allowing it to slip between her fingers.

“So, tell me about you, then,” he keeps his voice light. 

He doesn’t know why, but he wants to talk to her. He wants her to feel comfortable in his presence. 

She lets the shortest giggle escape her lips before meeting his gaze very seriously, “You cannot be asking me that.”

“What do you mean, love?”

“You are a rockstar. You have performed with the biggest boy band of all time. You have played venues all over the world. Shouldn’t you be telling me about yourself?”

It was the most words she had managed to string together, and it was sass. Louis was proud.

“That’s precisely why I want to know about you. You already know about me.” He paused for a moment, and when she didn’t speak, he prompted, “Start with your name.”

“Delilah…”

It seemed that all of the attitude drained out of her body and was replaced with nerves once more. Louis wanted to touch her - to calm her down in some way. In any other world, he wouldn’t be able to, but in the darkness, with the sound of the waves hitting the shore, he reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her into his side.

She was stiff in his hold, but he didn’t relent, muttering a ‘keep going’ as he rubbed his tattooed hand up and down her bicep.

So she spoke.

She was in school, college, in the area, but was from another state. She didn’t allude to which, but Louis was fairly certain it was one of the southern ones based on her light accent.

She liked dogs, which Louis made sure to congratulate her on. Her favorite color was yellow, and Louis’s concert was the second concert she had been to.

The longer she spoke, the more she relaxed against him, and it felt good. Louis didn’t often like to admit that he wasn’t the biggest or strongest bloke around. Often, girls were about the same size as he was, but Delilah was quite petite, fitting perfectly against his form.

There was something about this girl, Louis thought, gazing into the night with a comfortable silence falling over them. She was relatively unremarkable. Sure, pretty enough, with killer hair, but she was just generally average. And it was a breath of fresh air. It felt like forever since he had met a girl that reminded him of home. But something about this girl did. 

A girl in Tampa, Florida, of all places. A girl who could not be further from home. But for some odd reason, she felt a bit like home.

Louis had no idea how long they sat in the sand. He should have pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked, but he wasn’t willing to do anything that would disturb the precious bubble of peace that he had managed to find. 

It wasn’t until she was shivering against him, the cool mist coming off of the sea doing nothing to help, that he decided that it was time to make their way back to the bar. He was certain that Oli was probably losing his shit looking for Louis, and he could only hope her friends were looking out for her.

“Okay, love,” he said, breaking the tentative silence, and giving her one more squeeze, “we should probably get you back to your friends.” 

He reluctantly took his arm back and stood, offering a hand to help her stand.

When she stood, eyes sparkling in the light of the moon, Louis was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her.

Quick. Just to see what it would be like.

But it had been a while since his last drink, and he had sobered up a bit. 

And, with a sinking feeling, he knew. This was it. He would never see sweet Delilah again, and it wouldn’t be fair to her to do that. It wouldn’t be fair to make her think that there would ever be anything between them, even if she did brighten his mood substantially as the evening went on.

No. Instead of following his instincts, he pressed the softest kiss to her forehead, and clutched her hand a little too tightly as she showed him the way back to the bar.

When they got there, Oli was outside, pacing frantically as he made calls. As soon as he saw the pair coming towards him, he shook his head, said something into the phone, and hung up. 

“Where the hell have you been?!” Oli scolded, “we have to be on the road in an hour!”

Louis just shrugged and let go of Delilah’s hand, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. 

She seemed to be struggling too, though, as she gave him a forced, closed lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and started walking down the road.

A better man would have made sure she made it home safe.

A better man would have gotten her number so he could check on her in the morning. 

Louis was pretty quiet for the rest of the night, even after they had boarded the bus, and were traveling at about 70 mph down the interstate. He sat quietly, nursing a mug of chamomile tea (which he honestly thought tasted terrible, but he needed to sleep). 

When Oli asked what happened, he didn’t tell him. Delilah was his now. His own little secret that would stay tucked into his chest.

[baldurs-gape]

Worry Worms

A little shared fact about the party was that the worms were in communication with each other. Even with the Emperor's protection, the group were bound in a way, their worms connected to each other. Sometimes it was awkward, other times funny and sometimes frustrating. Yet the worst were the moments where flashes of the past and the pain it held flashed through the group.

The first signs of a shared existence were the pang of hunger. It wasn't obvious to start with, everyone migrated to the supply packs for snacks and ate with more gusto. Yet the hunger was left unsated. Bickering turned to annoyed disagreements and huffy sulks. Lae'zel refused to even look at Shadowheart over the simple fact that the berries they'd had stashed away were now mixed with nuts.

"Perhaps we ought to ask Astarion to feed?" Wyll muttered to Karlach quietly. "It's driving me insane."

"Urgh, yes. I can't eat another mouthful but I'm still starving. Is this what being a vampire is like?"

"Like what?" Astarion sauntered up to them, thumb rubbing at the corner of his mouth as though wiping away the last dribbles of blood after feeding.

An awkward silence held them all in suspense until Wyll cleared his throat. "This hunger. Is this your day to day experience?"

Of all the thing they expected, an honest laugh was not on the list. Astarion wasn't even mocking them, he was genuinely tickled by the question.

"Darling, this hunger isn't mine. It has been dogging me as much as you by the sounds of it."

Which just left one real suspect. The one who had been most graceful at handling the sudden affliction. That evening Gale sheepishly admitted to his affliction. Once he'd consumed a locket, the hunger faded from all their minds.

If only things could be as simple. For a while it seemed like it was. The weather was gorgeous, sun bright and hot. It burned fiercely as they wandered along their path. Armour was slowly stripped, so were clothes where possible. Any stream they crossed, most of them dipped into it with sighs of relief.

"It's hot as the hells themselves." Wyll was neck deep in a clear pool, eyes closed and head tipped back.

Looking around at the various states of undress and sweatiness, Karlach gnawed at her bottom lip.

"Literally. The old engine's been getting a bit too much. My bad."

"This is your doing?" Astarion whirled to look at her. "I haven't felt like this in two hundred years!" Despite not sweating like the others, his hair looked a little lacklustre and flat compared to its usual near-perfection.

"As I said-"

"Don't. I've missed this. Don't change."

Karlach's mouth snapped shut as she nodded and made a mental note to maybe linger closer to Astarion on nights where he looked more cold and alone.

Their adventures carried on. They bore the shared echoes of neck pain and head aches as Wyll got used to his new horns. Gale's mage hand was perfect to for those who preferred not to be touched and Karlach was more than happy to put her rather warm hands to good use too. Given her own horn, she was all too familiar with what muscles could cramp and hurt. Wyll was especially grateful for such knowledge.

Along the way they collected Halsin who was more than happy to tag along on the quest. Nobody was tactless enough to mention how he and Astarion gravitated towards each other, circling in tighter and tigther circles. They all pretended to believe Halsin's reasons were purely altruistic and maybe with a small amount of desire to learn. Nor did anyone mention that Astarion's tent had a tendency to be set up and then abandoned as he spent nights in Halsin's. It was a small comfort and they all knew they needed as much of that as they could get.

Nights tended to be rather monotonous. Once dinner had been eaten, they all drifted off to their respective tents for rest. Sleep came easy enough, so did the nightmares. Flashes of pain and terror. Revulsion and depseration. Hopelessness that hollowed out everything which was only filled by fear tamped rage. Lae'zel was the first to wake, cursing Shar and all she made her followers endure. Determined to wake Shadowheart, she left her tent. Only, Shadowheart was already by the dwindling fire, haggard and scratching at her back.

"Is this not the doing of your goddess?"

"She's much more thorough in taking the memories." The disdain in Shadowheart's voice was a blanket to hide her own discomfort. While awake, the flashes from the worm were no less distressing but the light of the fire helped a little.

"So who-"

Gale stumbled out of his tent and retched as a particularly sordid kind of pain echoed through them all. They all shivered in unison at it.

"We need to wake him." Even as he spoke, the worm allowed more memories to play out in their minds. "He wouldn't want us to know this."

"I don't want to know this," Karlach's voice joined. Next to her, Wyll looked harrowed.

As one they traipsed to the edge of camp where Halsin's tent had been set up. He was dozing, curled around Astarion with a smile on his lips.

"Hush, he's finally trancing." Warm pride made Halsin's words drip with affection. "Said he'd not done it since before being turned."

"With good reason. Wake him up." Wyll winced as new pains from relieved memories curled through him.

Resisting, Halsin watched the group and pulled Astarion into a protective embrace. The broke 'please' from Gale was what did it in the end.

It didn't take much more than a gentle brush of lips to his forehead and Astarion blinked awake. His worm silenced but not before a flash of panic could be felt by all as he stared up at the gathered group.

"I know I'm in high demand, but could we keep it to one or two at a time so I can make sure you all have a good time?"

If only it had been a joke. Before it would have been taken as one. Now though, the truth of his fawning in face of fear was all too easy to see.

"We just-" Gale seemed at a loss for words.

"They wanted to wish you a good night," Halsin helped out, even though he still wasn't quite sure what was going on. "And to make sure you're okay."

Tight blankness smoothed out Astarion's expression. He knew the others saw the memories his trance he brought to life. "Was I-" breaking off, he steeled himself, "Did I make noise to wake you all?"

"You were very peaceful, little heart." Halsin smiled at him and tucked him back against his chest. "Rest some more. I'm sure the rest of this conversation can wait until the morning."

Dismissed, the others filed out of the tent. They didn't sleep easy, kept up by the nightmare fuel of what they'd seen. At least Astarion didn't trance again so no more memories bled through into their shared connection. Come morning, nobody said anything. But if they were a little more gentle with Astarion after that, that was their own business and nobody else's.

[wonderlanddreamer]

The Rook

— Chapter Two

Summary: Unable to focus, Tommy finds himself snapping at those around him. Burdened by grief and guilt, he finds himself inexplicably drawn back to Rosemary, enslaved by her tranquil aura.

Series Masterlist • Chapter 1 • Chapter 3

The Shelby estate, an imposing structure of brick and shadow, lay under a shroud of quiet that was punctuated only by the rhythmic crackle of the fireplace in the study and the distant, indistinct murmur of voices wafting from the parlor. Despite the outward calm, the house was never truly silent. Arthur's restless pacing, like that of a caged animal, echoed through the corridors, while Polly's watchful eyes seemed to miss nothing, her presence a constant reminder of wisdom and vigilance. Ada, with her fiery temperament, frequently visited to admonish Arthur about his drinking habits, her voice cutting through the air with the sharpness of her words. Yet, on this particular night, an oppressive weight seemed to bear down on the household, rendering the atmosphere almost suffocating.

In the dimly lit study, Tommy Shelby sat hunched over his desk, a cigarette languidly burning between his fingers. The ember glowed intermittently, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Before him lay an untouched ledger, the pages filled with columns of numbers that blurred together, transforming into indecipherable scribbles of ink. He ought to have been immersed in work, devising strategies, and orchestrating plans. Yet, his thoughts drifted, scattered and unfocused, pulling him away from the pressing demands of the family business.

An empty whiskey glass sat beside him, a silent testament to his recent indulgence, though he could scarcely recall the moments he had spent drinking. The haze of alcohol mingled with the smoke of his cigarette, enveloping him in a cocoon of isolation.

"Thomas?" Polly's voice, familiar and tinged with concern, pierced the fog of his thoughts. Her silhouette framed the doorway, a resolute figure against the dim light. Tommy didn't bother to lift his head, acknowledging her presence with mere silence.

"You're staring at a blank page," she observed, her arms crossed in a gesture of both challenge and support. "That doesn't look like work to me."

Tommy exhaled a weary breath through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away his troubles. "I don’t need a nursemaid, Pol," he replied, his tone edged with irritation.

"No, you need a good knock over the head," Polly retorted, her voice unwavering. "You've been like this for days. Snapping at everyone, barely speaking. And don’t you dare tell me it’s business because I know the difference."

His jaw clenched, the tension evident in his posture. "You done?" he asked tersely.

"No, Thomas, I’m not done." The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped fully into the room, determination etched in her features. "You're grieving. And you're letting it eat you alive."

Her words struck a chord deep within him, igniting a burn in his throat. He knew precisely what she referred to—Grace. The loss of her had seeped into his very bones, a persistent ache that twisted like a knife wound that refused to heal.

Though months had passed since her death, the void she left behind was ever present. On most nights, it felt as though he had been the one to pull the trigger. In his mind, he had invited danger into their lives, inadvertently opening the door to tragedy.

Polly's tone softened, her eyes filled with empathy. "Arthur told me you were different when you came back the other night. That you looked like you’d been somewhere else."

Tommy's muscles tensed involuntarily. Arthur had noticed? He had made an effort to slip back into the house unnoticed, like a ghost, but evidently, his brother had discerned the change in him.

"I'm fine," Tommy muttered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Polly scoffed, undeterred by his feigned indifference. "You’re drinking too much. You’re not sleeping. You keep looking at the fucking door like you expect someone to walk through it." She paused, searching his eyes. "What happened that night, Tommy?”

He considered confessing, sharing the darkness that had been stalking him, the way he had driven the streets with a loaded gun, feeling ready—almost eager—to end it all. But then, he had stumbled into The Rook, a dimly lit pub tucked away on a country lane.

There, amidst the clamour and the haze, someone had seen him as something other than a spectre of his own making.

Rosemary King.

Even thinking her name brought a peculiar sense of ease to his chest. He couldn't quite comprehend it. She was not significant in his life—not yet, at least. But there had been an undeniable warmth in her voice, a genuine kindness in her smile. She had spoken to him as if he were just another patron, oblivious to the weight of his past and the darkness that clung to him.

Initially, her unexpected kindness had unsettled him. He wasn't accustomed to such encounters—moments where his identity as Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, didn't cast a shadow over every interaction. Yet, there in The Rook, Rosemary King had offered him a reprieve from the chains of his own reputation, if only for a fleeting moment.

Now, in the silence of the study, he found himself clinging to that memory, like a man drowning and reaching for a lifeline. It was bewildering, the way her mere presence had managed to cut through the fog of his grief, even if just slightly. 

"I had a drink," he finally admitted to Polly, offering her the smallest fraction of truth he could manage.

She studied him, her gaze penetrating, as if trying to unravel the myriad of emotions he kept tightly coiled within. After a prolonged pause, she sighed, her expression softening. "You need to sort yourself out, Thomas. Before this swallows you whole."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken concern and familial love. Tommy remained silent, unable to formulate a response that would adequately capture the turmoil within him. Polly, sensing his reluctance, turned slowly and made her way toward the door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Tommy leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sharp breath. The room was once again enveloped in a profound quiet, interrupted only by the occasional pop and hiss from the dying embers in the fireplace.

He should have felt something—anger, frustration, a sense of urgency to heed Polly's advice. But instead, his mind drifted back to the memory of Rosemary's smile, the way her eyes had met his without flinching, without judgment.

In the midst of his grief and guilt, he found himself wanting to return to that moment, to see her again, to experience that unexpected solace she had unknowingly offered. He didn't understand why he felt this pull, this inexplicable desire to be near her, but it was there, undeniable and persistent.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that seeking her out wouldn't solve the deeper problems gnawing at him. Yet, in the chaos of his life, the thought of her was a thread of hope, a possibility of something different, something that wasn't clouded by the spectres of his past.

The pub was just as he remembered it—dimly lit, warm, and tucked away from the world. It was early evening when Tommy stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor. The familiar ambience wrapped around him like a comforting cloak, a temporary refuge from the storm of his thoughts.

Rosemary was behind the bar, her chesnut hair pinned back, sleeves rolled up as she wiped down the counter. Her movements were fluid and practised, exuding a quiet confidence that seemed to permeate the room.

The moment she saw him, she smiled—a genuine, welcoming smile that seemed to light up the dim space. "Mr. Passing Through," she greeted, as if she had been expecting him. "Back so soon?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving to the bar, allowing the warmth of her presence to draw him in. "Whiskey," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

She chuckled softly, pouring him a drink with a practised hand. "You know, most men don’t drink alone two nights in the same week unless they’ve got something on their mind."

He didn’t respond, just took a sip of the amber liquid, feeling its familiar burn slide down his throat. It was a ritual, a momentary escape, but the weight of his worries lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

Rosemary leaned on the counter, her gaze steady and unintrusive. "Rough day?" she inquired, her tone gentle, devoid of any judgment or expectation.

Tommy exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Something like that," he admitted, the words carrying a hint of weariness, a testament to the battles he fought within.

She didn’t pry, didn’t push. Just nodded, her understanding as palpable as the wooden bar between them. "Well, if you need something other than whiskey, I make a mean cup of tea."

The corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Do I look like a man who drinks tea?" he retorted, a faint hint of amusement colouring his voice.

"You look like a man who needs showing a little kindness," she replied, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity, giving him that small, knowing smile that seemed to pierce through the armor he wore.

And maybe she was right.

Because Tommy Shelby, for the first time in a long time, didn’t want to leave. The thought of staying, of lingering in this modest sanctuary with Rosemary’s quiet presence, held a peculiar allure. It was a notion that defied logic, yet resonated with something deep within him—a yearning for connection, for a moment of reprieve from the relentless march of his responsibilities and regrets.

As the evening went on, Tommy found himself settling into the rhythm of the pub, a world that existed separate from his own turmoil. The warmth of the room, coupled with Rosemary’s quiet presence, was a balm to his restless spirit. There, amidst the muted conversations and the clinking of old glasses, he discovered a rare moment of solace. It was as if, within the walls, time itself had paused, granting him a reprieve from the relentless demands of his life. For the first time in what felt like eternity, Tommy Shelby allowed himself to be present, to simply be. And in that fleeting tranquillity, he sensed the faintest flicker of hope—a promise that perhaps, amidst the darkness, there could be more nights like this.

[rebouks]

She knew-.. Robin was sure of it.

Despite her warmth, he’d always been slightly unnerved by aunt Alma’s presence; there was something odd about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Some people were harder to read than others, like Alex, but it was still possible.

Alma’s mind was like an impenetrable vault in comparison. Any attempts to feel or hear anything she did were met with a metaphorical brick wall, leaving him reeling as though he’d collided with it head first-.. but not tonight. Tonight, Alma was like an open book, and Robin was convinced she was doing it on purpose.

She’d told him all about her struggles as a child; how she didn’t fit in, how people teased her for being too sensitive, how hard it was to figure out who she was amongst the clamour of everyone else’s inner most image of themselves-.. all the while allowing him unlimited access to those very memories, like a handpicked blooper reel, just for him. Of course, that wasn’t the case though.. was it?

Alma had stopped talking now, but Robin still wasn’t sure how to react. He sat in silence instead, staring at nothing in particular for far longer than what could be considered normal.

“Can you hear me?” he thought, deciding to try a little experiment.

Nothing. Okay, so she couldn’t read his mind-.. then what the heck was she getting at? How had she so succinctly summed up his entire existence in less than fifteen minutes?

“I would’ve liked somewhere as quiet as this when I was young, it’s a shame we didn’t have an attic…” Alma offered, clearly trying to relate to Robin’s situation in any way she could. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, but she clearly wanted to help, and Robin didn’t know anyone else who understood him as well as she did, so perhaps he ought to let her try. He finally abandoned his switch and cautiously joined her atop his favourite, motheaten couch.

“What’re you getting at?” he said bluntly, curiosity getting the better of his manners. Alma chuckled softly, “You’re just like your father.” “It’s genetics, apparently…” Robin let loose a brief grin, glad to be compared to Oscar.

“I don’t know how exactly, but you’re different, Robin-.. and I thought it high time you knew you weren’t alone, and that we can’t let these things get the best of us.” Alma smiled softly as she spoke, but Robin was still too wary to be completely transparent. “We?” he asked, dubiously. “We’re few and far between, but you’re certainly not the only one who’s a little.. special, shall we say? That’s better than different, maybe?” Alma suggested.

Robin hummed thoughtfully, shaking his head, “Special is just another word for different, or weird.” Alma scoffed playfully, “And what’s wrong with being weird? I’m weird-.. we’re all a bit weird!”

“How’re you weird?” Robin asked, squinting at Alma accusingly. “Well, I can sense things I certainly shouldn’t be able to.” Alma started, excited to be getting somewhere. “Emotions radiate from people like a space heater-.. they’re not always pleasant, of course, but I can soak them up if I want to.”

Robin blinked, “Only if you want to..?” “Uh-huh.” Alma nodded. “You can block it out?!” Robin spluttered, suddenly and completely forgetting to maintain his ignorance before swiftly correcting himself. “I mean-.. it sounds like you can pick and choose, right?”

Alma nodded once more, “It wasn’t easy, but I spent a lot of years practicing.” “Years?” Robin sounded crestfallen. “I didn’t have a mentor…” Alma winked.

Robin allowed himself to smirk, figuring he might as well drop at least part of the act at this point. He was still a little nervous about being approached about such things so brazenly, but at least he knew why Alma perturbed him so much now, she was blocking him out on purpose-.. and she couldn’t read his mind either, which was always a plus.

The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know that he possessed that particular ability. Who’d want to hang out with someone who could access their inner most thoughts, the one’s they’d never dream of saying out loud? He shuddered involuntarily, hoping he’d never meet anyone that could read his.

Clementine finally nudged Robin, dragging him back to the present with her ghostly touch. “She looked right at me just then-.. she smiled! Did you see?” Robin spun around, realising that Alma had almost begun her descent. He must’ve missed her goodbye. “Wait!”

Alma paused expectantly, causing Robin to second guess himself and retreat into silence. “I won’t be far, sweetheart-.. whenever you’re ready.” Robin shivered as Clementine poked him again, “She can definitely see me…” “Can you, uh-…”

“See the ghost poking you?” Alma giggled, sounding far younger than she was. The vault doors had snapped shut again by now, but Robin got the impression that aunt Alma was just as excited as he was to find someone else who was weird. “Can you hear her?”

“Maybe-.. though I’m quite sure she hasn’t said anything yet.” Alma peered at Clementine expectantly. “Hey!” Clementine exclaimed as Robin tried to shove her into action, his hand ending up halfway through her waist instead.

“What? It’s not like you can feel it.” Robin snorted. Alma laughed heartily, thoroughly amused. “Well, I heard that-.. you two are good friends, huh?”

Robin nodded slightly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I thought I was the only one who could see her-.. that maybe I was going insane…” “Far from it, honey! You hit me up whenever you feel like it, okay?”

Previous // Next

[abarbaricyalp]

Hi! Mini fic ask: SamBucky #12?

Hi!!! From this prompt list

I feel like we could all use a lot of sappy nonsense right now.

12: Things you say when you think I'm asleep

When Sam was a boy, he used to lay in his parents' bed in the morning, milking out ten extra minutes of sleep until the bathroom was open for him to get ready, and he'd listen to them get their day started. They'd share hushed conversations, pretending not to know he had snuck under the blankets, or just get ready in comfortable silence. He still found the glow of low-light through a half open door more comforting than anything else. The smell of his daddy's aftershave and his mama's perfume was a better wake up call than good coffee. He still had a bottle of each in his medicine cabinet.

It was something he missed, even into adulthood. He'd lived alone most of his grown life (the time spent not on a base) and even when he had family around, he was usually the first one up in the morning. There was no one to listen to patter around in the bathroom, run the shower for too long to use the steam as a pseudo-heater, spritz hair product and deodorant.

Bucky, though, tended to come in late. He always showered, if he'd been outside, and he still had pre-bed rituals he had to work through no matter what time it was. He used aftershave very particularly. He dressed in the bedroom instead of the bathroom. He laid out whatever watch or necklace he'd been wearing earlier on the dresser.

Sam watched him through his lashes, trying not to open his eyes. He listened to Bucky curse under his breath when the water was always too hot, and counted the number of seconds between him opening his shaving cream can and then closing it.

The bathroom's light was just as warm now as it had been and Bucky kept the door half shut, just like Sam's parents had. Aside from his shampoo and aftershave, there was no strong smell to follow him out, but Sam didn't mind. Bucky getting in the bed, shower warm and a little damp, was a good replacement.

Bucky ought to be able to tell when Sam was awake, but he never really seemed to. Maybe Sam had just become too good at keeping his breathing and heartrate even. Maybe Bucky was telling the truth when he said he tried not to listen in on Sam like that. (Sam kind of didn't believe it)

So Bucky got into the bed and turned off the lights and curled himself against Sam's back, took his hand and held it against Sam's chest, and began to talk. Every night.

Some nights it was nothing. What he was going to write in his debrief. What he'd seen while he was sitting on the porch. The sale at the grocery store.

And sometimes it was everything.

"I love you," he said against Sam's shoulder, pressing a kiss to a cluster of freckles there. Sam had to fight down the goosebumps he got every time Bucky said it. That would definitely give him away. "I missed you. I dunno how we used to go six, seven, eight months without seeing each other. My fault, I guess. But you weren't a very good seeker either, y'know."

Well, now he was just saying things on purpose to get a rise out of Sam.

He traced his fingers blindly across the center of Sam's chest, following the line of his pectorals and the familiar spread of Sam's birthmarks to guide himself.

"Read something the other day that said birthmarks were where you'd been most kissed in a past life," he said suddenly. "And I'm gonna keep these birthmarks right where they are in your next life. And the one after that and the ones after that too. Gonna find you and keep kissing you right over your heart and across your shoulders and under your eye. I know every version of me is gonna love them.

"And I hope the next time I'm kissing all these same spots, fate is a little kinder to us. I hope there's not so much blood and fear. Maybe a dog. Gotta keep the cats, too. I hope in that world, we go to bed at the same time. And when we don't, it's because you're up too late tinkering on something or I wanted to watch a baseball game and you didn't. And I know you'll still wake up too early to go running, but maybe there are more mornings where I get to wake you up with kisses and you complain about my morning breath.

"I hope I find you sooner too. I kind of hate that I had a whole lifetime--two whole lifetimes--without you. I don't want to waste time next time. I wanna love you for as long as I can, as soon as possible. I wanna skin our hands and knees on the playground together. I wanna take you to crappy high school dances. I wanna make out and break up and make up in your first car. The truck has to come with us, in this life. I wanna move into an apartment together and fight about bills when the broken AC floods the whole place. I wanna propose to you and actually be able to marry you. Grow old together and put those rocking chairs you still haven't fixed out on the porch so we can watch the thunderstorms even when our knees don't work anymore.

"But mostly, I wanna make sure this little constellation of freckles, and all the other ones, make it into your next life too."

He kissed the back of Sam's shoulder again and Sam couldn't stop himself from shivering. Surely Bucky could feel the racing of his heart anyway. He must've known Sam was awake by then.

He didn't mention it, though. He kept pressing kisses along Sam's shoulders and up his neck, taking his time and roaming. His fingers curled around Sam's again, and Sam could feel his heartbeat in them. His pulse was racing too.

"Anyway," he said after a few quiet moments of shared touch, "Kate accidentally hit Yelena in the face today and I think the whole entire world stopped breathing while we all waited to see what she'd do."

He launched into a story about whatever they'd been doing. Some mock training that had gone off the rails. Sam’s heart still raced, but the sound of Bucky's voice and the warmth of his body slowly pulled him down until he actually fell asleep.

In the morning, when he woke to their position reversed and the back of Bucky's neck bare in front of him (all of Bucky's hair was sprawled across Sam's pillow instead) he mapped out the faint edges of a wine stain birthmark that peeked out from his hairline. He touched his fingers to it, making Bucky mumble and shift in his sleep. Then he leaned forward and kissed it gently.

This, too, would follow them into their next life.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 59: Jenny's Rescue

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: character death, mind control, hypnotism, stabbing, adult woman called girl

October 1925

Jenny woke up.

It'd been happening less often these days. She spent most of her life in a half-remembered, hypnotized haze, but every so often her mind would shake itself just barely free. She wasn't sure what triggered it -- a memory, perhaps, triggered by a sound or a smell. It never lasted long before her master effortlessly put her under again.

That's where she was now, with Master Edgar, kneeling at attention beside his favorite armchair. The fact that he was keeping her close at hand probably meant that he intended to feed, but for now he was relaxing with a magazine and his favorite pipe. She stayed still, trying to maintain her posture, so that he wouldn't immediately realize that she was awake. The fireplace was warm with a cheerful crackle, the cushion below her knees was mercifully comfortable, and she was generally content with just remaining like this for some time.

Back when she was first put under her master's spell, whenever she woke up like this, she would try her best to find a way to escape. She'd never gotten far, and she'd earned harsh punishments each time. She touched the place on her hand where her smallest finger used to be, remembering why she had stopped trying. It was far better to enjoy a moment of relative peace and relaxation than incur her master's wrath for no gain.

She'd just about accepted that she was never getting out. She had wished to never see the lace factory again, and like a girl in a fairy tale, she'd had her wish granted in the most awful way. Even so, on quiet nights like this, it seemed bearable.

"Hm. Are you awake, girl?"

"Yes, master. Sorry, master," she sad demurely.

He sighed. "I suppose I ought to put you back to sleep, then, so I can feed later."

"Master --" She hated to ask, fearful of getting in trouble even though it was such a small request. "May I stay awake just a little longer? I'm enjoying the fire and your company, sir."

"…I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as you're silent and don't make any trouble," he said, to her surprise. "I'd like to finish up the article I was reading, anyway. You may stay up for a bit longer."

"Oh, thank you, sir," she said, straightening her posture to show her dedication to being obedient, even when not fully entranced.

Or was she? It was hard to tell the difference sometimes. Maybe her serene attitude was only because she was still very much entranced, despite feeling awake.

She sat in silence, basking in the warmth of the fire, and letting her mind wander. Her thoughts quickly latched on to the many things she missed: sunshine on her face, the scent of flowers blooming, cool summer rains, the bustle of shops, sweets at the county fair. How she regretted not appreciating those more when she had the chance! She hadn't left the manor since she arrived. If only her master would let her outside, even once…

She would appreciate the fire and the quiet of the study now, though. She feared there was a time when she would go to sleep and never again be awake enough to think such thoughts.

Master Edgar tossed his magazine onto the side table with a huff. "Rubbish," he said, and Jenny knew he was talking to himself, not to her. "I can't believe what passes for publishable these days."

Jenny didn't move a muscle as she heard the familiar sound of her master's pocket watch's chain, the soft tick-tock already beginning to make her drowsy. Master Edgar placed one hand on her head as the other dangled the watch in front of her face. It began to swing in slow rhythm, the weight of the watch bearing down on her mind, her eyelids already starting to droop. Her short reprieve was over.

"Focus, girl," he said, unnecessarily, because she already had all of her attention fixed on the watch. "Each swing will make you sleepier and more obedient. You know what it is you need to do."

"Sleep and obey," she murmured.

"That's it, girl, sleep and obey. Sleep and obey…"

She was so well trained that it took very little for her master to put her under. She knew from her hazy memories that once she was fast asleep, she would be made to open her eyes and conduct her master's household business with very little input from her mind, a dream of servitude.

That is, except on nights like this, when he chose her to feed from, when fangs in her neck would only drive her deeper into unconsciousness. She thought perhaps that she was his favorite, the one he chose more often than the rest, and this gave her some odd comfort. Falling into her master's arms during his feedings was the only tenderness she had in this place, and she would be permitted to spend the rest of the night in bed afterwards, so she welcomed it.

"What is that sound?" The watch was abruptly removed from her sight, and she blinked slowly, trying to adjust. Master Edgar looked deeply concerned in a way that was unusual. Had another vampire come to challenge him? Master had a number of enemies, for reasons she was not allowed to understand. "Wait here in the study, girl. Don't move from this spot."

But her master didn't have time to leave the study before the sounds grew louder, loud enough that Jenny could hear it with her ordinary human senses. The door to the study burst inward, revealing a most unusual sight.

The woman was small but looked athletic, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. She was wearing a practical man's suit with a sort of leather vest. Her thick belt had holsters for knives, wooden stakes, and other items Jenny couldn't identify, and she had a large leather satchel and an enormous silver cross on a chain around her neck. Most unusual was the crossbow and quiver strapped to her back.

A vampire? A human here to rescue her? She felt a pang of excitement followed by immediate guilt. She shouldn't wish for her master's death when he'd given her food and shelter and work for so long now -- and for all she knew, this wouldn't be a rescue at all, but an even crueler master.

Master Edgar thrust his pocket watch towards her like a weapon. "Focus," he said with enough force that Jenny was easily caught up in it too, staring at the swaying watch regardless of how much she wanted to observe the new visitor.

She glared. "Fiend, do you think you can --"

"Focus," he said, gesturing towards the watch. "You will focus. Focus now, little hunter. Focus, girl."

So she was a hunter! Jenny's heart clenched. She could just see the hunter behind the swinging watch that threatened to capture her full attention. To her disappointment, the hunter was already focusing, her eyes moving back and forth perfectly in time with the hypnotic watch.

"That's it, girl, that's it. Keep focusing. More and more hypnotized with every swing and sway. Feel my hypnotic power beginning to set in, no matter how hard you fight it."

"Nnnngh," the hunter groaned, trying to tear herself away.

"No, no, none of that, little hunter. You're too hypnotized to resist. You're going to start sleepwalking forward… closer… closer and deeper into my spell, little hunter. Deeper and deeper into hypnosis…"

She took one slow step forward, then another, clearly trying and failing to resist Master Edgar's commands. Jenny couldn't help but wish for her success, but she knew that none could defy her master for long, not when they were caught up in his mesmerism. It was already too late for this poor hunter, a dead woman walking. Jenny did hope that he wouldn't kill her right here and now.

"Your limbs are growing heavy, little hunter. Your eyelids are growing so heavy. You're tired, so tired. You want to rest," said Master Edgar with a wicked grin, as the hunter drew closer. "Don't be afraid. My pretty watch will help you sleep."

Jenny was fighting sleep herself, wanting to stay awake and see what would happen. The hunter was so close now, close enough that her master could reach out and pet the top of her head. She was so small -- how could a woman like this hope to stand up to a vampire like her master?

"Awww, poor little sleepy vampire hunter. You're being hypnotized by the scary vampire, aren't you?" he laughed, as her eyes began to fall shut for longer and longer. "You're just too hypnotized to resist. You will sleep, little hunter, and you will obey. Sleep… sleep…"

The hunter made a soft sound of protest, swaying gently in time with the watch, falling asleep on her feet.

"Go to sleep, girl… sleep… sleep…"

A fountain of blood was gushing down her master's chest.

Jenny was so dazed, and it had all happened so quickly, that it took her a few moments to comprehend. As her master crumpled to the floor, the hunter was standing before him with a bloody stake, her eyes perfectly awake and aware. Master Edgar began to crumble into dust, and Jenny was screaming.

"It's all right." The hunter put her stake down and pulled Jenny into her chest, and Jenny clung to her, not knowing what else to do. "Shhh, I won't hurt you. He won't hurt you any more. You're safe."

"You -- you killed --"

"Listen to me now. Are there any other vampires in the manor?"

"No, only Master Edgar."

"How many thralls does he keep?"

"Six, including myself, miss."

"Hm. That's far too many for me to support. I'll have to contact the guild," she said. "Are any of these thralls in immediate danger?"

Jenny could barely answer through her choked sobs -- what exactly she was crying about, she wasn't entirely certain. "No, miss, they're all -- they're asleep, under his spell, and doing the chores --"

"That's fine, then. I'll leave them be for now, and you can come along with me. Can you stand?"

"I -- I -- I --"

"Here, let me help you up. There you go. Can you sit here for a moment? I need to do something important before we leave and I send the guild in to clean up."

Jenny nodded as she was placed onto the same armchair where Master Edgar had been lounging a few moments before. She couldn't seem to quite comprehend that he was dead. Perhaps she had fallen asleep after all and this was all a dream.

The hunter picked the pocket watch off the floor and stuffed it in her satchel, along with several gold rings her master had been wearing. "I need light valuables to carry with me. Do you know where he would keep them?"

"His bedroom, miss," she said. Uncertain as she was about helping the hunter, it was easy for her to fall into a state of obedience.

"And where's his bedroom?"

Jenny directed her, and the hunter was off to ransack her master's belongings, as Jenny huddled in on herself for comfort. Her master was gone. What would happen to her now? Would she have to go back to her job in the lace factory, after all that had happened? Would they even accept her now? She felt so frail and weak compared to the woman she used to be, a life barely remembered. All she was good for was doing chores and providing blood.

…Would she get to see sunshine?

Was her master truly dead? How did this hunter defy him? Jenny had never seen anyone escape from his hypnotism.

"I'm back," the hunter announced. "That was very fruitful." She held her hand out to Jenny. "Come with me. My car is outside."

Jenny took her hand in a daze, stumbling past the dusting corpse that was once her master and out of the study. She couldn't seem to quiet the part of her insisting that this was all a trick, that she was to be punished, that she was going to be discarded and left destitute…

The cool night air hit her face, and for the first time in years, Jenny looked up at the moon. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Here, you can ride in the passenger's seat." The hunter was gently directing her into a waiting car as Jenny stared at everything around her like a woman possessed. The moon and stars, the streets and the gaslamps, the shops and houses -- it had been so, so long since she'd seen the outside. "It's going to be okay," said the hunter. "You're going to be safe now."

Jenny sat inside the car, trembling. After years of being asleep and obedient, her mind was now swirling with so many thoughts and worries that she felt she might burst. The hunter got into the driver's seat.

"It's going to be okay, I promise," she reassured again. "I know it's a lot to deal with right now, but you're going to be fine."

"Yes, miss," she said numbly.

"Oh, you don't need to call me miss -- I didn't introduce myself at all, did I? My name is Vivian, and I'm a vampire hunter and a witch."

"A witch?" Jenny really had fallen into a fairy tale.

"That's right," Vivian said with pride. "It's probably nothing like you're thinking, though. I can explain more later."

"How did you defy him?" said Jenny, unable to hold back the top question in her mind. "His hypnotism -- I couldn't resist him at all, not ever, and you just…"

"I can make myself immune to vampiric enthrallment for a short time. The method is a secret, though, I hope you understand," she said. "It's how I'm able to kill vampires that no other hunter can touch."

"Like my master…"

"Like your master." She started the car. "I hope you won't hold it against me for too long. You're free now."

"Free…"

She didn't feel free, not yet. But she had gotten to see the moon.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

I've been looking forward to introducing these characters.

Next week, Oliver finally gets to meet Alexander's mysterious friend.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

A Taste of the Divine (ao3)

@nestaarcheronweek day 4. Returning from a mission, the Night Court’s spymaster arrives back in Velaris in need of a stiff drink above all else, but after seeking out Velaris’ seediest tavern, Azriel gets more than what he bargained for when he finds Nesta inside. Post-ACOWAR, pre-ACOSF.  Title taken from The Summoning by Sleep Token.

Even after a week away, the cobbles beneath his feet did not yet beckon Azriel home when he returned to Velaris. 

With the dust of the Continent still clinging to his boots, the Shadowsinger looked up at the horizon, finding the distant lights of the House of Wind against the darkening sky— slices of golden light piercing the rock of the mountain, and though Azriel ought to have glimpsed the light shining from those windows and rushed forward, he remained exactly where he was; standing a thousand feet below, finding no desire at all to go home just yet. At Rhys’ behest, he’d spent the past week observing the human queens on the Continent, his mind fixed towards schemes and plots with nothing but his shadows for company. And now…

It took a while, after a mission, to remember what it was to live outside of the dark.

So he didn’t want home. Didn’t want the welcome he knew would be waiting as soon as he stepped over that threshold. He was too accustomed to the dark, to the hidden corners and the silence, and what he wanted more than anything right now was a fucking drink. 

He needed to feel the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, blurring the edges of his mind. But he didn’t want the shiny, polished bars he frequented with Rhys. He didn’t want Rita’s. Azriel wanted grit and dust, wanted the back alleys and the dim bars lit by candlelight.

A place where his shadows could melt into the darkness, one and the same. 

And so he found himself ten minutes later standing at a worn and chipped wooden bar top, a coin laid on the counter to pay for the liquor the barkeep poured into a short glass. There were no faelights here to bathe the place in a pleasant glow. Only candles, flickering flames few and far between that illuminated the gaming tables and left the corners swathed in shadow. It was run down and sub-par, and yet, Azriel thought dryly as he nodded his thanks to the bar tender, wasn’t that exactly how he felt? Wasn’t this exactly what he needed?

The whiskey burned his throat as he drank— cheap and sharp, scraping its way down through his chest, setting a fire behind his ribs. He grimaced as he took a large sip, baring his teeth with a soft hiss as he set down his glass. 

Before the burn had subsided, his shadows tittered. Whispered.

Even above the din of the bar, Azriel heard the footsteps approaching. Heard the heels slamming against the wooden floorboards as his shadows skated along his arms, coiling around his wrists. He didn’t turn; didn’t bother to see who had dared draw near.

“Did my sister send you?”

The voice was cold and flat and resolutely furious— and above all else, familiar. Azriel turned his head to find Nesta standing beside him at the bar, with her arms folded over her chest and her eyes alight with anger. Silver swirled in those eyes, churned like a riptide, and her jaw was clenched so tight it made him wonder if she was physically biting her tongue to keep it behind her teeth. Her hair was swept up in her usual braid, leaving the long column of her neck exposed, and as the candlelight danced across her bare skin, it dragged golden fingers across her collarbone, illuminated the planes of her that would have most men begging for the chance to touch her.

Azriel wasn’t most men— but still, it was an effort to pull his eyes away. 

He let his gaze skim her face, raising one eyebrow as he barked a dry, sardonic laugh. Downing his whiskey, he ordered another with a flick of his wrist, a twist of his fingers.

“No,” he answered, sliding another coin across the bar in exchange for another double measure. “Nobody sent me.”

“Then what are you doing here,” she gritted out; not a question but a demand.

Azriel merely lifted his glass, watching the candlelight set fire to the whiskey. “Same as you.”

The silver in her eyes burned as she lifted her chin, met his eye with every ounce of irascible hauteur she could muster. “And are you planning on being my nursemaid all night?”

A sigh slipped between his lips, quiet and resigned. The spymaster shook his head, too tired to argue, and blinked flatly as he answered her with a simple, “No.”

The furrow in her brow smoothed, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinked once, twice. She didn’t argue either, and as she leaned forward, elbows braced against the bar’s surface, Azriel caught the scent of her— something sweet beneath the sharp, something cool beneath the heat of the bar. He swallowed, tilting the glass in his hand, and forced himself to watch the whiskey clinging to the clouded glass instead of studying the way the heat gently curled the strands of hair that had escaped the braid at the nape of her neck. She said nothing, but silently Nesta lifted herself onto the seat beside him, a damn near perplexed expression on her face as she watched him drown his sorrows. Slowly, Azriel lifted his gaze to hers. Ignored the way his shadows shivered. Almost lazily, Azriel quirked a brow and slid the glass towards her, nodding wordlessly; a silent go on, then.

Nesta curled her fingers around the glass in silent understanding, didn’t hesitate in bringing it to her lips and knocking the whiskey back. She drained half before returning him the glass, and when it passed from her grip and into his their fingers brushed. He stilled, the air frozen in his lungs. It was the barest of touches, so slight, and yet one that felt far too much like a spark against touch-paper, almost begging to burst into flame. 

Azriel didn’t think about the way that simple touch had his skin feeling suddenly tight.

Didn’t think about the way her lipstick lingered around the edge of his glass. 

Nesta looked at him in the dim light, lifting her face until the candlelight glanced across her jaw and— 

Gods, she was beautiful. 

Azriel didn’t know why he’d never let himself truly notice before, why he’d never let himself fall down the well that was those mercury-blue eyes. Why he’d never given more than a passing thought to her beauty, to the lines of her face that could reduce a man to nothing with the right tilt of her head. 

Cassian, a voice inside his head whispered, one he tried too hard to ignore. Cassian is why you never let yourself notice before. 

But Cassian wasn’t here, and from what the Spymaster had gathered from his brother’s ranting, he hadn’t been at Nesta’s side for a while now. Had left her seeking companionship in the dark and shadowed corners of Velaris, where the starlight didn’t reach. Anyone with eyes could see that Nesta was hurting and yet— it had been Azriel to find her, entirely by accident, alone in a dive bar.

He didn’t believe in fate. It had fucked him over too many times, and yet— 

There was something serendipitous in it, something providential about this chance meeting that made him feel… bold.

“What are you doing here, Nesta?” he asked a moment later. 

The question was soft— tentative and half-hidden in the shadows that glided as one along the worn edge of the bar, slinking towards her like they might seek to hide the pitfalls of such an inquiry. Nesta shook her head, strands of hair slipping free from her meticulous braid, and maybe the alcohol made her bold too, because she met his eyes with purpose and didn’t look away as she said, 

“I want to feel something.”

She shifted her shoulders back, the silver in her eyes catching in the light of the bar. Azriel’s shadows seemed to shiver, and he couldn’t hide the low laugh that scraped along his throat as his eyes dipped to the hollow of her neck.

“Don’t we all,” he said dryly.

His fingers dragged around the edge of his glass, and Nesta’s eyes tracked the movement, following each circle he made with his fingertips. She pressed her lips together, her sharp eyes dark, and fucking hell— this was new. A kind of uncharted territory he knew he shouldn’t want to map, shouldn’t want to explore with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. And yet he heard her heart pounding behind her ribs, its steady beat kicking when he caught her eye and pulled his gaze down to her mouth, lingering at her lips, and he couldn’t help himself.

Didn’t want to help himself.

I want to feel something.

It echoed in his mind, settling into him like a stone dropped down a well.

Nesta leaned against the old wooden bar; a thing of beauty in place so tragically dim. She tilted her head, and the movement stirred something in him that he knew he ought to ignore. 

“You never answered my question,” she said bluntly. “If you’re not here to spy on me, then what are you doing here?”

Azriel sighed, sipping his whiskey and leaving a finger-worth behind. He nudged the remainder towards her, let her finish it. 

“Had a shit day,” he shrugged. “Didn’t want to go home just yet.”

Wordless, Nesta lifted the glass to her mouth in an echo of the way she had before— like they were two old friends, sharing a drink together. Yet she finished his whiskey and something beneath his skin tightened as he watched her lips part, glimpsed the liquor glistening on her mouth. He wanted to taste it— wanted to taste it on her tongue, and he swore softly, cursing everything that had brought him to this threshold, so close to tipping over. There was a line he shouldn’t cross, a boundary that he knew shouldn’t be broken. 

And yet.

Nesta set the glass back down on the bar. “Care to talk about it, Shadowsinger?”

“Would you care to listen, Lady Death?”

Her eyes shuttered, her face tightening in a way that had Azriel clawing at the past few moments, like a thread unspooling in his hands. “Don’t call me that.”

With a dip of his chin, Azriel nodded. “My apologies.”

Nesta shrugged it off, the stiff set to her shoulders melting as she leaned a half-inch closer, blinking slowly as her heart thumped once in her chest. “Buy me a drink and perhaps I’ll forgive you.”

He pretended not to notice how her voice had dropped, how there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. Pretended, too, not to see her eyes darken, shining with intent. He wasn’t fool enough to pretend that his hadn’t done the same, that he wasn’t still thinking of her mouth. His shadows slipped down his arms, begging to go to her, desperate to touch, and it took effort to keep them restrained, to keep them in check. Still, he motioned for another drink. Another two. 

And when the barkeep presented him with two short glasses, Azriel slid the first towards her, but kept his hand closed over the rim, the candlelight throwing his scars into relief as he kept his palm flat above her glass. 

“Shall we sit properly, then?” he asked, nodding to the booths that lined the back wall. “And stop pretending we’re strangers in a bar?”

Nesta only blinked, amusement threading through those silver eyes like vines through an iron gate. Idly, she hummed. “I’ve never seen you like this, Spymaster, free of your High Lord’s influence. You may as well be a stranger to me right now.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, but lifted his hand from her glass nonetheless. A smirk lingered on her lips even as a kind of surprise swept swiftly across her face— some kind of pleasant shock that he didn’t berate her for daring to mention Rhys at all. Cassian, he knew, was far too sensitive when Nesta criticised Rhys; his brother had frowned and scowled about it too many times for Azriel to be unaware. But it didn’t rankle him the way it did Cassian. After all, what difference did it make to him, if Rhys and Nesta never found a way to get along?

Silently, he gestured to the back of the bar again, ignoring her comment and nodding once more to the tables shrouded in shadow, so far from the soft glow of the candles. 

In answer Nesta slipped from the bar stool and led the way, leaving Azriel to follow, a shadow at her heels. He kept his eyes up, refusing to notice the movement of her hips, or the way her dress dipped low at her back, exposing her spine. His shadows thrummed, jerking as if they would reach out to caress the length of that spine, and he cleared his throat around the desire to pepper it with kisses, to trace a line of fire down her back with his tongue. He swallowed around the surge of pure want rising in his blood, making his every nerve feel charged. Unaware, Nesta slid into the booth, her dress whispering across the worn leather that covered the seats, and when she reclined, crossing one leg over the other, Azriel was reminded starkly of a queen in her own realm. 

She was, he supposed.

The dive bars of Velaris had never really been all that popular with Rhys or the rest of the Inner Circle. They were wholly in Nesta’s domain, now.

For a moment there was quiet.

And then Nesta dragged a finger idle along the rim of her glass, an echo of Azriel’s earlier move, making it sing beneath her touch. He wondered what else might sing beneath her hands, what else she could do. 

 “So,” she began airily, “what is it that has the brooding spymaster brooding so much more than usual?”

Azriel laughed into his whiskey. “Brooding?”

“Brooding.” She raised a brow, stained lips pursed as she nodded. “Stop avoiding the question.”

He raised a hand in surrender. “I had a mission on the continent. Surveillance on—“ He hesitated a moment. Not because he didn’t want to share or because she couldn’t know, but because he didn’t want to shatter this moment, to bring the darkness back to her eyes. “—the human queens,” he finished quietly.

Nesta said nothing, but knocked her drink back.

In the back of his mind, Azriel knew what Rhys would say. That he was being irresponsible, feeding Nesta’s vices.

But when he looked at her, he didn’t see a woman lost to the alcohol. He saw a soul struggling to cope, leaning on the only thing that could bring her a little bit of warmth. He’d spent enough time after the first war drinking his own way through Velaris to know, and besides… When Nesta glanced at him and dragged her eyes over his chest, he thought that this was one vice he was more than willing to feed tonight.

“I see,” she said at last. “No wonder you needed a drink.”

Azriel hummed in agreement. Emboldened, he leaned his head closer to hers, dropping his voice to a murmur as he cast his eyes across the bar.

“Tell me. Which one were you taking home with you tonight?”

Nesta stilled, a frown creeping into her brow as silver eyes narrowed. 

Azriel shrugged, shaking his head with an idle smile tilting his lips. “Not that I’m judging. I’m just curious.”

She pulled back, curiosity a wildfire in her eyes.

“The one by the gaming table,” she said flatly, without turning to look at the mark she’d had an eye on. “He has pretty eyes.”

Azriel cut a look across the bar to find the fae in question. The male was tall, dark haired, but willowy and thin, and there was a look in his eyes that Azriel didn’t like as Nesta’s intended watched the two of them together in that booth— it was something petulant and spoiled, like he was a child and Azriel had just stolen his new favourite toy. Even his shadows shuddered, whispering their disapproval in a language only he could understand. In answer the spymaster raised a brow and looked at Nesta wryly. 

“He looks like one who doesn’t like the word no,” Azriel said, directing a dark look in the direction of the fae by the gaming table. If he made his eyes darken, if he made his face more threatening than usual… well. 

“You don’t approve?” Nesta asked, her voice like syrup.

He barked a laugh. “Not really, no.”

“And here I thought you weren’t judging,” she said smoothly, her head shifting to the side as she blinked, saccharine. She shifted infinitesimally closer, just a half inch that had Azriel clinging so tightly to his restraint that it was a wonder it didn’t break entirely. “Perhaps you should tell me who I should take home instead.”

Me, he thought, shifting in his seat. The answer had risen to his tongue without missing a beat, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It had taken even Azriel by surprise, how easy it was to let even his boldest thoughts bloom around her. His shadows slid along the edge of the table, trailing towards her like they were pulled by some kind of gravity, and when Nesta glanced down at them, a smile curved her lips. When she looked back up and met his eyes, there was something searing in her gaze that had Azriel’s mouth turning dry. He cleared his throat, shrugged, and yet couldn’t bring himself to say it— to give her the answer that ricocheted inside his mind. 

But mother above, Cassian was a fucking fool.

Nesta was sitting there, alone, seeking connection with any that would let her find it, and all Azriel could think was—

Me. 

Me, me, me.

He couldn’t do it.

“You won’t like the answer,” he said at last. 

The amusement winked out of her eyes.

“Let me guess, you think I should be here with your General instead.”

His shadows slinked closer, like even they could see the sting behind her words. And in another world, maybe Cassian would have been there with her. Maybe he would have been the one in her bed. But Cassian was nowhere to be found, and didn’t seem to have any intention of cutting in and finding out what, exactly, had Nesta seeking solace in a place like this. So Azriel blinked slowly, eyes like flint when they caught hers, hazel colliding with silver-blue and igniting in the dim light. His shadows shivered. 

“No, actually,” he said flatly. “I wasn’t thinking of him at all.” 

Liar— liar. He’d hardly done anything but think of Cassian ever since Nesta had sidled up to him at the bar— hardly been spared a second where some part of him wasn’t thinking of how much of a fool his brother was. After all, if Nesta was Azriel’s—

He didn’t let himself think it.

Nesta’s breath caught audibly. He’d taken her by surprise, and it had a small smile taking root at the corner of his lips. She noted it, tracked the curve of his mouth. She tilted her head, the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid brushing her shoulder. He wondered what it would be like to plunge his hands into her hair, to pull those braids loose strand by strand. There was a flame in her eyes when she met his gaze again. 

“Then why won’t I like your answer, Shadowsinger?” 

Gods— was he imagining the husk in her voice? The way it had dropped so impossibly low, edged with some kind of promise, something so damned seductive it had him thinking of all the things she could do with that mouth— all the things he could do with his. 

Azriel downed what remained of his whiskey. 

“Tell me what you’re looking for Nesta, and maybe I’ll answer.” 

She rolled her eyes, and there was a moment where she looked him in the eyes, unflinching. She shook her head, and sat back, changing the subject. 

“Has anybody here caught your eye, shadowsinger?” 

Azriel scoffed, a low noise in his throat that seemed to make her eyes impossibly darker. It made his skin feel too tight, made his pulse thrum with anticipation so thick he could taste it on his tongue.

Around them, he noted, the atmosphere had shifted. The night had grown deeper, the hour later, and all those who had come to find someone to warm their bed had either left with their quarry already, or was closing in. Azriel glanced around the bar, saw the fae Nesta had thought of taking home sitting at a table with another fae woman draped over his lap, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. Beneath the din and the smell of liquor, hands began to wander and eyes began to roam, and in the corner where the candlelight couldn’t quite reach, Azriel felt the darkness masking them and leaned into it— leaned into every piece of the thrill that was building in his chest.

“What if they did?” he asked, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes. 

Nesta leaned forward, daring to drag her finger around the rim of his glass. His shadows practically vibrated, the scent of her intoxicating.

“Maybe I’m looking for someone who isn’t afraid of your big bad general,” she shrugged, lifting her finger to her lips, tasting the drop of whiskey she’d collected from the rim of his glass. Azriel felt a slashing smile bloom across his lips, one that was knife-sharp and deadly.

“And that’s your only criteria?”

Nesta huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised how many run a mile when they realise who, exactly, I am.”

Fools, he thought— all of them, fools who didn’t deserve the chance to kneel before her, to take up space in her bed. 

He tilted his head back, resting against the back of the booth and looking down at her. “And that’s it, is it? You want someone who can go toe to toe with Cass and make it out unscathed?”

Nesta hummed, her eyes dipping to his chest, his hands, his shadows. He didn’t think he imagined the way she looked… interested. Maybe it was the whiskey, or the intoxicating look in her eyes, but he smirked, letting arrogance take over. 

“Seems to me like there’s only really two people in this entire city that fit that bill, love.” The endearment came out smoothly, without thought. Nesta’s eyes heated. “One is Rhys.”

She smirked. “And the other?” 

Azriel laughed, the sound low in his throat. “Do you need me to say it?”

Nesta bit her lip to mask a smile. “I didn’t know you could be cocky, Spymaster.”

He barked another laugh. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Nesta.” 

She blinked, leaned closer. “How about I find out, then?”

She was so close now, her thigh almost brushing his. It would take nothing, no effort at all, for him to reach out and brush a hand along her leg, beneath the table where none could see. Her eyes were molten, and Azriel couldn’t resist the urge to touch her— to feel her skin beneath his palms. Slowly, he moved his hand, letting it drift until it landed on her knee. His shadows tittered, and when she made no move to escape his touch, slowly Azriel traced a path upwards.

“And what happens when we’re next at the river house together?” he made himself ask, even as his fingers travelled north. They skated over the fabric of her dress, finding the split in the fabric and slipping beneath, his hands finding bare skin as a groan gathered in his throat. “When we have to sit at the same dining table and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Nesta shifted, taking his hand even higher. “I don’t see how it’s any of their business.”

Her own hand darted out, began to trace circles over his knee. His blood pulsed, raced through his veins as his entire body seemed to tremble with need, and fuck— he wanted her. Her breathing grew shallow, the beating of her heart the drum he was marching to, and when his fingers skated over the very top of her thigh, Nesta tilted her head back. A woman almost begging to be kissed. 

Azriel cursed his lack of self-restraint; thanked the Mother for it, too.

She blinked up at him. “I answered your question. Now answer mine.” Her fingers gripped his knee tight above his leathers. “Who do you think I should go home with, Azriel?”

Fucking Mother above, this woman.

The sound of his name on her lips was heady, and he couldn’t help it as he leaned in, found his lips bushing her hair. Lower, dragging a slow kiss down to the shell of her ear. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” he murmured. Her hand flattened, her palm dragging up his thigh even as his own fingers lingered on hers. Silent, she nodded. His lips were still at her ear, and he longed to graze his teeth over the skin there. Her eyelashes fluttered. 

“Me,” he breathed. 

Nesta bit her lip again, even as a smirk travelled over her mouth. 

“I thought you’d never admit it,” she whispered. 

His hand moved from her thigh, up and up, palming over her arm until he reached her neck, rounded it, brought her closer. She twisted in his embrace, and in one easy movement Azriel took her leg and draped it over his own, until she was all but sitting in his lap. The bar was dark already, but he bid his shadows to embrace them a little more, to hide this little corner from prying eyes, and in the darkness Nesta leaned into his touch, dragging the heel of her foot down his calf as she pressed herself into him. 

His hands wandered to her waist, gripping her so tightly he wondered if she’d bruise. If he’d leave a mark behind. 

Nesta arched into him, her lips close to his neck as she breathed his name.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed, even though every nerve he possessed cursed the words. 

“No,” she shrugged. “We shouldn’t.” She looked at him boldly, her fingers trailing along his arms, across his shoulders. “But is that going to stop you, Shadowsinger?”

He laughed, acerbic. “It should.”

“Not an answer.”

He couldn’t fight the grin that spread his lips, predatory and vicious, and when an echoing smile spread across Nesta’s own face, the laugh that left his chest was dry and heated, heavy with want. He dipped his head, his lips lingering a breath from her neck, from the point where, beneath her skin, her pulse was racing.

“Do you want it to stop me, Nesta?”

She shivered, her eyes closing as he said her name.

She likes that, he thought, feeling his head begin to empty, his thoughts narrowed on her and only her— on the pleasure he wanted to give to her, what he knew she wanted to take. She likes it when you say her name.

He breathed her in, daring to drag a hand down the side of her ribs, feeling her shudder again. He leaned in, his nose against her neck. His body was a continuation of hers; no end and no beginning, like they were two strands so irrevocably tangled there was no telling them apart. Her hands were at his shoulders, her fingers drifting to his neck, and his wandered from her waist to her thighs, feeling the heat of her and relishing in it. He could have drowned in her.

Wanted to drown in her.

“Nesta,” he whispered, teeth scraping against her jaw. 

“Azriel,” she breathed, her chest rising beneath his straying hands. He dragged his touch up from her middle, his palm resting at the bottom of her throat.

“Stop avoiding the question,” he said, lips against the shell of her ear as he parroted back her earlier words. In his embrace, she shivered. “Do you want it to stop me?”

She shook her head as his shadows skimmed her ankle, winding around her calf like ivy. “No.”

His heart thudded in his chest, and suddenly he felt like he was falling— like the ground had opened up beneath him. He wanted this, wanted her, and it didn’t matter that she could never be his, didn’t matter that if Cassian ever found out—

Her nails, sharp on his collarbone, dragged him back to her. Cut the thought off before it could bloom.

Fuck everything else— fuck it all to hell and back.

Nesta was in his arms, his hand on her thigh beneath her dress and fucking hell, he could barely find two words to string together in a sentence, so he did the only other thing he could think of— the only thing that made sense.

In the darkest corner of the dingiest bar Velaris had to offer, Azriel lowered his lips and kissed Nesta Archeron senseless.

It wasn’t soft or gentle; they came together like a wave crashing against the shore, all lips and teeth and shared breath that tasted like whiskey. Her hands were around his neck, fingertips brushing his wings, and as his hand splayed flat against her spine, Azriel brought her closer and kissed her with a hunger that spoke to centuries of control finally, finally, beginning to slip. For so long he had kept himself in check— never allowing himself to take what he wanted. 

He wanted now— he wanted her.

And Nesta wanted him. He felt it in the way she gasped his name, in the way she tipped her head back to grant him access to her neck. He groaned against her as his tongue tasted the skin beneath her jaw, because—

Divine.

She was divine, something so decadent and heady that his mind was beginning to spin. 

They moved in tandem, like this was a dance they both knew the steps to. When her heart skipped a beat, Azriel’s surrendered too; when the tips of his wings shivered with anticipation, a shudder racked through her that began in her chest and ended in her fingers. They were one and the same, the kiss bringing them together, setting them alight, letting them burn like a bonfire. 

Azriel never wanted it to end. 

Nesta turned in his arms, lifted herself up so that it wasn’t just her legs slung over his knees now. She straddled his hips and claimed his mouth, like she had forgotten where they were, forgotten who they were— they weren’t the High Lord’s brother and the High Lady’s sister anymore, just two souls who had collided in a darkened bar and found their mirror in one another.

Azriel’s hands smoothed down Nesta’s sides as his palms came to rest on her hips. She sat back, putting distance between them as she took a breath. Her lips were swollen, the skin at her neck marked by his kisses. He squeezed her hip once, heard her heart skip in response.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nesta breathed.

She came back for one more kiss, slow this time— lingering. Azriel obliged her. He kissed her sweetly, like they had all the time in the world, his hands rising to cup her face in his palms. When Nesta’s teeth sunk into his lip, he didn’t mask the curse that slipped from him, all at once low and desperate and edged with ecstasy.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling the sting in his lips left behind by her bite. It was the most decadent thing he’d ever tasted, and as he pulled away from her mouth and pressed another kiss to her jaw, he felt the heat in his veins stirring, his blood thrumming and his need for her more potent than anything. One hand dropped to hers, and Azriel linked their fingers together as he rose, pulling Nesta to her feet. He leaned close, breathed her in, let his free hand wind around her waist and pull her into him as he nipped lightly at the edge of her jaw. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he echoed.

New taglist: (if you want to be added or removed, let me know!) @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist

[altarfates]

❝ what did i tell you about being more careful with your words ? ❞ vein flicks xiafei’s forehead lightly, closing the distance between them with a purposeful step, staying within arm’s reach as though anticipating the other might retreat. rumors, after all, are the lifeblood of this industry, an ecosystem that thrives on gossip and the ruthless tearing down of others to claw one’s way to the top. it hardly matters how many people get trampled in the process, the cutthroat nature of it all is undeniable. vein is reminded of this every time he recalls the moment he first found xiafei, submerged in water, held down by two fellow models. envy and jealousy, he concludes — petty, corrosive emotions driving the behavior of adults who ought to know better. rules exist for a reason, vein believes, and they are not to be broken. his operation is governed by a firm, unyielding hand, one that leaves no room for error. this control extends to xiafei, his top model and sometimes trusted right-hand, though even xiafei has an unfortunate knack for fueling rumors about the two of them. more than once, vein has caught whispers in the hallways of his own building — words that fade into silence the moment he steps too close. even during phone calls with xiafei, the faint sound of murmurs in the background betrays that their relationship is under scrutiny yet again. despite vein’s insistence that they’ve been nothing but transparent, it seems nothing can stop people from weaving new stories. the gossip takes on a life of its own, defying logic or proof, but it still manages to seep into every corner of their world. vein tightens his grip on the situation, resolute in his determination to maintain control, even as the weight of speculation presses in from all sides. ❝ when the rumors are so loud that they reach my floor, i can’t overlook it anymore. you mean to do good, to be good, don’t you xiafei ? ❞ fingers slip into the blond man’s hair after vein pats the top of his head twice. ❝ i thought i taught you this lesson already, do you perhaps need a reminder ? ❞

It was a cut throat industry, bedecked in luxurious clothes and inordinate glamour it had a way of beguiling those it deemed callow. Ascending too abruptly, exploiting his good-looks to have more than pittance at his disposal and more than deplorably cheap noodles on his table. It had exposed xia fei to condescension unparalleled in any other profession, the voracious mouths of his elders spouting praise and disdain indiscriminately. Everyday he had been committed to meeting those unreasonably high expectations and everyday it left him feeling bled of his vitality. There were many nights he had spent swathed in his blanket and quietly pleading that his supervisors would somehow realize that he was, in fact, still human. That had never extended to Vein, as if he were exempt to this particular brand of cruelty. Because he had always shown kindness to xia fei, from his most dire circumstances, his lungs heaving desperately for air whilst he was plunged underwater, to the less consequential — like when he got into underhanded arguments fuelled by the frivolous words of his co-workers.   The impact of his finger was lenient and as he met Vein’s eyes he began searching for answers, surpassing the reprimand that never sharpened into lethality, something that glittered in his gaze. He nods, slowly in acquiesce because he knows he has done something wrong — that his mordant reply, even if in jest, had been disseminated with such enthusiasm that it had even reached the top-floor where he resided. Guilt twisted in his gut, partially because he knows how Vein operates, that having to rectify his mistakes was taking up valuable time he may not have had in abundance. His expression is rueful, it wasn’t that he regretted standing up to those whose arrogance prevented them from holding their tongues but that he had become an issue his boss had to promptly see dealt with. ❝ Boss, I shouldn’t have said anything  —❞ because he knew the problem would be expeditiously resolved even if he didn't interfere, never to see those lineaments twisted in disdain. It sent a shudder up his spine, knowing they would be contorted in a far more agonizing expression when their punishment was dealt.

Obediently he tilts his head back, entirely pliant in the other’s hands, his fingers wreathing through strands of gold like this was his prerogative. Because xia fei was his top model, representing him upon a pretentious stage far below his standing. ❝ I remember. ❞ he repeats it as if it were an instruction, deliberating on how it felt upon his tongue, the impression of his reply far more impactful than his softer, less commanding timbre. Good, the praise from anyone else in the industry would have felt counterfeit, as contemptible as their ridicule. When it came from Vein it held the weight of veracity, because he abhorred lies, truth becoming a concept that conformed to his resolve. He doesn’t writhe in his grip, still lenient, gentle but maintains eye-contact because glancing to the side or away would have been an insult. ❝ you’ve taught me so much since I came here — how could I be anything but grateful ?  ❞ he breathes, feels how the air between them becomes so charged it was palpable, dragging its spectral fingers across his skin; portentous. ❝ I would never say no to a lesson from you. ❞

[deepdowninmybones]

CtM Fanfic Everything is just as ought to be

(let's keep going with the old-fashioned copy and paste)

Chapter 2 - Mother's love

Early october - 10 weeks

Two weeks had passed since the news and the progress of the pregnancy brought with it a whole series of symptoms that were physically exhausting her.

For this reason she had not objected in the slightest when Patrick had suggested to slow down her activities. The house and three school-age children were enough to exhaust the energy she had at her disposal at that moment, even if he had immediately taken on the most tiring tasks…including taking the children to school, a moment of the day that could turn into a real challenge when Teddy wasn't particularly cooperative.

The very beginning of the school had proven to be the perfect excuse to give Mrs. Higgins to tell her that Mrs. Turner needed a break. The secretary hadn't asked any questions and had immediately taken steps to reorganize the shifts without her. Incredibly, Dr. Turner's request to postpone the start of morning appointments by an hour and to schedule a rotation of substitutes for the weekends had also been granted without comment.

No one was aware of the news and for now it was something they wanted to experience exclusively among themselves. The children were too young to ask the reason for those changes in their routine and fortunately the only one who would have needed less than five minutes to understand what was going on was Timothy, who however had returned to Medical School in Edinburgh.

Even though the days at Turner house were long and often chaotic, they knew that once their children were tucked in, the house and the entire world became a space just for them. They spent the evenings lying on the sofa, entwined in their favorite position, caressing each other gently, sharing thoughts and worries or simply silences… A lot of silences lately, because they knew well that it's often in silence that we learn to understand each other.

Patrick was her guiding light, his presence helped her to slow down the fluctuating whirlwind of emotions that hit her: a continuous transition from moments of uncontainable joy to others in which the feeling of not being able to face this situation threw her into absolute desperation. Damn hormones.

That morning she was sitting at the kitchen table where she was trying to fold the laundry she had just picked up, but the strong smell of detergent (which usually put her in a good mood) wasn't making her life easy. After yet another trip to the bathroom, just as she was about to sit down again, the doorbell rang.

"Sister Julienne! What are you doing around here? Did something happen?"

"Does something have to happen for me to come visit you at home?"

"Oh, of course not…Please, come in!"

Confused by the unexpected visit, Shelagh at first appeared unsure about what to do. Sister Julienne knew her very well and, understanding that something was troubling her, found a way to break the ice and get straight to the point of her visit.

"I met Dr. Turner with the kids this morning. Angela told me you were home because you still have a tummy ache. I was nearby and stopped by to see if you needed anything."

When she previously heard Angela pronounce those specific words "belly ache" an alarm rang in her head. The maternal instinct is not something that necessarily comes from being someone's biological mother. Sister Julienne was firmly convinced of this.

"Thanks for the thought, I appreciate it very much…but I feel much better! Patrick always worries too much and then makes the children alarmed too. I'm just a little tired, with the kids going back to school and everything. Come, let's sit on the sofa. I just made some tea!"

"It seems like an excellent idea to me"

Sister Julienne sat down on the settee, shortly followed by Shelagh with the two cups of tea in hand. Sitting next to each other, they sipped the liquid in silence.

Beside Patrick, Sister Julienne was the person who knew her best, who she trusted more, and who she felt incredibly loved by. Having lost her mother as a child, she didn't know much about what that meant to be a daughter, but in her mind it had to be something very similar to what she felt towards Sister Julienne. She was grateful to have her in her life and having her by her side right now made her feel loved and protected. As she thought this, she felt a new explosion of emotions rise in her heart, in her eyes… and the tears fell again.

Sister Julienne took the cup of tea from her hand, placing it on the table. She wrapped her arms around her, giving her time to find the words.

"My darling Shelagh, do you mind telling me what's going on with you? Are there any problems with Patrick? With the children?" she gently asked, taking her hands protectively in hers.

"I…I'm pregnant." she confessed.

"Oh dear!" she sighed. "How long are you?"

"We're not sure honestly. My cycle has always been irregular and the possible moments of conceiving are… let's say…they are not useful in tracing back to a precise date"

"I understand…"

"Based on the calculations we made, I should be at the tenth week…but for now we are based on the symptoms"

"And how did you take the news, if I may ask?"

"Oh Sister Julienne…it was a shock! I don't need to remind you how old I am, or how old Patrick is. With all the difficulties we had, the idea of being able to get pregnant was truly something totally unimaginable. We never thought we would have to take precautions…"

"…but the Lord works in surprising ways sometimes, doesn't he?"

"Yeah…I'd say so. Patrick is over the moon, even if he tries to moderate his enthusiasm in front of me, I know he's totally excited. You know, one night, when we weren't yet certain of the pregnancy, I told him that I didn't want another child, I really mean it. I didn't want it! …but if it had come I would have loved it just like the others."

"And now? Do you want it?"

"Of course yes! I already love him as much as the other four! Now it's here… and it seems clear to me since I'm spending more time in the bathroom than in any other room. I've been living with the taste of metal for two months as had already happened when I was expecting Teddy, my breasts are swollen and sore… And I feel nauseous and dizzy…" and with a voice broken by tears, she added "…and I have constant mood swings!"

Sister Julienne smiled at her and took her hand "What really scares you, Shelagh?"

"What? Well…" she hesitated for a moment, then the words took shape by themselves and she continued saying "I'm terrified of experiencing a new pregnancy like my first one. I'm afraid of losing this baby. I'm afraid of disappointing Patrick! I'm afraid of what might happen if…"

She had finally said it! In that tick, she realized that she had managed to give a name to her anxieties. It was not the "not being enough" thing, not the "house being too small", not their age… but the fear of losing or not being able to experience that happiness.

"Do you remember the words of Isaiah? 'Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go'."

Shelagh nodded.

"Well. And know that I'll be there too." she said, holding her close.

"I know, you are always there and you have always been there when I needed you." answered almost whining like a child.

"Oh Shelagh, let me confess to you something. At this point in my life, I sometimes found myself thinking about the choice I made. What have I given up to be a nun? Could I have a family? Could I have children? You know…I lose my self thinking about what kind of mother I would be, what it would be like. And then you came to my mind. It took me a while to understand that your image was the Almighty's way of answering my questions: showing that becoming a nun didn't make me give up anything… You, your children… your family. You are my most precious gift. My religious life was the way to find you, the way I was allowed to feel you like a daughter and to experience motherhood even without having birthed you!"

Shelagh kept hearing the echoes of those words: feeling like a daughter, feeling her like a mother… Finally they had been pronounced in some way, no matter if implicitly, they were still real and shared.

Sister Julienne wiped away a tear, then smiled and looked Shelagh deeply in the eyes continuing to say:

"Look at you Shelagh! Look what you and Patrick have built together! You sowed love and managed to make life sprout even when they told you it would be impossible to do so! You never gave up, you put love at the center of your family: you raised Timothy as your own son, welcomed Angela and then, against all diagnoses, Teddy arrived. You met little May along your path and you opened the door of your home for her, your family, your hearts. You will be able to do it for this creature too, it will be here before you know it… trust in the Lord, have faith and everything will be for the best."

With tears streaming down her eyes, Shelagh could only nod. She needed those words, she needed Sister Julienne's presence to understand her feelings. Maybe she needed to be called daughter and hearing Sister Julienne refer to herself as her mother to have faith in the unachievable.

Later that night, when the front door opened and Patrick entered the house, he only had to meet Shelagh's eyes and see her smile to understand that something had changed.

She was home, his girl was back.