#i just called them “sneering brass”

[nelson-riddle-me-this]

This post will mean nothing to most people, but this cue from THE HEART KILLERS is wild cuz I'm not used to hearing stopped french horns used in comedy

[yeyinde]

kinda enamoured with the thought of our poor mc going to a dud of party but meeting Kyle and Johnny there (both looking as out of place as you feel) but instead of taking you home, they bring you back to Price and Ghost. a sweet little treat for them all to share.

and they're charming, of course. too charming. but alcohol numbs most of your inhibitions about how touchy they are. how physical. folding themselves into your space, leaning down to whisper in your ear when you can hear them just fine. hands on the small on your back. around your wrist. your waist. knuckles against your cheek—

god, you're such a pretty little thing, aren't you?

warm skin. breath that smells of thick, sweet cream and oaky black tea. hands curling under the hem of your shirt—shush, shush, doe, ahm jus' helpin' ye; yer hot, ain't ye? lemme help ye out o'yer jumper—thick, sunkissed fingers dancing over your skin.

you feel funny, you slur into his—Kyle, he huffs, grinning wide; wolfish: call me Kyle, sweet thing—neck, chasing the scent of spiced vanilla and wild, ripened plums. everything is spinning. spinning—

"god, he's gonna just love you—"

but they'll take you somewhere. home. you nod, nose tucked tight against his warm, steady pulse. "wanna go home—" you mumble into salt-tinged skin, and they laugh.

"oh, don't worry, beautiful. we'll get you right where you need to be."

you trust them, of course. let them usher you into their car, curled up against a broad, warm chest. lulled under a blanket of security wrapped tight in strong, firm arms. and if his hand wanders, fingers tickling the insides of your thighs. well—

you can't deny they're attractive. maybe you can get their number after and call them in the morning.

but that doesn't happen.

you wake to the sound of voices. hands sliding under your knees, around your shoulder. carried into a house that isn't your own—some strange cabin deep in the forest. the glow of the wood stove in the only light on inside, and you struggle to adjust to the thick orange haze.

"what's going on?" you ask, blinking at the sight that greets your liquid eyes.

Kyle places you down on a rug, holding your hips tight when you fumble. laughing, just a little, under his breath when you gasp.

sitting in an old, wooden chair is a man you've never seen before. big, broad. intimidating. his thick legs spread lazily—one kicked out against the rug, the other bent at the knee. and elbow rests on it. in his hand, a lit cigar. the other dangles, loose and lax, off the armrest. fingers curling, unfurling, into spasmic fists.

his eyes burn caeruleum in the flickering gold.

you fight back a shiver, but feel it slide like hot oil down your spine.

"what—?"

"my boys didn't explain it to you?" he asks, voice a rough, abrasive scratch in your head. gritty. porous. you feel it against your skin. fingers digging into your nape. bad girl. there's something about him that commands attention, and you give it easily as he tuts, pale lips pulling into a condescending sneer beneath the thick of his beard. "or maybe you just weren't payin' attention, sweetheart."

"attention to what—" sir almost trembles out. his lips twitch like he heard all the same. "i just want to go home—"

the hand dangling over the ledge flares to life. he flicks it careless around the room with a hum. "you are home."

"my real home—"

and then you see it.

he moves like liquid through the shadows. folds himself into the dark like its where he belongs. and you thought—and still very much do—the man sitting on his throne was large, intimidating, but it pales at the absurd height of this thing that slinks out of the corner with a heavy, laden gaze. powdered charcoal. endlessly black. flat, though. amused.

when he speaks, it's all brass. "what's this? Johnny brought 'ome a stray?"

"nah," you hear Kyle's grin. feel the phantom shift of sharp teeth against your neck. breathless laugher. warm hands. baby, you feel so good. "we found 'er in a club. lost little lamb."

"and you dragged her back to the wolf's den, mm?"

"you complainin', cap?"

it takes all of your willpower to tear your eyes off the man, but you manage. ripping them away until you find him—Price—again. he stares back with a lidded, heavy gaze. unflinching. hungry.

"not in the slightest."

Kyle purrs. "Johnny couldn't keep his hands off her, sir. might have some competition for who goes first."

cold air on your nape. dread bubbles up in your belly. "no—"

they continue like you hadn't spoken. like you don't exist. the man in the corner folds his thick arms over his broad chest, shaking his head a chainsaw-like grunt. laughter, you think.

but Price doesn't seem to find it nearly as funny. his teeth sink into the butt of the cigar with a growl. "gonna fight me for first, Sargeant?"

Johnny snorts, and rubs his finger under his nose.

"she's sweet," he murmurs, all wide-eyed and feverish. cheeks pinked under the warm spill of orange. "cannae blame a man fer wantin' such a pretty little thing—"

"back of the line," Kyle prods. and you wish his touch made your stomach churn, but that thread of intrigue, alcohol spooled want, still thrums in your veins.

"i just—" you stammer, eyes widening as real, tangible fear sets in. skewers into your belly. heart in your throat. the erratic echoes pounding in your ears. "i just want to go home."

"you are home, birdie—" he speaks and it feels like the walls shake. "didn't get a bright, did you, Johnny?"

"tha's mean, Lt—" his hands snake around your waist, pulling you into his hard chest. "didnae anyone teach ye 'ow tae chirp at birds?" the shorn sides of his Mohawk scratch against your cheek when he nuzzles, kittenish, against your face. "don't listen tae 'im, doe. yer th' sweetest, brightest lit'le thing—"

"mm, and such a bright little girl would know how to behave, wouldn't she?"

even with the alcohol dulling your senses—thoughts scattered and thin as two pairs of hands start pulling at your clothes, stripping you down to nothing—you can still see his words for what it is:

a threat.

as if to reinforce this idea, the man—Ghost, Johnny whines into your burning, stinging cheek, skin chafing from the graze of his buzzed sides: gotta 'ave a taste, Lt—moves, his body spilling out in a dizzying tumble of thick limbs. he stands by the door—the only one—and folds his arms over his chest once more, head cocking to the side as he stares down at you.

"don't worry, Johnny," he rumbles, lids slipping to half cresences over the ink black of his eyes. "i intend to."

the air stills when Price hums. your attention is pulled back to him instantly, but a part of you—all animal—halves it down the middle, keeping Ghost in your sights at all times. turning your back on him feels—

stupid.

you shiver.

Price shifts in the chair, reaching up for the cigar still pinched between his teeth. the look in his eyes is a startling, heavy thing. doom tastes like ash between your teeth.

"an' you're a bright girl, aren't you?"

it's not really a question. you nod anyway, feeling the fight in your body dissolve like wisps of smoke in the dense, thickened air. excitement, desire, hums—an electrical current—in the air, bubbling up between them. they move around you in a way that's dizzingly coordinated—a living, thrumming dance. stigmergy. as your clothes fall, as their hands grab your flesh, pinching and caressing, moaning in your ear about how soft you are, how sweet, one, horrifying thought thickens in the back of your head:

you know, then, that you're not going home.

"oh, sweetheart," Price drawls like he knows what you're thinking. a mocking little coo as he tucks his knuckles under your chin, lifting your head up to meet his burning gaze. there's something in there, you think. something awful. something hungry.

"you already are."

[cambion-companion]

Teaching the Devil how to fuck

We all know Haarlep says Raphael is a terrible lover blah blah, and I certainly believe Raphael to be a very selfish lover. It's also hard for me to imagine he's taken someone other than Haarlep to his bed in a very long time. Scheming and planning ya know, it's time consuming lol And how would he be in bed with someone who isn't an Incubus, with whom he doesn't feel double the pleasure? Well, that's why I am writing this.

Raphael x Altheara (my female Aasimar OC) because I wanted to write wings and needed a warm-up

"Raphael, do you ever stop talking?" Altheara brushed her long golden hair, the entire time she'd been listening to Raphael wax poetic about his latest contract with the whole city council.

She turned on her vanity stool, tossing her sheet of hair over her shoulder and mirroring Raphael's terse expression back at him. "Have you any idea just how little I wish to hear about your newest soul conquest?"

Raphael raised an arch brow and his lips turned down in a sneer. "Were I a less magnanimous being..." He gestured with his hands, describing the scene. "...I would pluck your feathers and leave you skinned upon a rack for your continual impudence."

Altheara rose to her full height, still head and shoulders shorter than Raphael's devil form. She approached him in measured steps, her eyes glinting like topaz in the firelight. "You're more full of bluster than an autumn evening." She flexed her feathered wings and tilted her head up at his glowering face. "You need me."

"Ah, pet." Raphael's voice had taken on a gravelly edge. He took Altheara's chin between finger and thumb, stroking her cheek gently. "You are wearing out your welcome."

"Yet you are here, in my chambers, lingering long after my 'use' to you has expired." Altheara's amber eyes flicked between his. "Why?"

Raphael pulled in his chin, once again momentarily bemused by her directness. "Perhaps I want to see just how far I can make an angel fall."

During their long and tenuous partnership, Altheara had felt the tension between them building like water behind a dam. It was finally about to burst.

The fabric of her deep blue dress rustled as she moved, her wings urged on her movement with one sweeping motion. She pressed herself against the heat of the cambion, his hands cradling her hips as she kissed that ruby mouth of his. At last, silencing him.

Raphael met her embrace with surprise, then curiosity, which melted into fascination. He tugged her closer, his fingers exploring how her soft flesh felt under his probing touch, the silk of her dress slipping like water under his hands.

Altheara guided him non-gently to her bed where he sat, a brow raised as he looked amused and intrigued up at her.

"You are aware," Raphael mused, his hands resting either side of where he sat as she moved to straddle him. "That I have an incubus at my beck and call?"

Altheara ignored him, she began pulling at the heavy metal of his skull-adorned belt. "This is utterly hideous, by the way."

"That whatever pleasure you offer dulls in comparison to what they can give me."

Altheara glared at him, her teeth clenched, her brass wings folding slightly as an innate sign of her sudden doubt. "Yet here you remain, quite the willing companion."

"I admit my curiosity, yes." Raphael indulged the Aasimar, his infernal eyes glimmering from within. "I've made no secret that I find you a most alluring creature."

Altheara leaned into him again and kissed at his neck and throat, her hands sliding up under his shirt to caress his sides. "Then stop being an ass."

"So spoke the 'aasimar'." Raphael groaned quietly as Altheara bit the skin of his shoulder in response, then he chuckled, still not touching her in return. "Shall I set the mood, my dear?"

He clicked his fingers and Altheara breathed in sharply, pulling her head back as both she and Raphael magically lost all of their clothing.

Her eyebrows raise and she fought to not grimace. "Raphael...that does quite the opposite to 'setting the mood'."

A slight frown tainted Raphael's confident smirk. "Not the response I was seeking, angel."

"Put my clothes back on, devil." Altheara spoke firmly, her hands moving to cup his face and smooth down to his shoulders. "It seems I am to educate you on how passion is played out."

Raphael was loathe to obey orders from anyone, especially a celestial entity. However, he found himself intrigued what she wished to have happen.

He magicked their clothing back onto their bodies and Altheara smiled. "Good. Thank you."

Altheara took her time. She slowly undressed Raphael, her lips following where her hands went, never touching but close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his skin.

She pressed her weight against the cambion's towering form, her mouth almost touching his heated chest, teasing, until with a low grumble he pressed forward against her in return. She smiled as she began pleasuring him, allowing him some control yet also taking an equal amount for herself.

Reticence turned into heated exchanges, hands ran over flushed skin and Raphael at last carefully pulled Altheara's dress over her head and tossed it blithely to the floor.

His hands explored her, and she gasped as he groped her chest roughly, grabbing his wrists with a furrowed brow. "Gentler." She showed him and after a moment he took over, squeezing and pinching.

Raphael reclined onto his back, pressing into the bed as he gripped her thighs possessively. "Show me more of what you can give."

"I'd think a devil would have better grasp on the concept of give and take." Altheara sighed through her pleasure, her wings spreading behind her for balance as she began moving more earnestly. "This is an exchange, Raphael."

The reply was torn from his lips as she sunk upon him, connecting their bodies with her own gasps of both pain and bliss.

She leaned over him until their mouths met in yet another fierce kiss. Raphael ran his hands up her back and into her downy feathers, his sharp nails digging into them. Altheara tensed and broke their kiss to look into Raphael's lidded eyes. "We have a contract."

"I will not harm you." Raphael's touch was sharp but didn't pierce her skin. "So eager, but still a flighty little thing."

"Move with me." Altheara pressed her hands to his chest, then his sides, gripping him tight as her wings flapped gently, her body shuddering as Raphael began to move his hips as well.

"So demanding." Raphael groaned again, his pleasure building slower than her own. "It's a wonder I tolerate you."

"You want me." Altheara's breath caught in her throat.

Raphael gripped the arc of her wings, his torso flexing as he curled up into her. "Yes."

The little death that followed led to many others. Many more nights of exploration exchanges of intimacy. Like twin fire suns orbiting each other, Raphael and Altheara could not pull away from each other. And for the first time in centuries, Raphael found himself willing to learn.

[hollowwrites]

Missed Opportunities

So I’m currently trying to write smut for my Blindsided fic (about time) and have come to realise I just love writing fluff so much.

Summary - Sebastian stumbles upon Victoria after returning from a wedding. He’s confronted with the feelings he’s been repressing for years.

Warnings - None, fluff fluff fluff!

Word Count - 3454

~

Never in all of his years, did he think having a Pureblood friend would be so…exhausting.

Perhaps maybe, Sebastian was spoiled with Ominis. He was constantly invited to weddings and proposals. They were a common occurrence at the Slytherin Table over breakfast. But all of them were met with a derisory sneer and a not-so-polite refusal.

But Victoria…

Her family was huge.

She had cousins wedded into the Black family, meaning every invitation must be accepted lest she evoke the Headmasters wrath. The Black and Grey family had a good relationship, one her parents were not eager to destroy. And though he already had a soft spot for Victoria considering she was both the Hero of Hogwarts and a Pureblood, perhaps refusing to attended a wedding between their families would put a strain on that

Toujours Pur indeed.

And the proposals…

They irked Sebastian the most. Especially the one sent from the Gaunts for her hand. Ominis and Victoria had a wonderful little chuckle about the whole thing and spent a week playfully calling each other husband and wife.

Much to Sebastian’s disdain.

He most certainly did not enjoy that scenario. His best friend and the girl he has loved since he had met her? No.

It was when Ominis heard Sebastian snap the armrest off one of the flimsy Library chairs, that he stopped. But only on the condition Sebastian finally admit that he loved her.

Thankfully her family were not the pushy type and were actually unbothered about marrying her off.

However…

The endless supply of Owls that dropped letter after letter sealed with sickly sweet pink wax and a white ribbon, boiled Sebastian’s blood.

Of course, watching her open them from three tables away was bad…

…but having her leave for those weddings was worse.

Usually she was gone by breakfast and he missed her completely, spending the whole day wondering when she got back, would a silver band be wrapped around her finger.

~

It was almost one in the morning when Sebastian decided to give up on his search for different Charms and Spells banned around the world. Fascinating what some cultures deem dangerous. He didn’t even need to be there. After Rookwoods death and Anne’s curse halted somewhat, he roamed the Library…simply to learn.

He strolled, bold as brass, out of the Restricted Section, no need to a Disillusionment Charm, nodding to a particularly disgruntled Scribner as he left.

With Ominis as a prefect, Victoria friends with the Headmaster and his grades now impeccable, Sebastian was basically untouchable.

He knew it.

And Scribner knew it.

Sebastian chuckled to himself as he left the Library, the eyes of all the prefects patrolling Central Hall boring into the back of his head. This only made him smirk more.

He still wasn’t tired, but his body was now operating on instinct. He lurched forward towards the Common Room but it’s wasn’t until he veered off did his brain catch on to what his body was doing.

It wasn’t the Slytherin Common Room he was moving towards…

…it was Gryffindors.

And as he rounded the corner near The Fat Lady, a vision of beauty dressed in deep burgundy careened into him, her hands flying forward to catch herself and settling over his chest. He acted on reflex, grabbing forward to catch the offending clutz, fighting every instinct in him to not stare slack jawed at the girl now in his arms.

“Sebastian…” Victoria breathed. Clearly she was in shock from literally running into someone in the corridors, but the way he heard it sent a tingle down his spine. He imagined different scenarios where she would whisper his name like that.

“What are doing wandering the halls at this time?” She scolded with a smirk tugging at her painted lips.

“Have I ever needed a reason to break school rules?” He lied expertly, keeping his hands firmly on her forearms.

In case she falls down he told himself

“Well that’s certainly true…” she laughed softly, tilting her head in curiosity when she notices he’s not making eye contact.

His eyes had dropped to the layered sheer material that clung to her form. A long elegant slit up her leg, accentuated her slender legs along side the painfully tall heels that now made her almost the same height as him.

Ethereally pale, with dark hair and her blood red dress made her look dangerous. Almost vampiric. The sharp blue of her eyes amongst the sultry shadows of her eyes only added to that allure.

Although she had been out all day, her hair and makeup was immaculate. Or was she wearing any? Her lips were obviously redder than normal but Sebastian couldn’t tell if that rosy flush across her cheeks was powdered on or real.

It didn’t matter.

“Sebastian, what are you looki-“

“You’re stunning…” he said confidently, before adding quietly “…Merlins beard…” his eyes slowly trailed up and down her body, scanning every inch of exposed pale flesh. Her shoulders, her arms, her chest where the dress had pushed her up deliciously.

“I…” the way his eyes drank her in made her cheeks burn and her hands tighten around the fabric of his robes, balling into fists at his chest. “…Thank you” she muttered, embarrassed, her voice laced with fatigue.

“Long day?” He asked with a smirk, amused at how a simply comment could break her resolve so easily. No longer a dangerous temptress but putty, quite literally, in his hands.

“Mmm…” she mumbled shifting within his arms “These shoes are ridiculous. My feet are killing me”

“Come on…let me help you to your dorm. I’ll carry your shoes” he gestured, almost exasperated, for her to give him the offending shoes. Secretly, he enjoyed how small she was without them, and he would quite like his diminutive friend back. As she shuffled the heels off and she fell by several inches, he chuckled and delighted in the soft moans of relief she made upon removing them.

“I suppose you can sit with me for a while…” she said with a soft sleepy smile, passing him the shoes with a limp wrist.

He just nodded, eyes wide like an obedient little puppy looking up adoringly at its owner. He followed her towards the portrait of The Fat Lady, her frame opening upon seeing Victoria and slamming back shut when she caught sight of Sebastian. The Fat Lady squinted through a tiny pair of glasses perched upon a long stick. Her face twisting in disgust and she shook her head.

“Come on…it’s Sebastian. He’s my oldest friend” Victoria reasoned, her shoulder slumping as though she could really do without this argument.

Sebastian tried to not let the disappointment show as he heard her refer to him as a ‘friend’.

The Portrait simply opened her frame again and pointedly slamed it shut, her arms crossing over her bosom.

“Ad Nauseum” Victoria said mimicking the Fat Lady’s stance, her tone taking on a parental quality Sebastian only heard when he’d done something truly stupid. “I’ve said the password, you must let me in” she smirked as an idea popped into her head “Or would you like to be responsible for the sighting of a Proud Gryffindor skulking around the Slytherin Dungeons?”

The Fat Lady gasped dramatically muttering expletives under her breath as the frame opened once more.

“Well I know when I’m not wanted” Sebastian pouted, raising an eyebrow at the tiny hole behind the frame “You have to the crawl through that?”

“Yes” she sighed, hoisting her dress into a ball around her hips “Rather undignified if you ask me. I don’t think the Hogwarts Architect considered the female population when he created this”

Sebastian exhaled a laugh watching as she crawled through the tunnel with more grace than she gave herself credit for. His eyes shamelessly dropped to her rear as he followed closely behind her, almost falling out of the other end. Clearly he was distracted.

Thankfully, once he’d entered into the Gryffindor Common Room, there were other things to distract him away from her…assets

His eyes drew over the medieval tapestries and garish red and gold decor. It was warm, Sebastian would give them that, but in that moment, he thanked the Sorting Hat for its correct decision in putting him in Slytherin.

And was that…a snitch? The constant annoying buzzing he could hear from somewhere to his right was enough to make him miss the dungeons.

“Ugh…” he groaned in clear distaste for his surroundings “…Are you sure you don’t want to be sighted down in the dastardly dungeons?” He said swiping his finger across the stone fireplace and rubbing his fingers as though they were covered in filth.

“Absolutely certain…” she huffed as she threw herself at the plush sofa opposite him. Her head lulled backwards onto the armrest, her eyes closing as she relaxed for the first time all day.

Sebastian chuckled and joined her, pulling her feet into his lap and propping his own up on the coffee table ahead of him.

“How was the wedding?” He asked, a sinking feeling of despair settled in his stomach as he thought of her answer;

It was wonderful. The Malfoy family finally approached my father for my hand. We’re to be wed in the spring!

“Mmm…Lovely” came her actual unenthusiastic answer “Though…I wish I’d had a plus one. I wish you’d have been there” she said softly, her eyes still closed.

He opened his mouth to respond, something sharp and witty and typically Sebastian. But the energy in the room felt soft and…safe. He decided perhaps honesty were for the best.

“That makes two of us” he muttered, his voice low and gentle.

“Really?” Her eyes fluttered open to look at him, propping herself up on her elbows “You’d suffer with me?”

“I wouldn’t call spending a day with you suffering” he chuckled, leaning his cheek against his knuckles.

“Have you ever been to a wedding?” She asked incredulously, electing to ignore the obvious flirtation in his comment.

“Well…no actually. But-“

“That settles it…” She interrupts “…My next wedding I’m asking for a plus one and you’re coming with me”

“Why?” He asked, laughing “Miss me that much?”

“I did actually” she said rather casually

That same energy returned. Safe and honest. The ambient glow of the fire bathed her in an orange hue, highlighting the bright blue of her eyes as they looked back at him.

“…I missed you too” he admitted

“Well…” She hummed softly and smiled “I’m back now. You can start making it up to me”

“Making it up to you?’ What exactly am I compensating for?” His tone slipped so easily back to his charming and playful self.

“For not telling me you were willing to come before. Do you know how many weddings I’ve had to attend alone?” She said accusatorially “Weddings are not fun alone. No one to talk to, no one to dance with, no one t-“

“Hold on….” Sebastian interrupted, his hands held ahead of him as though to halt the whole conversation “You don’t dance at these things?

“No? Who would I dance with?l

“I don’t know…I thought someone would have asked you” he turned to her, desperately trying to hide the encroaching smug smirk across his lips.

No one else had touched her!

“You mean to tell me; no one, not one person, has asked you to dance at these little engagement parties and weddings and the like” he was failing spectacularly to conceal the joy in his voice, to the point he almost sounded mocking.

“No?” She answered simply, his tone setting her cheeks a flame “…At risk of you teasing me more…I’ve never actually danced…At all”

Never had he been more thankful for her intimidating beauty.

“That won’t do” he says and stands dragging her by her wrist up and off the sofa. She goes limp and heavy, battling to stay seated.

“W-Wait…What are you doing?” Sebastian laughed at the clear panic in her voice.

“Dancing obviously” her flashed her a brilliant, utterly charming smile “We need to Fix this little problem you have” he continued, gently tugging her up.

“No no…I can’t I’m far too clumsy…” she argued weakly.

And if I dance with you I will definitely fall in love with you; She thought as her brows knitted together in the confusion of her emotions.

“As if I would ever let you fall…” he said softly, all traces of charm and flirtation gone. He just sounded…genuine.

With a small spin in his arms, he pulled her hand up to his shoulder. She sighed and positioned herself properly…or at least what she remembered seeing. Slowly, his hand snaked around her waist and she fought with everything in her to not gasp and fan herself like those Victorian Muggle women.

His hand splayed wide, his palm almost entirely covering the small of her back, fingers, long and sharp curling around her waist. His other was innocently holding her hand aloft leading her in the small silent slow dance. She could feel the callouses across his hand and thought absentmindedly about how he’d gotten them.

Duelling? Helping out at home? Toiling over the little garden next to his home, the suns rays beating down on-

She shook her head and looked down at their feet, desperate to distract herself from the blush creeping across her chest.

She failed.

Looking down only brought attention to the fact she was stood so close to him. Couldn’t even see her feet. Just her chest, pressed into his ribs.

Her nervousness must have been blatant. Sebastian could always read her like a book and if there’s anything Sebastian was good at…it’s reading.

“Don’t be nervous, Angel…” he chuckled “We’re just dancing” his voice was soothing and low, despite his overwhelming urge to tease her. And to kiss her…

With the sudden absence of every dance she’d ever watched leaving her mind, she didn’t know what to do. She leant into him, hoping he could compensate for her inexperience. Or at least hoping she could wrap herself in his warmth and calm the reddening of her cheeks on that.

Sebastian leaned in slightly too, so they were almost cheek-to-cheek as they danced. It meant that his back was stooped low, but the dull ache at the nape of his neck was worth feeling her this close.

His arms wrapped around her back, kept her close. He led them in silence, swaying her from side to side. And in stark contrast to her flushed skin and wild heart, Sebastian felt sick and like his heart might stop any second.

In this moment, Victoria wasn’t some unobtainable Angel who’d helped his sister and clawed him back from the brink of insanity. She was the girl he adored more than anything. And who was currently…his.

In his arms.

Resting against his chest.

His grip tightened around her at this thought, pushing it aside and concentrating on the small circles he moved her around the room in.

He could hear her shaky breath, right next to his ear. His mind, so graciously, tortured him with pictures of what her lips would look like as she breathed. How they parted and her tongue would dart out to wet her lips.

He sighed and with great effort, pulled his face away from hers. He missed the warmth of her cheek immediately, making him shiver. Instead, he moved his chin to the top of her head.

Away from her distractions.

Away from those lips.

And then, there was that atmosphere again. Honesty. Security. Safety.

“You know…” he started wistfully, not quite grasping what words were leaving his mouth, his own ears hearing them at the same time as Victoria’s “…I’ve been mad on you since that duel”

“What?” Her voice was soft but had a distinct strangled quality…

“Since you looked at me…” he exhaled a simply laugh through his nose. His eyes closing, resounding himself to whatever hole he was in the process of digging himself into “…I knew you were special. For a fraction of a second…I forgot about my sister”

He sighed.

He hated admitting it, and he hated how his hormonal teenage body allowed such a transgression . But it was true.

When she knocked him from that platform and offered him her hand…there was no curse. There was no goblin rebellion. There was just…her.

“I…”

“I don’t need you to say anything…” his whole body tensed around her, refusing to let her go in that moment. She sounded…he wasn’t sure…

He wanted for tonight to never end, even though he may have spoiled it. Right now, the air was filled with such possibility, and yes, those possibilities involved rejection. But to have her here for just a little bit longer, in his arms...

Victoria pulled away from him, holding him at an arms length, her hand pressed against his chest and the other still in his hand. There was a quiet happiness that she was not often used to seeing on Sebastian's face. Usually he covered it with a mask irritating charm, mischievous joy…or he just looked…sad.

She felt his slow, heavy heartbeat against her fingers.

Always so calm and yet so manic.

“I thought you were an arrogant arsehole…” she whispered honestly. He snorted out a deep laugh, looking down at her.

“Thanks…” The same irritatingly charming mask slipped over his features again and he smirked. Before he could open his mouth, to undoubtedly say something witty, her fingers touched his jaw as though she could lift a literal mask from his face.

“Don’t do that…” she chastised softly “Don’t hide how you really feel. You don’t need to with me…”

He reached up to touch her fingers stroking softly along his jaw. His features softened and he looked adoringly down at her.

“I…”

“I thought you were an arrogant arsehole.” She repeated with conviction “…then you took the fall for me in the library. You didn’t even know me. But you could help…so you did. Because you’re selfless, and brave, and sweet”

Her fingers pushed into the hair behind his ear, her other hand mirroring it to cup either side of his face.

“And you should probably be in Gryffindor”

“Watch it…” he snapped back with a smirk.

“I’ve been mad on you…since you said ‘I came alone’…” she said staring into the deep dark wells of his eyes “…So I may owe you a couple days” she teased.

Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to laugh. She always made him feel so at ease but right now…he didn’t want her jokes. He didn’t want her teasing.

He wanted…needed her.

“Victoria…” he whispered, leaning in slowly into her hands, his voice soft and full of affection.

He leaned ever closer into her warmth, craving more of that safe, soft feeling that was tingling at his neck. Their lips brushed past each other softly…like the chiffon of her dress. Their touch like a breath upon each others skin.

Before he couldn’t take it anymore…

Sebastian pressed his lips against hers. His heart almost gave out as he felt a rush of emotions, finally having the ability to express all of his love for her. In a form that wasn’t empty gestures and futile brief encounters.

“Angel” he muttered once more as their lips parted. He shrugged her hands away from him and seized her cheek. His fingers almost wrapped around her neck if he didn’t push them into her hair.

The second time he pressed his lips to her it lasted longer. And longer still. He didn’t want to stop, to pull away. The world around him faded away. His heart now kick started, pounded against his chest.

And despite his insides twisting and churning as though they would escape him, he couldn’t bring himself to kiss her how he wanted.

Gently, his lips glided over hers. Softly, his hands gripped her jaw. Slowly, his thumbs brushed over her cheeks. Until, eventually and reluctantly he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Victoria’s shoulder, scooping his arms around her waist and holding her against him.

Victorias breath in his ear was fast and shallow.

How did she not know Sebastian could be this gentle?

Her fingers gripped the sides of his robes, fearing if she let go this would all be a dream.

In this moment, Victoria wasn’t some unobtainable Angel who’d helped his sister and clawed him back from the brink of insanity. She was not some untouchable beauty that he thought himself unworthy of.

In this moment, Victoria was his Angel. His true love that he had been holding back for all these years. And now, tonight…finally, he had her.

Masterlist

[themummersfolly]

I don't have a title for this one yet.

But it's another Mr. Harley fic, featuring little Furiosa.

It wasn’t that Mr. Harley shied away from violence. He’d earned his place fair and square as one of Dementus’ captains, holding up refineries and farms, knocking over caravans and rival gangs. It’s just that, sometimes you didn’t like what you had to do. And there were some lines you shouldn’t cross.

Like hurting little kids. Or hurting their caretakers in front of them.

That had been a dark day for the Horde, when they’d done for the woman from the place of abundance. Mr. Harley had nightmares for days after, and he avoided the Octoboss and his men for longer. He’d worried Dementus would do something to try to force the information out of her daughter, but to his relief he seemed to take a shine to her. Not in the scummy way Rizzdale might, but in, he hoped, a genuine fatherly sort of way. Dementus had had kids himself once, after all.

“Hey there, Pops! How’d you and the nipper handle that ride?”

The History Man scowled at being called “Pops.” He shook the dust out of his robe.

“Quite alright. I suppose if a smoother route had been available, we’d have taken it.”

“Yeah. Pretty hard on the suspension. We’re gonna have to stop here for a day or two to fix some of the bikes.” He passed a canteen through the bars of the trailer. History handed it first to the little girl. Mr. Harley crouched down at eye level to her.

“And how you doing, Nipper?” His best smile looked more like a sneer; Mr. Davidson said it gave his face character, but he doubted the kid would agree. “Hey, got you something, out on the last scouting ride.” He pulled a small bundle wrapped in a scrap of cloth out of his pocket. “Wattleseeds. Used to eat these all the time when I was a kid; not many left, these days. Rounded up all I could find, roasted ‘em for you.” He held out the package. “Go ahead, they’re all for you. Eat ‘em quick, ‘fore they go stale.”

Hesitantly, the girls snaked an arm out and grabbed the bag. She kept her eyes on Mr. Harley as she split the pods open to retrieve the popped seeds. He couldn’t help but grin.

“There you go! That stuff’s like candy.” He noticed something, tilted his head. “Hey, what’s that? On your arm.” He tapped the corresponding spot on his own arm. The girl retracted her hand under her blanket and huddled away from him.

“Was that a tattoo? Like his? He give you that?” He motioned to the History Man, who was peering curiously at the girl. The old man shook his head. “You been writing on yourself? You gonna be a History Man, too?” His grin broadened. “That’s a good job for you! Nobody will ever mess with you, and everybody will want you around!” He sat down with his back against the trailer. “Real proud of you, Nipper. I was telling your Uncle Davidson the other day, I knew you got some good brains on you.”

The History Man’s robe rustled. “Uncle Davidson?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Well yeah, we’re hardly father figures, but we can be uncles.”

The girl returned to eating her wattleseeds and watching him. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a cleaning kit, then drew his pistol and laid it in front of him.

“Shoulda cleaned this a couple days ago; falling behind on me up-keep.” He spread out the wrapper of the cleaning kit and began laying out the tools. “Take care of your gear, and your gear’ll take care of you. But you probably heard that before.” He picked up the pistol and held it, pointing at the ground, where she could see it. “This here’s a Ruger Redhawk, a real nice piece. Got it off an MFP fucker who wouldn’t leave me mates alone.” He opened the cylinder to show her. “Six-shooter, double action, chambered for .45 ACP. Got ten rounds for it, and brass to make a hundred more if we ever get the lead and bang powder.” He added a drop of oil to a rag and began wiping the weapon clean. “One of these days Uncle Harley will teach you how to shoot it, how’d you like that?”

The girl didn’t answer; he didn’t expect her too. Poor kid had been through a lot. She’d start talking again when she was good and ready. In the meantime, it was important to let her know she was safe.

The pistol was gleaming and he was halfway through the story of how he learned to throw a boomerang when footsteps crunched nearby and a shadow fell across him. He looked up at the Octoboss, helmet tucked under one arm.

“Your prettier half is looking for you. Said he found the problem with your fuel injector.” He side-eyed the trailer as Mr. Harley packed up his kit. The little girl withdrew as far as she could, pulling her blanket over her face. Mr. Harley crouched again beside the bars before getting up.

“It’s alright, Nipper, I’ll see you around later. You take care of the dogs and ol’ History, ok?”

She didn’t respond. He stood and headed back to his campsite. The Octoboss fell in beside him.

“You shouldn’t get attached. She’s Dementus’ pet, not yours.”

Mr. Harley didn’t look at him. He couldn’t forget the sight of him questioning the girl’s mother, ordering her lowered into the heat of the fire again and again when she refused to answer.

“Poor kid needs a friend. She don’t deserve what’s happened to her, she’s been through hell.” Because of us. Because of YOU. He bit those last words back before they could escape. He knew better than to give the Octoboss grief. The other man didn’t answer at first, but he could feel him watching him.

They were almost back to the spot where Mr. Davidson was fiddling with their bikes, cursing, when the Octoboss stopped in his tracks. Mr. Harley turned to face him on instinct.

“If you want me to say I feel bad about what I did, I don’t. We gotta choose who we do right by, and I’ll choose my men every time. But you’re right. She didn’t deserve what we put her through.” It was the longest speech he’d ever heard the Octoboss give. “I can’t fix what happened that day, I can’t fix her. And neither can you.”

The Octoboss’s eyes were steady. Dementus liked to brag that his lieutenant was a man without a conscience, but Mr. Harley knew that wasn’t true, had known since he’d found him drunk and crying after losing one of his men to slipsand. There might be very strict limits to his conscience, but it was there.

“I can fix what happens to her today,” Mr. Harley replied. “Then maybe being broken won’t be so bad for her.”

A rare expression crossed the Octoboss’s face: one of remorse, maybe, or at least appreciation. He nodded.

“You’re too good a man for this world, Mr. Harley. I’m glad you got Mr. Davidson to look out for you.” He held out a hand. “We square?”

Mr. Harley regarded him for a moment. “Square,” he said at last, and accepted the handshake.

“Good talk.” The Octoboss turned away, back to the camp of his Mortifiers.

“Everything good between you two?” Mr. Davidson asked as his partner trudged into the campsite. He had a fuel pump disassembled and spread out in front of him.

“Yeah. Just straightening some stuff out.”

“So we don’t have to worry about him shanking us in our sleep.”

Mr. Harley managed a laugh at that one. “You know he don’t like to do nobody except they’re awake and facing him.”

This got a chuckle out of Mr. Davidson as well. “Yeah, he’s a better man than me, that way. Not as good a man as you, though.” He smiled fondly at his partner. Mr. Harley looked back at where the kennel trailer was parked.

“We ain’t good people. None of us.”

“Yeah, I suppose we aren’t.” Mr. Davidson laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll work out. For you, for me, for all of us. Even for the kid. I promise.”

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part VIII: Steed

ao3

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Please enjoy this chapter, brought to you by my fight for A's in science and quantitative reasoning. Next semester will be easier, so things will definitely be getting back on track.

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre

@kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

@blktooth @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @hungryswampdweller @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles

Content Warning: In a surprising turn of events, none.

#######

“Fresh fruits and vegetables!”

“Fine trinkets for sale!”

“Fresh meat, straight from the wild!”

Bishop sneered at that last pitch. “I bet you ten septims that meat is from last Loredas.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Leara said, looking around. 

It was market day when they arrived in Whiterun. Stalls and vendors lined the streets of the Plains District as peddlers called out sales gimmicks and prices to the large crowd of passersby. Local farmers parked in rows, setting up shop in the back of their carts. Whiterun was alive with shades of green and gold, vibrant in the height of summer. The sun-warmed kiss of ripe tomatoes and the sweet tang of summer apples wafted through the air, just detectable above the muddy scents of crowd and city. The aroma of red gold apples caressed Leara’s scenes as she passed by an overladen stall. The gleam of the fruit under the sun caught her eye, and Leara almost turned back to speak to the saleswoman. 

Bishop’s hand on her elbow drew her back. “Eyes on the prize, sweetness,” he whispered in her ear. His eyes were directed toward the eaves of The Bannered Mare. 

Leara sighed and followed after, Karnwyr on her heels.

The Bannered Mare was much busier than it was months ago when they came through from the Reach on their way to Ivarstead. Leara paused on the threshold, Bishop just ahead of her with the door wide open. If she closed her eyes, Leara could see the barfly buzzing around Bishop’s head, the sour expression on Saadia’s face when the ranger ordered her around, the apprehensive look that grew on Mikael’s face as his eyes slid from Leara to Bishop looming over her shoulder. She could hear Hulda snapping at Bishop, her patience worn thin as he continued to prod at the security of her inn. 

Leara opened her eyes. Her feet had led her to the bar. Hulda was scowling at Bishop. Again. 

“How’s that little break-in problem you had a while back?” Bishop asked.

“Resolved,” the innkeeper said in clipped tones. 

“You sure about that?” 

“Bishop, please,” Leara whispered, cutting in before he got them thrown out of the inn. “Hello, Hulda.”

The woman’s hard face softened, but only just, as she shifted focus. “Hello, dear. Will you be staying?”

“Yes, is,” she paused for a moment. Just one, and then, “Is my old room available?” Karnwyr bumped his head against her off-hand, and absently Leara tangled her fingers in his fur. 

Bishop made a noise. She ignored him.

Hulda’s nod was short, her eyes fixed on Bishop. “Just the one room, dear?” she asked Leara.

“Yes, please.” 

Her lips thin, Hulda shuffled through some keys she kept hooked on a board behind the bar. She perused the rows for a moment before plucking out a familiar brass key. The Bannered Mare was large, serving as the principal inn for the city of Whiterun. Leara never bothered visiting any of the others, though the Bosmer from The Drunken Huntsman was always quick to send her a wave and friendly smile. Before the mantle of the Dragonborn was thrust onto her shoulders. Before that, she’d scraped through the winter while renting out one of the smaller upstairs bedrooms. Nothing as fancy as the balcony suite overlooking the common room, but for a few cold months, Leara called The Bannered Mare home. Leara’s thin fingers folded over the key almost as soon as Hulda deposited it in her palm, its short length and brass loops more familiar to her hand than Words of Power were in her mouth. 

Its weight grounded her.

For a moment. 

“Wait, so you’ve had a room here this whole time?” Bishop’s voice cut in, and again Leara was drifting. 

She swallowed. “You never asked. Last time you were pretty insistent that we sleep on sacks of cabbages.”

Bishop’s scowl did nothing to stop Hulda’s bark of laughter. Leara shot her a small smile as she slipped the requisite ten septims across the counter. Hulda scooped them up. “How long this time, dear?”

“Just a day, maybe two. I have some business with the Jarl,” Leara said. 

Hulda nodded. She didn’t press about the business – she never did, despite being an innkeeper. As central as taverns were for the gossip mill, Hulda always knew when not to ask questions. Her discretion was something Leara always appreciated about her. Actually, it was one of the key reasons why Leara continued coming to The Bannered Mare after all this time. 

It was probably also why Jarl Balgruuf continued to sneak into this particular barroom out of all the rest in Whiterun. Not that Leara knew anything about that. 

“Speaking of which,” Bishop said, “we better be off.”

“Thank you, Hulda,” Leara coughed. Hulda nodded to her, turning back to the ledger behind the counter. “Actually,” Leara said softly as she and Bishop made their way to the stairs. She could feel Bishop’s eyes burning under her skin. “I need you to stay here.”

“What.”

Around them, the barroom bustled. The cheerful song of Mikael’s lute rose and fell above the hum of patrons dining and drinking. It was hardly an hour past noon: Many were catching a bite to eat before returning to the hustle of the market stalls. No one could hear Leara’s soft whisper or Bishop’s hot hiss above the clatter of dishes and mugs and the scrape of chairs that punctuated friendly conversations. 

Her feet planted firmly on the first step, Leara turned to face Bishop. From this vantage point, she could look directly into his eyes without having to crane her neck. It was a little dizzying. She didn’t expect that. Karnwyr darted passed her up the stairs and Leara took that moment to steel herself. “Are you familiar with Jarl Balgruuf’s temper?”

Bishop crossed his arms, shifting his weight back on one leg as he did so. “I’ve heard the rumors.”

Leara jutted out her chin. “Well, they’re true. It is a delicate matter that I have to discuss with the Jarl. I am here not only for myself, but the Greybeards as well—” Bishop rolled his eyes; Leara continued, “—and it may go more smoothly if I went alone to Dragonsreach.”

Bishop stared at her. “There’s a joke in there somewhere about my manners, isn’t there?”

Leara gave a half-hearted shrug. “The joke is my ability to persuade the Jarl to agree to the Greybeards’ plan.”

They walked up the stairs. “And what is this all-important, top-secret plan, anyway? You haven’t said a word about it since we left that frozen hellhole.”

Leara winced. “Trust me, you’ll know soon enough, and when you do, you’ll wish you didn’t.”

“Sounds promising!” Bishop laughed as they crested the stairs. Karnwyr sat waiting for them, his tail wagging. 

“It promises something, all right,” Leara murmured, her feet tracing the old familiar path down the hall to her room. It promised disaster, definitely. Death, probably. Fire . . . Leara cringed, memories of Helgen blazing across her mind as phantom smoke choked her throat and dragon fire scorched her skin. There would be fire, and fire was death. 

Even with the peace conference as an incentive, fear of Jarl Balgruuf’s rejection of the plan churned inside her. 

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Leara jolted, only to find Bishop staring down at her, his face crinkled in perplexity. “You okay there, ladyship?”

No. “Yes, thank you.” 

Slipping by him, Leara made her way nearly to the end of the hall, sliding the key into the lock as she went. It wasn’t a large room by any means. There was a chest at the end of the bed, a nightstand, and a single chair in the corner. It wasn’t much, the double bed comfortable, if a bit worn. The musty smell of hay and horsehair burrowed its way into her nose, its familiarity both a comfort and a pain. Her nostrils were stopped up with it the night after she slayed Mirmulnir. There was no trace on the thin pillow of her tearstains, just as there was no mark left on her body from that raging wind that tore through Mirmulnir’s body, dragging his soul into the depths of her own. 

Setting her bag on the chest, Leara sighed. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll meet you back here for dinner,” she told Bishop. She fiddled with the loose hairs that fell curling from her bun. With a few twirls of her fingers, the loose strands settled into place, appearing as if they were meant to frame her face. 

Sitting on the bed, Bishop watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself presentable,” Leara said, retrieving a cloth to wipe down her armor. A few passes along her gauntlets, chest plate, and war skirt were the best she could do. Akatosh, but she was weary of wearing armor. 

She wiped the palms of her gloves before dumping the now dusty cloth on top of her satchel. “Dinner,” she reminded Bishop. 

He said nothing as she left. Leara couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved. She thought for sure he would press to accompany her, but he surprised her. Ever since they left High Hrothgar, Bishop had been strangely mellow. If Leara didn’t know any better, she would say he was pensive. After their heated discussion before departing the monastery, Leara was sure she didn’t want to unpack whatever Bishop was carrying around that made him of all people pensive. 

Karnwyr rose to follow her as she moved toward the door. Shaking her head, Leara scratched the wolf’s head. “You have to stay here, with your master,” she told him softly. 

“Here, boy!” Bishop called from where he now lay sprawled on the bed. “Don’t be such a chaser.” 

Clearly reluctant, Karnwyr shuffled back to Bishop’s side as Leara slipped out the door. 

·•★•·

“Dragonborn,” the guards at the doors of Dragonsreach nodded to her. Their faces were obscured by cage helmets; Leara wondered to herself if either man had been there when she fought Mirmulnir. Returning their greeting with a soft smile and gentle nod, Leara pushed through one of the mighty doors. 

Dragonsreach was truly magnificent and almost comforting. Especially after attending that poor excuse of a concert in the Palace of the Kings, Leara found herself drawn more to the warm woods and roaring fires of Whiterun’s palace than many of the other great places she visited. Out of everywhere in Skyrim, save perhaps High Hrothgar, whose stones sang with a peace and tranquility that rose above the cares and stresses of the world below, warming her heart despite the frigid air, Dragonsreach had a way of pulling her in, coaxing her with its merry hearth and the heady smells of roasting meat and baking bread. The keep was grand, but not garish, decorated with Nordic carvings in the living wood of its pillars and beams that recalled images of horses in the wind and dragons in flight. If the Palace of the Kings was a frozen fortress of stone and strength, then Dragonsreach was a home, inviting people into its heart to seek comfort in its warmth and plenty. 

Knowing Jarl Balgruuf as she did, Leara wanted to believe that invitation still extended to her. Their last meeting, however, was just one more shadow cast by the ever-growing forest of doubt overrunning her mind. If the Jarl didn’t agree to the peace council for the sake of trapping a dragon and stopping Alduin, then Leara didn’t know what she would do. Figure something else out, certainly, but at what cost? Where else could she turn?

Neither her face nor her gait showed the weeds of her worry as the Dragonborn glided across the sunshine-yellow rug that dominated the keep’s foyer, passing the maids at their chores with a brief nod of acknowledgment before sweeping up the great stairs. The silver of her armor gleamed golden in the glow of the hearth fire, and Leara was privately relieved that she thought to wipe off the dust from the road. She wanted to appear put together before the Jarl if nothing else. Usually, men seemed more willing to listen to women who didn’t look like vagrants. Her thoughts turned to the faded state of her hair, its mahogany shine dulled into shades of chestnut. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She resolved then to buy more hair dye off Arcadia on her way back to the inn. 

The feasting tables stretched before her, already set for dinner, though it was hardly the second hour since noon, and she knew that Jarl Balgruuf and his court didn’t take their dinner until nearly seven in the evening. Leara passed these by, making her way toward the throne dais. Balgruuf himself was seated, hunched to the side with his elbow propped on the armrest and his bearded chin balanced on his closed fist as he listened to whatever his steward was prattling on about. Off to the left, his housecarl, Irileth, stood back with her arms crossed, her ashen face creased at whatever Avenicci was saying. However, more than half her attention was marking Leara’s progress across the room as she drew ever closer to the Jarl’s throne. Few would notice the attention, but Leara was trained to spy slights of eyes and shifts in attention. In another life, she thought Irileth might have made an excellent Knight-Sister. Certainly, a more rational one than Delphine, at any rate. 

“My Jarl,” the housecarl said, cutting off Avenicci’s spiel about road patrols growing too close to the other Holds. Funny, Leara thought, hadn’t he used that same argument to try and dissuade the Jarl from sending aid to Riverwood the previous fall? “The Dragonborn is here.”

At once Leara found the attention of Balgruuf the Greater directed at her, his arm falling from its perch on the chair as he straightened in his seat. As if his actions pulled a lever, Leara dropped to one knee at the base of the short steps to the throne dais, her right arm barred over her chest with her fist over her heart. It was a Bretic stance, but despite being hailed as a Nordic hero, Leara couldn’t persuade herself to adopt their court etiquette. Akatosh knew she wasn’t going to kowtow to Balgruuf like she once did before Lord Naarfin or, Divines forbid, Lord Varlarata. Not today – or ever, for that matter. 

“Dragonborn,” Balgruuf the Greater said, a note of surprise evident in his greeting. “Leara, I did not expect you.”

Dropping her arm, Leara rose to her feet. “I apologize, Jarl Balgruuf, but I’ve been on the road a long time. My pilgrimage to High Hrothgar was only the first of many places I’ve visited in Skyrim since the Greybeards summoned me.”

“Of course,” Balgruuf said, his steel eyes watching her. The last time he watched her, Leara had walked out of Dragonsreach in embarrassment, its comfortable atmosphere blown from around her by a cold wind. “I won’t ask if you have found Skyrim well because, between the dragons and the war, I’m afraid she is in a bit of a crisis.” 

Proventus Avenicci coughed. Leara thought she heard a grumbled, “‘A bit of a crisis’ is putting it mildly,” but she dismissed the comment. 

“Actually, Jarl Balgruuf, with your permission, it’s the dragons and the war which I would like to discuss with you,” she said, concern creasing her forehead and drawing at her mouth just so. 

Balgruuf’s shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh. “It would be the dragons and that blasted war that would bring you back here,” he said, almost to himself. 

From the corner of her eye, Leara saw Irileth roll her eyes in that quick, up-down motion that was almost undetectable in its speed. She imaged the Dunmer’s eyes got as much exercise as her sword arm these days. Goodness knows Leara’s did whenever Bishop was nearby. 

Her arms loose at her sides, Leara tilted her chin up and relaxed her shoulders back. “I won’t insult your intelligence network by regaling you with tales of the dragons’ devastation across Skyrim. The havoc and chaos they leave in their wake is second only to the fear people feel at their coming. The dragon threat needs to be resolved, swiftly.”

“Aye,” Balgruuf said, with a grunt. “As Dragonborn, I was hoping you would have a solution that would solve at least one of Skyrim’s problems.”

A demure smile pulled at Leara’s lips as she bowed her head lightly. “I have learned a great deal with the Greybeards, and in my travels besides,” she said, dancing toward her proposal and leading the Jarl after her. Irileth was watching her, she knew, and Avenicci was biting at the bit to insert some comment. If Hrongar were present, Leara didn’t doubt the Jarl’s brother would take the imitative. “I now know how the dragons have returned.” The still-healing skin of her hands and forearms ached at the memory of her ill-turned battle atop the Throat of the World. At the memory of Alduin’s thundering voice and poisonous breath coiling around her, constricting. “It is Alduin. He has returned and he’s resurrecting the dragons.”

The effect of her words was instantaneous. Balgruuf sat rigid, the steel of his eyes glinting and the line of his mouth dropping. The hand on his lap closed into a tight fist, then flexed open. To the side, Irileth frowned, her mouth pinched, but she showed no other reaction. Avenicci, on the other hand, gaped like a fish, his hands flapping at his sides in a strong imitation of a hummingbird. For a moment, Leara wondered what the Dunmer and Imperial might know about the World-Eater and how their knowledge, being transplanted from other cultures as they were and neither being scholars nor particularly religious, must fall short compared to Balgruuf’s. To hers. 

Fire and death flashed in a blazing wind through her mind’s eye. Smoke and blood strangled her tongue. 

“The World-Eater,” breathed Balgruuf. His eyes were distant, darting back and forth as if reading a memory. “Then, surely this means the end times are upon us.” 

Leara stepped forward, one step, two, leaving the cloud of battle behind her as she drew the Jarl’s attention back to her. Splintering steel and shattering crystal. Good. He knew how grievous news of Alduin was. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” she said. 

The Jarl nodded to himself, “Of course not. What’s your plan? What do you need?”

Help, Leara thought, then, “I’ve spoken to the Greybeards, and in our mediation—” or rather, her nagging, “—we discovered that Whiterun is central to stopping Alduin. It’s imperative that we take the opportunity presented to bring an end to his reign of terror. Without your help, there’s a chance that—”

“Leara,” Balgruuf said, a note of finality in his voice. The Dragonborn’s jaw clamped halfway closed at the flare of temper. “Get on with it, girl. You already know I would help bring an end to this dragon menace if I could. You don’t need to dance around the subject like a damn butterfly,” this last was spoken with a touch of gentleness. “What do you propose?”

Did she know that? The ring of her own laughter resounded in her ears, echoing with disbelief and no small amount of Alinor-flavored ridicule. She brushed the memory aside like an afterthought. “I would like to trap a dragon in your keep.”

Spluttering to her left. A snort to her right. In front of her, Balgruuf was frozen. “I didn’t hear you right,” he shook his head. “Did you say you need to trap a dragon in my keep?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf.”

Balgruuf slumped back in his chair, his face in his hands. His shoulders shook and for a fleeting moment, Leara feared she actually drove the Jarl of Whiterun to tears. Then a hoarse laugh slipped through his fingers. Leara stood there, stunned. Whatever she did, she certainly drove him to hysterics! “Jarl Balgruuf—”

“You come in here,” began the Jarl, his hands slipping from his face. One hand twisted into the end of his beard as the other fell limp to his side, “declaring that the World-Eater himself has returned and that the only way to stop the end of the world is to trap a dragon in my keep!”

“It’s absurd,” Avenicci sniffed, glaring at the Dragonborn. “My Jarl, this—”

“But you say you meditated with the Greybeards,” Balgruuf pressed on, ignoring his steward. “They do not do things in haste. Surely, they must have shared their reasoning with you.”

Their reasoning was hers, but the Jarl didn’t need to know Leara talked the Greybeards into helping. She nodded. “We know how precarious the war has left Whiterun. Both sides vie for your loyalty while your continued neutrality not only holds both sides at bay but has effectively brought much of the major fighting to a stalemate. But the tension is building. Neither General Tullius nor Ulfric Stormcloak will wait forever. We know your concern,” she said, rushing ahead as Balgruuf again moved to speak, “that should you agree to help me that they will take the opportunity to march on Whiterun should things go south.”

“What do the Greybeards suggest, then?”

“Jarl Balgruuf!” Irileth cut in, and at once she was so much closer, almost between her Jarl and the Dragonborn whose presence threatened the safety of the hold and her Jarl. “You can’t possibly agree to such a breach of security—"

Irileth’s place as Balgruuf’s shield and therefore the bulwark of Whiterun was not lost on Leara. But her hands were tied.

With ice and frostbite.

“Settle down, Irileth! I haven’t agreed to anything yet!” He turned back to Leara. “What do the Greybeards say?”

“It has been proposed that a peace council take place at High Hrothgar. Given the Greybeards’ historic neutrality and the respect both sides hold for them, it is our belief that negotiating a ceasefire would be in everyone’s best interest, at least until the dragons are taken care of. Perhaps,” she added, “such a peace council might open the door to further peace talks down the road.”

Balgruuf looked like he very much doubted that, and Leara couldn’t say she didn’t agree with him, either. She’d never met General Tullius, as she didn’t really count her almost-execution under his nose at the hands of an overzealous captain, but Ulfric she knew. His storming spirit would simmer for a time, a looming threat of rain, but the clouds would burst and sweep through Skyrim again. The Empire, she knew, would rise to meet him with all the tenacity of a house that, being built on a rock, refuses to be swept away in the flood. 

“A ceasefire,” Balgruuf mused. 

Leara nodded. 

“It seems you anticipated me, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf said, back straight once more. “A guarantee of peace would be the one bargain I would accept to agree to such an astounding plan. To trap a dragon in my keep . . . pah!”

Avenicci’s head was shaking back and forth. “This is a bad idea, my Jarl,” he said. 

But Balgruuf waved him off. “Of course, it is,” he said, dismissive. Beside the throne, Irileth looked resigned. “Aye, but it’s the only way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara said. It was the only idea Paarthurnax could come up with, and Blade or not, Leara trusted the withered dragon.

The Jarl drummed his fingers on his leg. “I take it you haven’t brought this matter to General Tullius or Ulfric yet.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I wouldn’t do you the discourtesy, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara dropped her chin in difference. Still, she could see Avenicci’s scowl on the edge of her vision. Irileth’s eye roll was felt without sight. Leara blamed neither of them. They all knew just how discourteous she could be to the Jarl of Whiterun. 

Silence, the Jarl was in thought, then, “If they will both agree to the council, then I will agree to this plan to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach.” A wry smile curved through his wheat-blond beard. “The Greybeards have been thorough in your studies, then, I wager. Having you read the legend of old Olaf One-Eye,” he chuckled. 

Leara gave a dry laugh. When she visited Solitude, she would have to find a bookshop where she could buy an anthology of old Nordic stories. Maybe then she’d be able to appreciate the humor in this Olaf One-Eye capturing a dragon. It almost reminded her of Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus. She cast a wary eye on the dragon’s crest mounted high above the Jarl’s throne, suddenly doubting the belief she nurtured upon her first visit that it was fake. There was every possibility that the skull was real and that it once belonged to the dragon that Olaf held captive in this very palace. Dragonsreach. Yes, just like Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus, with just as tragic an ending. By Akatosh, she hoped that if she managed to capture a dragon his skull wouldn’t become just another decoration in Dragonsreach. 

“Yes, they have,” she said at length. Her gaze fell back on the Jarl. “I will leave word if General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak both agree to attend the council.” Leara bowed her head, her fisted hand over her heart though she didn’t drop to her knee as she did before. “That’s all I wanted to discuss with you, Jarl Balgruuf. I won’t trouble you any longer.” With that, Leara turned to go.

“Leara.”

With a rod fused to her spine, Leara again faced the throne. Balgruuf frowned at her, though to her relief, Leara couldn’t detect any real anger. Only some resignation of his own. 

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?”

“Before,” he said, “when you refused . . . Well, given the circumstances, for Whiterun, especially, I don’t suppose you’d reconsider my offer?”

Her face remained passive, but the question blew through her nerves, biting and chilling them to the quick. “I’m sorry, no. Thank you, but no.”

Balgruuf nodded to himself, almost as if he expected as much. “I thought as much. Well, safe travels, Dragonborn.” And he waved her away.

“Thank you, my jarl,” Leara bobbed her head, the steward’s upturned nose directing her path to the doors like a compass needle. 

No, she couldn’t accept the Thaneship of Whiterun. That was, that was not for her.

At least she didn’t laugh in his face this time!

·•★•·

“You look a bit tired, dear,” Arcadia said, wrapping the bottles of hair dye.

“The road’s been hard,” Leara said. She dropped a handful of septims on the counter and, accepting the wrapped vials, slipped them into a pouch on her belt. 

Pale lips pursed; Arcadia shook her head. “No one should have to hunt dragons on their own. What happens if you get hurt?”

“I’m not alone!” Leara said, perhaps too quickly. The alchemist lifted a dark eyebrow. “I’m not. I have Karnwyr and Bishop.”

“Bishop?” Arcadia repeated. His name sounded sour coming from her mouth. Leara refused to examine how discordant it sounded coming from her own. “Isn’t he that ranger that’s always bragging about his, ahem—” Arcadia made a vague downward gesture. At Leara’s confused stare, she coughed, “his ‘equipment.’”

Leara was still. Then she shrugged because honestly, it sounded so like him. “Probably, yeah.’” 

“And you’re traveling with him?” Arcadia squawked. “Why in Oblivion?”

“I—” Leara swallowed. “I owe him.”

Arcadia’s hands were in the air as if she were singing a psalm to Kynareth. “Leara, Divines have mercy, what could you possibly owe a pig like that to agree to travel with him? Alone!”

The words “I killed him” lodged in her throat like stale bread, dusty and choking. She nearly had, hadn’t she? Bishop never told her much about his experience in Blackreach after she sent him over the cliffside with the blind creatures, save that the water was “nasty as giant piss” and that he woke washed up on a shore like “some kind of rumlogged pirate”, but that was enough, wasn’t it? She almost killed him. And it didn’t bother her as much as it should, either. The least she could do was let him live on in his little hero fantasy where he was “protecting” her from the Thalmor and thugs hunting her. And who did it hurt if she let him? No one. No one at all. 

“He did me a favor a while back,” Leara said at last, recalling the Thalmor agents in the Ratway and his company in the long dark of Alftand. “This is me paying him back.”

A hand stained from years of handling alchemical ingredients hovered near Leara’s arm, then fell. Even on the platform the counter was built on, Arcadia was shorter than Leara, but still, her Colovian green eyes reached across the distance to Leara’s, like Lake Rumare in their turbulence. People like Arcadia made Leara miss Cyrodiil. Oftentimes she missed her homeland of High Rock, but other times, she longed for the sunshine and urbanization of the Heartlands. Once upon a time, Cyrodiil was her home. She once had family there. Arcadia reminded her of that. 

Leara patted the alchemist’s hand and mustered a reassuring smile to accompany the gesture.  “I won’t let him take advantage of me, Arcadia.”

“I know,” she said as if trying to convince herself of that. “You’re the Dragonborn.” 

Being the Dragonborn meant something different to Arcadia – to Leara herself – than it did to the Nords. They saw a legendary warrior hero, while Leara, who spent years studying under Blades masters, saw the incarnation of Akatosh’s divine blessing meant to guide mortals, as once fulfilled through Talos. Arcadia, just like many Imperials, saw the symbol of the Empire, how strong it was and how easily it was sacrificed. 

Leara fought to seal the cracks fracturing her smile. “Quite right.”

·•★•·

It was after six when she finally slipped back into The Bannered Mare. In the morning she would go to the general goods store and sell the abundance of soul gems from the Dwemer ruins. Part of her wished there was time to deliver them to the College of Winterhold to be studied, but her short coffers screamed louder than her inquisitive mind. There was nothing special about these particular samples anyway, she’d decided while still on the road from Mzark. They resembled to the usual light stones used by northern mages. The only significant difference between the soul gems she picked up in Alftand and those sold by shops was when they were harvested – that and the soul captured in the gem, she thought, recalling the brief glimpses she’d had into the souls of the blind creatures lurking down in the underground. Perhaps when she found a bookshop in Solitude, she could find something on those creatures as well. Didn’t Bishop say they were something out of folk stories?

Yes, it was best she sold the soul gems, she thought, as her gaze swept the room for her brooding companion. 

Where was he? She wondered, making her way to the bar. “Hello, Hulda,” she said, sliding onto a stool. 

Hulda, who was jotting some down in the ledger, looked up at the greeting. “Shor’s bones, dear! But you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“I am?” 

“Yeah, that friend of yours, he was getting antsy while you were gone, pacing up and down the upstairs hall like some kind of caged dog. I finally told him to go out back and spend that energy on something useful like chopping wood for the fire,” Hulda said. Reaching under the counter, she lifted a bottle of Surilie Brothers Wine. The cork was dusty, and Leara wondered if it’d been touched since she drank half the bottle the night after slaying Mirmulnir. So distracted was she by the familiar vintage that it took a moment for Hulda’s statement to register.

“You . . . sent Bishop to chop wood? And he listened?”

“Aye,” Hulda said, uncorking the bottle. A glass was brought up next and quickly Leara found her hands full of the sweet wine. “He spat and spewed like a kettle, but one of the Companions was in – Vilkas – and he set him straight.” Hulda gave Leara a look, one the elf was familiar with. While wintering in Whiterun, Hulda frequently suggested that Leara join the Companions and secure a better place for herself than living hand-to-mouth off bounty money in the inn. And if she’d stayed any longer, Leara might have taken her up on the idea. But then the dragon attacked, followed quickly by the Greybeards’ thunderous summons, and Leara couldn’t stay in Whiterun. With the fate of the world on her shoulders, she didn’t think she could just “stay” anywhere, anyway. 

“I’d have loved to see that,” Leara smiled, cradling her glass. With the poised hands of an Altmer mage, she lifted it and took a dainty sip, the kind that always had Hulda shaking her head when she saw her. 

Hulda chuckled, “Anytime you want to see that boy thrown around, just take him to Jorrvaskr. I’m sure Vilkas will give you a repeat performance!” And went back to her ledger.

Giggling to herself, a manic bubble danced in Leara’s chest. She sipped at her wine and turned to watch the room. Folks were trickling in for dinner in ones, twos, and threes. Some were already seated. Speaking of the Companions, she spied Vilkas’ twin, Farkas, and his girlfriend sequestered off at a corner table, making eyes over a plate of red mutton. Fingers tapping along her glass, Leara decided against saying hello. There was something about her that seemed to rub Farkas’ girlfriend the wrong way, but for the life of her, Leara couldn’t imagine what she’d done to make Artanis disdain her so. It was a mystery Leara didn’t have time to unravel, no matter how much she might want to. There was a time when she thought she could make a home in Whiterun, but that time was over. 

Across the common room, Saadia slipped from the kitchen, a bundle of firewood settled in her arms. The waitress settled the wood across the fire and, taking the iron poker of the end of the spit, stoked the embers into a merry blaze. The fire crackled in time with chirps and lilting notes of Mikael’s flute as he played a soaring tune that Leara recognized as “The Dance of Torchbugs”. Not his usual dinner catalogue, but it was a cheery melody that remined Leara of camping under the auroras while the torchbugs and luna moths fluttered across the tundra on midnight paths. 

Someone called for more ale, and Saadia disappeared again into the kitchen, emerging again minutes later with a laden platter of tankards. 

“I’d rather have what you’re having,” a voice commented.

Leara started, and turning, found the stool beside her occupied with by a Breton with curly dark hair and a mischievous glint in his black eyes. He grinned at her, the sort of roguish grin a man delivers when he knows he’s taken a woman by surprise and is pleased with himself for doing so. There was a cherry tint high on his cheeks, as if he’d already been drinking. He had an air of levity about him, and Leara, despite herself, found herself drawn in at once. 

“Hulda, another glass of Surilie, please?”

The innkeeper looked up, frowning slightly when she saw the Breton beside Leara. Shrugging, she poured another glass of the Cyrodilic vintage.

“Put hers on my tab,” the man said, catching Hulda’s wrist with a deft touch, half-gesturing toward Leara with a jerk of his head as he did so. Hulda stared at him, and nodded silently. The glass of wine exchanged hands, and then she went back, drawing her ledger further down the counter and leaving Leara alone with the stranger. 

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” she told him. 

He shrugged and went to drink. To her surprise, the stranger’s movements with the glass were as practiced and graceful as her own – hardly the motions of a man already deep in his cups. 

Lowering the glass, he eyed its contents critically. “Not quite the depth of the 399 vintage, but this’ll do.”

Leara stared at him. “Are you a wine connoisseur?”

The man laughed, a golden laugh like the churning of bubbles in a glass of Evermore Doré. “You could say I’m an appreciator of fine things,” he told her, a dimple teasing her from the far side of his face. 

“Would they we could all take the time to appreciate fine things,” Leara said, mock-toasting her glass to him before taking another delicate taste. The wine slipped down her tongue, full of the sweet nostalgia of dead summers long buried beneath the forests of the West Weald in the south. She caught the watchful eye of the stranger, then, and lowered her glass. So cheerful was his appearance that it was only now that she saw the sad light twinkling in his eyes. All the sadness of the world, the thought struck her.

Leara set her glass on the bar. 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Sam,” he said at once, cradling his own glass like a rosebud in his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Quite, I’m Leara.”

He didn’t say anything about her being Dragonborn, for which she was grateful, but he did continue gazing at her with sadness, and somehow that seemed heavier than her mantle of hero. Straightening her spine, Leara felt her vertebrae crack, releasing pressure throughout her back. The pinch was back in her hip, so she slipped her left leg from the wrung on her stool to stretch it toward the floor. Glancing up, she caught Sam shaking his head. 

“You’re fractured,” he said, half to himself.

She’s – what?

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

With his elbow on the counter and his chin nestled in his palm, Sam shook his head. “I can see the lines clawing up your limbs and converging on your heart. Who hurt you, kid?”

“No one!” came Leara’s quick reply. 

He was already shaking his head, mumbling to himself. “When he finds out, I’ll catch flack for it, I know it! Everyone always blames me for this family’s issues. Are they forgetting that’s Bal’s domain?” His eyes cut back to her, jet searching her like an open book. Heat crawled up Leara’s neck, flushing her skin as pale red as the washed-out roots of her hair. “Oh, that sucks.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I hate that for you.”

Striking the counter with the flat of her palm, Leara leaned forward. “What,” she hissed, “in the name of Akatosh are you going on about?”

“Oh, kid!” Sam laughed. “I do nothing in the name of Akatosh. His champion, however, well, you never know what you have until you’ve lost it, yeah? No,” he raised a finger, “No, you don’t know yet. Or maybe you do, but not enough.”

Unnerved, Leara got to her feet, her wine in hand. “You’re mad,” she whispered. 

Sam looked up at her, startled, as if seeing her for the first time. Then the roguish grin returned. “Lea, Lea, Lea, don’tcha know? Only the best people are!”

“Right,” she stepped back. “Thank you for buying my drink. It was nice talking to you.” Not. It was actually rather disconcerting. 

“You too, kid,” Sam waved her off, and Leara, with all the decorum of a Dominion officer escaping an undesirable social function, marched lightly across the room to an empty table. 

Sanguine watched her go, sparing a glance to her lithe hips and the sway of her war skirt. “Oh, Sheo ol’ boy, if you could see the state she’s in, your anger might drive you sane.” 

·•★•·

She was rinsing the excess dye from her hair by the time Bishop finally trudged into the room. The jacket of his hunting leathers was flung over one shoulder, leaving him in the thin linen shirt he usually wore. His shoulders and forehead glittered with sweat. Honestly, he stunk more than usual, Leara thought. Spying Karnwyr cover his nose with a paw, spread out as he was on the bed, Leara knew the wolf agreed with her. And they said dogs were man’s best friend!

“Move over, I want to wipe down,” Bishop grunted, flinging his jacket over the chest. He plopped down on the edge of the bed and began untying his boot laces.

From where she stood bent over the water basin, Leara caught the ripe stench of Bishop’s socks. Her grimace reflected back at her from the rust-colored water. “Give me a minute. I’m almost done.”

She felt more than saw Bishop’s eyes rove over her backside where the fur-lined weave of her trousers hugged her hips and rear. A shiver shuddered down her spine, unrelated to the water she was pouring over her scalp. 

“You know what, sweetness? Take your time. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

“You do that,” she muttered. Setting aside the water cup, she took the ratty old towel she’d got off Saadia and began drying her hair. Next time, she resolved, she was dying her hair sitting down, no matter how terribly her hip cramped! “You were out there a long time,” she began conversationally. “Did you chop a lot of wood?”

“What do you think?” Bishop scoffed. “Every bushel I chopped, that damn barmaid scurried away with like she owned it or something! Really, how much firewood could an inn need in one night? Nah, I must’ve chopped half a forest.”

Leara straightened just in time to catch Bishop flexing his biceps at her. Her nose wrinkled at the disturbed scent of sweat coming from his underarms. “Aren’t you so impressive,” she rolled her eyes, tossing the towel at his head. “Clean up, won’t you?”

“Hey!” he cried, only just catching the towel. “You know,” he began as Leara dumped the basic out the window and filled it with clean water from the pitcher. “I wouldn’t’ve had to chop wood if you’d just come back here after your little ‘meeting’ with Balgruuf the Lesser!”

A muscle in her jaw ticked at the insult. “I took a walk to clear my head. You should try it sometime!”

“I’ve been walking behind you clear across Skyrim, and you want me to take a walk?” He took the basin from her, setting it none too gently on top of the nightstand. “Spare me the health check, ladyship. I got enough out of the bossy healer who was with that damn Companion your little innkeeper friend sent after me!”

Leara passed him the bar of lye soap. “Oh, I’m so sorry she asked you to do something useful rather than terrorize her patrons!”

“You know, I don’t appreciate your tone!”

“I don’t appreciate yours!”

Bishop scowled, the wet bar of soap clenched in a tight fist. Then shlick! It shot out of his hand. Leara ducked just in time to watch it sail overhead before slamming into the closed bedroom door with a thud! Stunned, Leara and Bishop watched it slide down the wood, leaving a sudsy trail in its wake. 

A giggle escaped Leara, followed by Bishop’s own bark of laughter. 

“Gracious,” Leara breathed, hands cradling her face as humor at the absurdity of the scene overtook her. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Bishop snorted. He made his way to the door and stooping, retrieved the soap. “Haven’t had that happen before.”

“I have,” Leara said between guffaws of laughter. “One of my, ah, fellow students was traipsing around the room with the soap,” she said, recalling the atmosphere in the women’s barracks at Cloud Ruler Temple between the knight-apprentices. “She swore it would serve as a talisman to keep the boys out of our dormitory. I made the mistake of telling her that if they were that serious about getting in, a little soap wasn’t going to deter them. She threw it at me, only, it hit the window instead of the door. We were a week without soap. By the end of it, the boys smelled divine in comparison, honestly. Akatosh, but that was decades ago,” Then Leara trailed off, grounded by the peculiar look twisting his features. “What?”

“That’s not the first comment you’ve made about ‘decades’,” he said.

“No, of course not! Haven’t—” here Leara hesitated, “—haven’t I mentioned being in the war?”

“What, you mean the Great War?”

“Yes! What other ware would I mean but the Great War?”

Bishop shrugged, his usually temperamental bravado not in it. Leara drew back, her arms crossed as she studied him. His hair was rumpled, and his face streaks of dirt and sweat. A tired scowl distorted his mouth, drawing lines across his usually handsome face. He mirrored her stance, his bare arms barred across his sweat stained shirt. Lifting her chin, Leara met his pale stare, a crease appearing between her own brows. 

“How old are you?” 

Leara froze, having not expected the question. How old was she? It was summer again – had she really let another birthday slip her by? The years were growing so fleeting now. Here she was, over halfway to her next birthday, and she hadn’t even observed the previous one, had she? Leara swallowed. “Sixty-four,” she whispered. Her fingers sought out the cold moonstone band, enchanted to open her deep magicka wells and regenerate her otherwise stunted resources. The blessing and curse of the Atronach. 

Bishop swore, startling the redhead. “You’re a cradle-robbing saber cat, sweetness! Ha!” He laughed again, wolfish as he wasn’t before.

Leara blinked, then shook her head. This time, her laugh was mixed with confusion. “On the contrary, I’ve kidnapped no one, nor am I part cat. I’m Dragonborn, remember? Not Khajiitborn, or some nonsense like that.”

Bishop sobered. “Yeah, I remember all about you being Dragonborn!” He stripped off his shirt and flung it into the corner. “How could I forget your desperation to help every idiot in Skyrim find their crap, like some kind of damn hero detective service! I can’t, because not only do you not shut up about it, but every sorry place we stop is full of simpletons clamoring for your attention! And where does that leave me, your ladyship?”

She wilted. And they were getting along so well, too, weren’t they? “I don’t know,” she whispered. 

Karnwyr lifted his head, his brown eyes swimming as they met hers. “I’m going to sleep,” she told Bishop, her attention fixed on the comforting form of Karnwyr. Exhaustion seeped into her bones with a growing familiarity. She wanted to bury her face in the wolf’s fur and cry, just as she did that night in Windhelm after the bloody embarrassing performance. After she saw Ulfric.

Her breath stilled in her lungs. The peace council. She had to invite Ulfric. 

“Sweetness—”

Shooing Karnwyr off the bed, Leara scratched the wolf’s ears. Pulling back the covers, she scooted up against the wall, her arms crossed as her forehead met the cool paneling. Guilt over the ruddy letter she never read joined the exhaustion and weariness already drowning her soul.

“Darling—”

“Goodnight, Bishop.”

She dreamed of grey storms and golden liquor. 

[moonfeatherblue]

Of Gods and Cogs

“… Ben.”

I stand below the gazebo and say his name.

His name is all I say. Never been much for confrontation, I suppose—goddamn, it had to be me who stumbled upon Ben’s trespass. A dim lamp strapped to his forehead, he crouches over the Elders’ contraption, all brass and gears and pressure gauges. The frantic clicks and pops of Ben’s tinkering through the cool, clear night keep discordant time with our misted breaths: his shallow and agitated; mine quick and afraid.

My lips tremble on calling for help. Something pointy and cruel digs into the pit of my stomach, telling me that would be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some pretty God-awful ideas—I wound up here, didn’t I?

No, it’s Ben and me.

… God help us.

I say his name again. “Ben… please…”

One extra word croaks out of me.

“Don’t move!”

My entire body jolts as Ben spins to face me. Half-tangled in copper coils and silhouetted in my quivering pool of lantern light, he clenches one jittery hand over his head. A bundle of wires snakes from his fist into the unknown innards of the contraption.

Horror spills up my spine.

Oh, no…

“What will this achieve?” I try, my eyes an anxious hummingbird flicker up and down the wires that connect Ben to the Elders’ contraption. “What could you possibly hope to—”

Ben’s molten glare tightens around my throat, stealing my speech, the very idea of language spooling away in meaning as I—predictably—freeze.

“I thought Ellious and Martha were pathetic. But you?”

Ben sneers, his disdain laced with venom. I lurch backwards—not only at his expression, but as something shatters by my feet. My lantern, it seems, has escaped my grip. Its oily flames snuff out on impact with the gazebo step, plunging the garden into darkness. Now the only light remaining, besides the quiet glitter of stars through tree limbs, is Ben’s head lamp. Its beam glares directly at me. My blinking eyes prickle with bewildered spots, blotting the traitor into a smear of shadow.

“You’re the worst of the lot,” Ben says, panting. “You *adore* them, don’t you?”

“Adore who?” I squint at him, the cogs barely creaking in my stressed head. Glass crunches beneath my shifting boots. “The Elders?”

“Of course the Elders—sycophant!”

He spits on the pristine lawn at my feet, adding his own fluids to the galaxy of dew clinging to the blades. “You call this a sanctuary? A place of healing?”

Ben’s laugh is terrible, pure aural poison.

“They’ve bound us to them—don’t you see? Every last stray they’ve collected! We’re theirs, now! You think they’ll just let us leave here?”

“S-stop…”

I gasp as Ben’s wild gestures jerk the deadly bundle in his fist. Behind him, the contraption makes an unnerving fizzing sound. “Ben, you can still s-stop this!”

“I’m ending this.”

Turning his back, Ben again hunkers before the contraption like a worshiper at an altar, his fisted threat still held overhead. “You stay the hell away from me! Get out of here—get out! While you still can.”

Panic froths and bubbles up through my digestive tract. I stand by, as good as vacant, my body stiff and lips sealed shut. “S-stop…”

*For God’s sake…*

I grind my teeth so hard my jaw moans—forget this! If the entire garden’s going to burn, it won’t be because I can’t hold my fucking nerve when it counts!

I gather resolve around me like an armoured cloak and step forward. Ben doesn’t notice, too hellbent on sabotage and too convinced I wouldn’t dare.

Another step.

“Ben.”

No, *this* is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Somehow, I don’t care. I’ve never felt more certain in my life and—holy hell—confidence is crack.

Give me more.

I seize Ben’s wrist, feeling the hectic tick of his pulse and whir of machinery through his papery skin.

“I… said… STOP.”

From mountaintops with fire-streaked skies to bathwater predicting the end of days, relax for a minute or two with your beverage of choice and dip into some fantasy flash fiction with Blue.

Listen to the audiobook version on YouTube @moonfeatherblue

Also available on Wattpad, Inkitt, and Scribble Hub. Eventually also on Tapas (once I figure out why the site doesn't like me) and my yet-to-exist website (when I eventually get on top of that) ~

[shivunin]

ohoh Tavitha please!!!

This is the doc where I keep all of Tav's backstory and snippets! Her backstory section is very freeform, but here's a small part of a snippet with her and Gale:

“You’d think a prodigy would have a better hand at throwing something useful in battle,” Astarion grumbled somewhere behind them. Tav, who’d braced herself against a wall, stiffened. 

“Yes, well,” Gale said from the ground, one hand still covering his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll give it a hand the next time we’re fighting. I am certain you’ll impress us all.”

Astarion sneered, and might have spoken whatever cutting insult he’d prepared if Tav hadn’t straightened and stepped between them. 

“Come on, then,” she said. The leather cord of her holy symbol had been worn to smoothness with constant use. It did not scratch her neck when she pulled it from beneath her breastplate now, and the brass warmed quickly in her hand. Shadowheart shifted closer, her pale face even more colorless than usual. 

“Forgive me if I remain prone a moment longer,” Gale said, angling his elbow in so she could stand beside him. “I fear I haven’t the wherewithal to stand just now.”

“Rest, Gale,” Tav told him gently, and looked at Astarion. 

“Well, I suppose I am the only one of us who knows how to dodge, but I won’t say no,” he told her, and strolled close enough at last. Tav, who’d seen the blood soaking through his clothes, said nothing about his wounds. He could pretend to be unharmed all he liked. She would heal him regardless—would heal them all. It had surprised her to learn how much it mattered to her that she do so, and do it well. 

My Lord, she thought, closing her eyes, bless me with your radiance and wash away the wounds of our toils. 

She felt the touch of Lathander down to her bones, as she always did when she called upon him. It was like a flash of sunlight against distant metal, there and gone. Not enough—it was never enough, and never would be until she saw his face again. Tav tucked away the horrible ache of memory and opened her eyes again to check the others. There would be a second wave—He never sent too much at once, and this sort of healing always had to be taken in two smaller pieces—but even that much had Gale sitting up again. 

The second wave crested and flowed from her, little more than a soft radiance in the noontime sunlight. 

“Oof,” Gale grunted, and passed a hand over his hair. “You know, that always rather feels like having the wind knocked out of me, if such a thing could be pleasant. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to offer a hand up.”

“Of course,” Tav told him, holding out her hands to Shadowheart and Gale at once. She braced herself to help them stand, then gave them what privacy she could manage while they dusted themselves off again. 

You have my everlasting thanks, Lord of Light, she thought, and tucked her holy symbol away again. 

“Back to camp?” she asked the others. 

Grumbling, they staggered their way back toward the clearing they’d chosen for the night.

[stokesy55]

VK would be so furious when he discovers he can't take the other omegas' places for the bets. He'd hate the concept of bets, fullstop, but if that awful ordeal is to happen, he'd rather it happened with him and nobody else. He's the oldest of them all, he'd view it as his personal responsibility to protect the other, younger omegas in his team. And then, he discovers his bonding prevents him from taking their place.

I wouldn't even put it past VK to go to Pat, asking for permission to let him take the place of whichever omega was betted.

VK just strides up to Pat one day, bold as brass and snaps, "I need to talk to you."

Pat blinks, taken aback. Usually, VK doesn't initiate any conversation with him unless absolutely necessary. He regards his omega with a slightly worried gaze. "Go ahead then, I'm listening."

VK shifts from foot to foot, wondering how to phrase this. "I need your permission," he bites out through grit teeth finally. He winces, hating how weak and submissive that sounds. As if he's a child, incapable of making the correct decisions on his own. He grimaces. "Well, technically I'm not asking for your permission." He makes sure to clarify it. "Just know, I'm going to do it regardless of whether you say yes or no. Consider this a warning, I guess? It doesn't matter to me if you give your permission or not, but I'd like going into this knowing you're okay with it too. That way, at least we can avoid a fight after I come back, about how I never bother to inform you of my choices."

The niggling worry in Pat's mind has turned into full-blown anxiety now, and he can't keep it from seeping into his voice. "Just what exactly are you planning to do?" He asks carefully. "Unless I know that, I'm afraid I can't possibly say anything."

VK closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if summoning patience for this conversation. "Well, I assume you know about the betting stuff?" Pat nods silently. "So um, they will offer up one of my teammates as the bet in case we lose the series against England. Probably Hardik or Rishabh, I guess. I'm not saying we'll lose, because of course we won't, we're a great deal better than them, but just in case we do, one of them gets sent to the English dressing room."

"What do you want me to do about that?" Pat is utterly perplexed.

"Nothing!" VK answers honestly. "It's just, the only reason they're getting offered instead of me is because I'm bonded to you. Bonded omegas aren't on board for this twisted little game. Not unless their bonded alpha gives their board official written permission to." He swallows. "That's what I need your permission for," he confesses finally in a small voice. "I need you to write an official letter to the BCCI, saying that as my bonded alpha, you're making me available for the bets for this series and every series following this. Then they'll have to bet me instead."

Pat's face is thunderous by the end. "Like hell I'm gonna do that!" He booms out. "Are you out of your mind? I get that you want to protect your teammates, but sometimes you just can't and there's nothing you can do about it!"

"Shut up!" VK screeches at him suddenly, sounding quite demented. He tends to lose his temper quickly when told that he's powerless to do something about a certain situation. "I'm going whether you like it or not!"

Pat sneers. "I'd like to see you try. No way in hell am I letting you do that."

VK blows his hair out of his face in frustration. "Why not?! You're sleeping with that whore anyways, why do you care if I sleep with someone else? It's just for one day, heck, not even a day, a few hours at the most. I haven't said a thing to you about that little harlot of yours and you've been sleeping with him for months now. If I can tolerate you cheating on me for months and months, then you can, no you have to tolerate it if I go and sleep with someone else for a day!"

Pat can't conceal a surprised flinch. "Don't call him a whore and a harlot." He mutters. "And whatever's going on between me and Mitch is different."

It's VK's turn to sneer. "Why is it different? Because you're an alpha? You can run around sticking your dick in whoever you like, but because I'm an omega, I can't spread my legs for anyone but you? Is that it, you hypocrite?"

Pat flinches again, this time at the vulgar language used. "No. It's not that." He manages with difficulty. "It's different because whatever Mitch and I are doing is always consensual, from both of us. Whatever happens in the English dressing room is not going to be consensual, at least not on your side."

VK rolls his eyes. "I'm offering myself up, aren't I? That's consent enough."

Pat groans. "Please don't act like you aren't doing this because you don't have another choice. It's not consent when yes is the only option available. Both of us know this is forced consent Vi, and that's not healthy."

VK smiles a horrible, crooked smile. "Sometimes you don't have a choice about certain things, and you can't do anything about that."

Pat hisses in frustration. "Stop turning my own words against me. What you want to do is very altruistic and all, but you're not doing it as long as I'm alive. You're not going to offer yourself up for the bets and that's final, and I don't want to hear one more word from your mouth regarding this." He shudders in a mixture of disgust and horror.

"You don't tell me what to do." VK replies, quiet but stubborn.

"Don't I?" Pat's eyes glimmer dangerously. "When it's about somebody else touching my omega, especially against his will, I sure can. Let me make one thing very very clear, honey. You. Are. Not. Going. And that's it. The matter isn't up for discussion. You asked me, I said no, now you shut your mouth and obey like a good little omega should. And if you don't, the consequences won't be good."

"What are you going to do if I don't obey?" VK snarls, his eyes alive with a goading glint. "Beat me black and blue? R@pe me, like the English alphas doubtless will?"

Pat grabs VK by the elbows and gives him a sudden, rough shake. "Don't ever say that again!" There's barely contained rage in his eyes, and VK, breathless and surprised, realizes he's gone too far. Pat looks him square in the eye then. "So you do admit that whatever happens if you give yourself up will be non-consensual?"

"Of course it will be non-consensual, you dummy!" VK roars. "It'll hurt, it'll be frightening and I'll hate every moment of it! But I'd rather I went through it instead of any of my teammates! They don't deserve to be put through this! I'm not doing this because I fancy a fuck, you fool! I'm doing it because I don't want the other omegas to be forced to do this! It'll traumatize them, but I'll survive through it! I've been through worse in my life! And screw it! Why am I even justifying myself to you? Why do you care about what happens to me, there or anywhere?"

Pat looks at VK, hurt and bewildered. "I do care," he finally says, in a tone soft and injured. "Of course I care for you. You think I'd like it if god forbid, anything happened to you? Why do you think I'd be willing to let you put yourself in harm's way?"

"I'm not putting myself in harm's way." VK tries desperately to convince Pat. When he opens his mouth in outrage, he bulldozes on, not giving him a chance to speak. "I mean, Stu and Ali will be right there! So will Joe! And Ben and Jimmy are not that sort of alphas you know? They won't do anything to me, and I don't think they'll let other alphas do anything to me. And besides, I'm bonded. I won't smell appealing to them. I really don't think it'll be as bad as you fear it will be."

He's trying to convince himself too, and Pat can see that. "I don't care about how bad you think it will be. My omega will be bending over for another alpha, and that's bad enough for me."

VK's eyes flash. "You've been warming your bed with that little slut for about a year now, and I've kept quiet about it!"

Pat makes an exasperated sound. "That's irrelevant. Look, you're angry at me about Mitch, I get it, you have complete right to be. Sleep around all you want behind my back then. Go cuddle up to Kane or Rohit. I won't mind. I know they'll take care of you, keep you happy. Most importantly, whatever happens between you two will be consensual. But--"

Vk cuts him off, glaring daggers. "Contrary to what you believe," he seethes, "I haven't ever even looked at Kane or Rohit in that way. So I'll thank you to keep my imaginary affairs out of this."

"Don't bring Mitch into this then either." Pat responds evenly. "But point still stands. What you want to sign up for won't be consensual and that's what I have a problem with. I won't begrudge you a consensual affair with someone you like, but I'm not letting you do this, not in a million years. Cry and scream about it all you like. You don't know the lengths I'll go to to stop you. I'll tie you up to the bed or lock you in your room if I have to. If it's necessary, I'll lace your breakfast with sleeping pills to make sure you miss that damned match itself. If you force my hand enough, I'll make you retire and give up your career." Pat threatens and he's not even kidding.

"And then you have the nerve to say you care about me," VK marvels, dull and bitter in tone, leaving Pat speechless with incredulous rage.

This is very close to how I think it goes down.

I need to check my timelines but, yeah

[just-some-castaways]

𝒜 𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒾𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑜

(Excerpt from House of Crows WIP, First Draft)

~ July 2nd, 2002 Northern Pennsylvania ~

"You're a long way from home, Miss Miller." The speaker, a man with thick greased hair and a black suit-coat, continued to scratch away at a journal, quill pen in hand. "I'd advise you to remember that before you attempt anything rash."

Miss Miller, a simply dressed woman in her early twenties, stood by the door to the lavish study, a 308 Winchester rifle in hand.

"I just want some answers." She cringed inwardly as the floorboards creaked under her footsteps.

The quill pen scratched on.

"Why'd you kill those men at the train station? Who started the fires?" The familiar feel of the polished wood in her palms and the cool kiss of the brass trigger beneath her pointer finger bolstered her confidence as she circled the room. "Why make a point to leave those markings when it's clear you're the one behind it all? Why put the blame on innocents?"

"Oh love, I'd hardly call them innocent." A low chuckle accompanied his response. "Their crimes vastly outweigh my own. Besides, they're the ones that set this all in motion, I never chose to be reborn. You should be questioning Drakorv."

"Drakorv's dead. By your hand."

"Is he?" The man clucked his tongue. "Pity. I'd presumed a man of his stature would be more than capable of escaping a spot of flame. Shows just how far the Wardens have fallen." The latter statement was said softly, more of a reflection than a statement.

"What does it all mean? What are you planning?" She snapped, patience getting overruled by anger at his indifference. She planted her feet, the window to her back, rifle leveled at the man's head.

"A manifesto my dear." He set down his pen and turned to look at her, smile playing on his pale lips. "A bit bold perhaps, but as I said, they forced my hand. If you truly must know my devious schemes, attend the gala tomorrow evening at seven of the clock. A seat on the balcony should provide you with a more than adequate view." Giving her a once over he added, "You might want to procure something more... fitting of high society if you plan to attend."

"I don't want a ticket to your show, I want you to stop. All of it. The killings, the fires, the selfish displays of power, I want it to stop." She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Before anyone else gets hurt." She pressed a cheek to the butt of her gun and stared down the iron sights to press home her point.

"Very well." He rose and clasped his hands behind his back. "But first, the eyes of the people must be opened to the wickedness of secrecy." He strode forward till the barrel of the gun was pressed into his vest, then leaned forward with a sneer. "I will stop when light is shed on the centuries of lies that those self righteous Wardens feed to the hungry masses. I will stop when their empire comes crumbling down and the cycle is broken. I will stop when the people once again have access to what was always rightfully theirs. When balance is the foremost ruler of nature again, then, and only then, will I stop."

Alice's confidence wavered, the unexpected carelessness of the man before her causing pause.

"I was not the one that started this war, but I will be the one to end it. History may never remember my name, but it will always remember theirs." Raising his fingers, he snapped. As Alice's vision blurred, and she stumbled backwards, grasping for support, he whispered to her fading consciousness, "And you, my dear, will be just another name written in stone, nestled beside the charred bones of your beloved."

Then the world faded to black.

[rainestorm2556]

Snippet from my newest WIP

Isabella was in her room watching TV. She heard a knock on the front door and her mother yelled for either her or her elder sister to get it. So Isabella paused her show and opened the door. She saw a girl about her age with dark brown hair and eyes. She felt connected to her somehow and then before they could say anything a golden lyre hologram appeared above her head. “Oh fucking shit.” They both spoke at the same time.

“So uh you kinda gotta go with me now.” The girl standing before Isabella said.

“No way/ Why would I go with you?” Isabella asked. Then, her older sister Amber appeared and when she saw the glowing lyre and a green glowing trident appeared above her head. The girl across from Isabella looked panicked.

“Look, there's no time to explain. You just have to come with me.” The girl quickly wrote some ransom note and took the sisters with her. They fled down the stairs quickly and began sprinting towards Camp Half Blood. The most horrible monsters they could imagine followed them. A bat-like creature with claws of brass and glowing red eyes sneered at them and followed them all the way. It had a shriveled face and wore a horribly crumpled up and wrinkled velvet dress. Her wings looked almost leathery and her feet had sharp talons. “So you guys are children of the Greek gods. I’m Alex, my dad is Apollo. Just like yours is.” She pointed at Isa as they ran. “Yours is Poseidon. Now please introduce yourselves so if you die I know the names to give to Chiron and if I die you you know the name to give to Chiron.” The two girls nodded.

“I’m Isabella and this is my older sister Amber.”

“We’re almost there. If we can get to our destination we’ll be safe. We don’t stand a chance of fighting this fury so our only option is to try to outrun her.” Alex was out of breath but stopping meant dying.

“Why is a furry chasing us?” Isabella asked.

“Fury.” Alex corrected her half sister. “It’s a kind of monster from Greek mythology.”

“Okay furries may be weird but I wouldn’t call them monsters.” Isa responded and Alex internally face palmed.

“Fury! Not furry!” Alex chided.

“Ohhhh!” Isa realized. “By the way, you can call me Bella.”

“Yeah no. I’m calling you Isa. Your sister gets to stay Amber though.”

“Okay then I guess I’m Isa now.” As they ran Alex saw a tree on a hill in the distance and this brought her spirits up. They sprinted towards it like their lives depended on it because well they did. When they finally reached it Alex took a moment to catch her breath before bringing the Torres sisters to Chiron. They seemed hesitant to part but once they entered their new cabins they felt right at home.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Forbidden Lessons XXXIV (Path B) End

Masterlist

Make sure to follow which path you’re reading and I hope it’s not too confusing. Each path (a and b) are separate storylines.

Warnings: noncon, age gap, abuse of power, coercion, mentions of suicide, depression, pregnancy and abortion, violence. Y'all know I do it dark and spicy. You have warnings, use them.

Thots, comments, screaming, and feedback are welcome and highly encouraged. Thank you. Thanks all for following along. I might sometime off in the future do an epilogue but for now, adieu.

You stare up at the lush green leaves of spring as Loki steers onto a long driveway. The suburban sprawl swallows you up as he eases down on the gas.

An iron bench sits coiled in ivy beneath an overgrown canopy of the same twisted around a wooden gazebo. From the street, one wouldn't guess the unkempt yard behind the grey stone wall.

The grass is nearly to your knees, or so it looks, and the house is unlit, curtains drawn in each window. You glance over at Loki, confused and slightly scared. What is this place?

"Yes, I will need to have a conversation about the state of the house," he sighs, "but you will find it adequate for the time being?"

"You own this place?" You wonder as you bend to see through the windshield, the large two-story house, topped with dark shingles.

"Not mine," he assures you, "of course, how foolish would it be of me to leave you without a warden. I've been much too careless as it is."

"Warden?" your heart leaps.

"Calm yourself, you want this baby healthy? It does not good to get worked up. You may content yourself in knowing it won't be me," he says tritely, "and I will do the same."

You inhale and let it out loudly as he comes to a stop, just at the curve of the great stone steps along the front walkway. Hedges overhang the stone rails and crawl towards the arched doors. He kills the engine and drops his head back, as if steeling himself as well.

"Right, out," he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door. He stands with a groan as you hear his knee pop. You almost want to laugh, he didn't lie about being old.

You mirror him and scurry around as he does not wait before ascending the stairs, sure to avoid the reach of the foliage. He plants his feet at the top and uses the great brass knocker to bang on the wood. He bows his hand and taps his toe impatiently.

He checks his watch as a cloud covers the sun and sighs. He rings the small bell framed in curly brass to match the knocker then once more hammers on the wood, this time with his fist.

There is a long stretch as his he leans his head back and glances around. "I did call ahead--"

The lock turns back with a heavy grind and creaks inward slowly. Through the inch between the door and the frame, a blue eye peeks out, a hint of hair dangling down.

"Brother, I told you to expect me," Loki says exasperated and pushes on the door. It shakes between them as the other man resists. His brother?

"Yes, you," the deep voice rolls like thunder in the distance, "not another."

His eye flicks to you then back to the tall imperious professor. He gets a sneer and shrug in return.

"She is harmless, I assure you. You've this whole place to yourself, surely you might spare a room."

There's a silence, consideration blows out in a long breath. The door shuts sharply and Loki flinches but doesn't retreat. It opens again and the man within appears as the cloud rescinds from over the sun, casting him in a slat of yellow light.

He's taller than Loki, broader too, he has some extra weight stored around his middle, poking out from under a too small sweatshirt as he tries to tidy his long hair, his beard twists down his chest. From his appearance he looks sad, a curse you know well.

"Sure, sure, a room," he agrees, "she is young and looks friendly."

"She is young and stupid," Loki sniffs, "turn some lights on."

He elbows in past his brother and you stand there dumbly. Maybe he is right, you are feeling a bit more stupid with each interaction.

"Thor," the large man holds out his hand. You shake it and give your own name. "That's very pretty, come on in."

He pulls you inside, not roughly, and lets you go as he turns to flip on some lights. A large entry way glows as you enter, facing a wide staircase at the centre of it.

"Is this your girlfriend?" he asks Loki hopefully. A scoff that masks your own.

"Unfortunate accident," Loki answers, "but I do need her looked after."

Thor gives him a quizzical look which soon falls upon you. You're not sure about this. This man seems like some crazed hermit, perhaps what you one day would've become, and may still. Nonetheless, he's also a stranger to you and related to the worst man you've ever known.

He crosses his arms as he looks you over, then bends and squints, as if to get a better look. He angles as his eyes descend and he looks at your hips.

"She's pregnant," he states evenly.

Your eyes round. You're not showing. How could he know?

"It's yours," Thor continues.

"Yes, well, she hasn't anyone else and I'm afraid we don't get along that well. I will of course provide for her stay--"

"Not at all, not at all," Thor booms, "it will be nice to have some life around here since..."

The man pauses and his smile falls. His eyes sparkle. Loki looks irritated by his sudden gloom.

"Jane," Loki finishes for him, "yes, I'm sorry for it, but it's been two years."

"And mother, father..."

"I mourn them as well, but you must lift yourself up. I can't hold you much longer."

"Hold me up? You? Oh, when's the last time you came?"

"I call," Loki swallows.

"Two months ago."

"Ah, yes, well, I will have reason to drop by now, won't I?"

Thor rubs his chin and nods, "suppose," he glances back at you, his cheeks redden, "do you need help with your things?"

"I don't--"

"Like I said, she has come from a desolate situation, she has only her person and that other attached to her."

"Oh, but I can dig some things up!" Thor announces as his sadness slakes away.

"And dust. And mow the yard, trim the garden," Loki paces as he takes stock of the place, "open some windows."

"All of it, brother," Thor claps, "yes, I think I could do it. It might feel like a home again." He is almost shaking with excitement, "please, excuse me, I have so many thoughts, I do recall I have some of mother's stuff upstairs in the closet--"

He runs off as his voice trails after him in a vocal narrative of his inner monologue. You stare after him as Loki nears you in long strides. You look at him, a smirk slanting his lips, "this should do for you, pet."

You furrow your brow as you put your hands on your hips. "Putting me off on him?"

"A roof over your head, food in your belly," he shakes his head, "and my brother loves children. He will be good to the little one."

"And what about me?"

"You want to be a mother, that's your choice, isn't it? Don't worry about you, worry about the child," he girds and checks his watch again, "I must find my brother before I go but you will be... satisfactorily kept here."

You nod and peer around. You're not sure about Thor but you know things now. Lessons learned from Loki and Bucky. An education you'll never forget. And for once, Loki is right, it's about the child not you.

"Fine, but if this turns out bad--"

"I'm certain the dean will have an open office door, darling," he speaks down to you, "I am aware of your promises, let me keep mine first."

You chew your lip as you face him again. It's not perfect, you didn't expect anything close to, but it's something and that's more than you expected.

It's a big house, big enough to be yourself. To be a mother, to be free…. To a degree.

[svnflowervol666]

hey! can you write one where harry invites y/n and his band mates out for drinks and they try to hand her a drink but she reveals she previously by saying like “you can’t drink when your pregnant” ...

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: I combined this one with a request for where Harry constantly refers to Y/N as his “ex-girlfriend,” because they’re engaged now. ((Super cute. Super corny. Makes my heart mush. Anyway.)) Kinda short but still sweet. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Take care and TPWK.

“There she is!” 

His voice is drowned out by clanking glasses and the heavy bass of whatever rock song was playing through the shitty speakers in the corner of the room, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. Followed by his “greeting” were the shouts and howls of the rest of the bunch, most of them raising their glass in honor of her (late) arrival.

“My ex-girlfriend!”

Harry, despite his inebriated state, smiled widely and welcomed her as protectively as he always had in the past few weeks - relieving her person of any bags or extra weight, this time being her coat and purse which he hung on the brass hooks underneath the bar table, and inspecting her facial expression for any signs of discontent or worry. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he kicked his “dad-mode,” tendencies into overdrive, but it certainly began on that rainy, Thursday night in their shared bathroom as they sat against the wall of the bathtub with four positive pregnancy tests in both of their hands.

“Really wish you’d stop calling me that, Har,” she sneered as he helped her shake her arms loose from her coat.

“One of these days you’re gonna cause a scene.”

“'S true, though,” the drunken boy giggled.

“You’re not m’ girlfriend anymore. You’re my fiance.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes at his antics, intending to pull him in for a quick hug and kiss when her attention was drawn away from her curly-headed brunette and towards the man of the hour.

“Y/N!” 

“Hello, birthday boy,” her voice was mellow against the drunken slur that had started to take over her friend, Mitch’s.

“‘S not very nice of you to be late to my party,” he slurred as he pulled her in rather harshly for a bone-crushing hug.

“Sorry, got caught up with some work stuff,” Y/N managed to get out through a chuckle in between Mitch’s squeezing.

She saw Harry stiffen out of the corner of her eye, like he was torn between yelling something akin to, “Take it easy on her, mate. She’s pregnant for christ’s sake,” or letting the interaction play out. He knew he wasn’t allowed to do the former, as they’d agreed to wait until they could have all of their friends and family over at the same time to tell them the good great news, so Harry opted to let Mitch hug her extra tight despite his unrealistic, dramatic worries that he’d crush her fragile frame or hurt the baby in some way. She made sure to send a reassuring smile Harry’s way when Mitch let her go from his grasp.

Short and sweet was her greeting to Sarah, both of them opting to kiss one another on the cheek.

“Let me see it one more time,” her voice was quiet amongst the chatter of the bar, almost sounding like a whisper.

Y/N felt the heat climbing to her cheeks as she let Sarah take her hand in hers to examine the ring on her fourth finger. The band was gold and slim, adorned with a dainty yet sizeable single diamond in the very center. 

“So pretty,” she gushed, admiring the way the gem flittered, even in the dim, tungsten-glow of the bar.

Y/N muttered a quiet “thank you,” before making her away back to the other side of the table where Harry was waiting for her with an outstretched arm, yearning to get back to what they had been doing before Y/N had to make her rounds.

As he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, Y/N caught wind of the tequila on his breath. She tasted it too, when she pecked his lips quickly and - oh god, did she taste stout as well? Maybe she’d end up taking care of him later tonight when his head was stuck in the toilet, but that seemed plenty fair considering how often Harry had been doing the same exact thing for her here lately.

“Yeh alright? Had me all worried when ya said you’d be late,” Harry’s question was asked lowly so that only she could hear.

Harry had been with Mitch and Sarah all day celebrating, hence this was the first time he’d seen Y/N since this morning when he kissed her and sent her off to work.

Y/N nodded and smiled, though her face led Harry to believe differently.

“Got sick when I got home from the office. Just took me a little bit longer to get out the door,” she shrugged, insinuating that it wasn’t a big deal, but that she wasn’t feeling one hundred percent ready-to-party either.

“Baby,” Harry half-scolded her, feeling a good portion of his buzz leave his body when Y/N mentioned that she hadn’t felt well.

“Why didn’t yeh just tell me you were sick? Coulda came home and sat with you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to ditch your best friend’s birthday dinner just because I was throwing up for the fifteenth time this week,” she was stern in her words and made it clear that she was fine.

“I’m alright. I promise.”

Harry’s jaw softened at her proclamation, the muscles in his torso easing up from their tense position.

“Oi! Will you two stop whispering and get drunk with me?!” Mitch shouted across the table, bursting the bubble that had temporarily surrounded the couple whilst they talked about their sweet little secret that they were dying to tell everyone about.

“You,” Mitch pointed his finger towards Y/N’s head.

“Shots. Now,” he gestured to the bartender making drinks on the opposite end of where their table was.

Both Y/N and Harry chuckled nervously, unsure of how to work around the fact that Y/N couldn’t drink without spilling the beans.

“Think I need to get some food in my stomach before I do that. Why don’t you take Harry,” Y/N urged Harry forward by his shoulder and prayed it would be enough to entertain the drunk boy.

“Fine,” Mitch glared.

“It’ll just make it hard for you to catch up later then!”

He grabbed Harry by the bicep and cleared through the crowd of people in order to get his liquor he was so keen about.

The conversation with Sarah was light, mostly about what all they’d done today and bets on if Mitch would end up needing to be babied for the rest of the night. Y/N successfully dodged Sarah’s questions about the wedding and how planning was going along, chalking it up to busy work schedules and failing to come to an agreement on a venue and date.

“Harry’s dead set on a summer wedding, but I’m fighting for a winter date,” she dismissed through a nervous chuckle when the reality was that they were unsure how to navigate planning a wedding around the arrival of their baby to make any more decisions.

It seemed like ages passed before the two men returned. Y/N was picking at the fries and sipping on the ginger ale Harry had ordered her before she’d gotten there but was interrupted when Harry and Mitch came barrelling back to the table.

He was drunk. Quite drunk. And Y/N knew that because his body felt even warmer and his eyes looked even hazier than before he’d left. She imagined they definitely had more than once shot at the bar, but she didn’t have much time to ponder that before she felt his hands snake around her waist and rest on her hips. She reciprocated his touch, looping her arms around his shoulders and laying her head against his chest.

“Love you,” Harry muttered into the soft spot between her jaw and ear, then his hands wormed their way under her shirt to rest on the underside of her tummy.

“Love you too,” he said again.

She could feel him smile against her skin as he cradled her almost non-existent baby bump from underneath her oversized sweater. Harry was the only one who saw her regularly enough to notice the minute changes her body had been going through. To everyone else, she still looked like plain, old Y/N.

“We love you more, but if you don’t stop canoodling me in the middle of this bar,” Y/N began, speaking light-heartedly and quietly in his ear, “Everyone’s going to find out and you won’t get to have that announcement party you’ve been planning for weeks now.”

Harry sighed, knowing she was right, and loosened his hold on her tummy and opting to sling an arm over her shoulder to at least keep her close instead.

“I know what you’re up to,” Mitch glared at the two of them from across the table.

This gained the attention of not only Y/N and Harry but Sarah as well. Everyone turned to look at Mitch, anticipating what he was going to say next.

“And what would that be, Mitchy?” Y/N toyed.

A pout formed on his face, arms quickly crossed his chest as he huffed.

“You’re trying to get out of here and leave me all alone on my birthday.”

“Guess I’m not even here then. I’m a hallucination,” Sarah baited with a roll of her eyes.

“We’re not trying t’ leave ya, mate. Promise,” Harry stuck his pinky out across the table as a gesture of sincerity.

“Are too.”

Mitch’s drunken rambles were beginning to sound quite childish now and became more amusing by the second.

“Are not, honey bun,” Y/N requited.

“Liars. Both of you.”

Mitch launched a bunched up straw wrapper in Harry’s direction that bounced off of his most prominent curl and landed somewhere near his feet.

“Where would we even go, hmm?” Harry taunted, resting his chin on the knuckles of his free hand that was leaned against the table.

“What could we possibly planned tha’ would be better than spending time with you lot on your birthday?”

They watched as Mitch’s remaining sobriety fought hard for an answer, but ultimately giving into his drunkness and murmuring, “Don’t know! Probably going off to screw each other or something!”

The table burst into laughter, and Y/N hid her face in Harry’s chest out of embarrassment. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me actually,” Sarah quipped before taking a huge sip of her cocktail.

“Look. Here’s the deal,” Mitch tried his best in his drunken stupor to be serious.

“Prove to me that you’re not gonna leave me and take another shot.”

“Fine,” Harry shrugged.

“Let’s go back t’ the bar then.”

He started to pull Mitch along but was stopped suddenly.

“No,” Mitch was quick to intervene.

“Y/N too. If you both drink, you can’t drive home and leave me,” he said proudly as if his idea was the smartest thing he’d ever come up with.

She knew it was only Mitch being sloppy drunk and acting like the idiot he always was, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel her palms begin to sweat. They couldn’t tell Mitch the real reason why she couldn’t drink with the group tonight, so she was quickly wracking her brain for another excuse now that she’d filled her belly with french fries since giving her last one.

But there was no need to think any further, as Harry stepped in for her.

“She can’t do tha’, mate. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some more tequila. Looks like Sarah needs another drink as well, hmm?”

Harry pinched his nose in annoyance. He was trying his hardest to keep this all under wraps, but Mitch was making it extremely difficult.

“Who are you? Her keeper? Telling her what she can and can’t do?” Mitch yelled.

“No, you nunce. She can’t drink because yeh can’t drink when you’re pregn-”

Fuck.

Harry clapped his hand over his mouth before he finished his sentence, but it was too late. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking when he said it. Wasn’t even sure if he was thinking at all, to be completely honest. He silently prayed that neither Mitch nor Sarah heard him, but he quickly realized that was untrue when they both stared between him and Y/N with wide eyes.

“Y/N L/N. Are you pregnant?” Sarah was the first to speak up.

Y/N felt like she was stuck in place, only able to look at Harry with a racing chest and her mouth agape. 

“I, um, I - yes?” It came out as more of a question due to her state of shock.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Holy shit,” Harry exclaimed as he went back to Y/N’s side to console her.

He was spiraling in fear that Y/N was angry with him, but it was mostly the alcohol making him think so.

“You’re having a baby?” Mitch’s voice was unusually quiet for how loudly he had been yelling just moments ago.

“Yeah. We are,” she was laughing nervously as she spoke.

“Sorry that Harry ruined the surprise. We wanted to have a big party and tell everyone at the same time, but I guess the cat’s out of the bag for you guys.”

She rubbed Harry’s back with her palm, a silent reassurance for Harry that she wasn’t upset with him. Mitch and Sarah, however, they couldn’t read.

Mitch said nothing, only leaving his position beside Sarah to go stand in between Y/N and Harry. He looked at them both with an expression that resembled both anger and confusion, which only added to their discomfort.

In a split second, he had his arms around both of them, hugging them tightly.

“Holy shit! This is the best birthday present ever. Uncle Mitch and Aunt Sarah. What the fuck?!” he was rambling now, beaming from ear to ear as he ran over to pull Sarah, who was also losing her shit, just in her own seat and not on top of Harry and Y/N, into the group hug.

Their eyes caught each other in the midst of the friend-sandwich they were being forced to be a part of. A smile and knowing look were exchanged between them and they knew, despite it not coming out in the most fashionable way, their precious little bub would be surrounded by people that loved them dearly.

[briefinquiries]

Luke Alvez x Reader: Bruises

Request: @whormotional​ asked: “hi i have recently become obsessed with your writing! youre like the best luke writing on this app i swear. could you do one where the female reader gets kidnapped on a case and tortured and just like luke and the team saving her and luke being there for her later that night pls”

Word count: 5.4k

Tagged: @ssaic-jareau​ , @alvezstan​​ , @lcvischmitt​​ , @ogmilkis​​ , @goldenalvez​​ , @ssa-morgan​​ ,  @akimagies​, @zhangyixingxing1​​ , @pinkdiamond1016​​ , @yourwonderbelle​​, @rachelxwayne​ , @sc4rletw1tch​ , @ellvswriting

Warnings: Kidnapping, torture, gun tw, blood mention

A/N: love angsty requests thank youuu. hope youu enjoy!!

You wake up to the taste of blood in your mouth.  Your breath was ragged and shallow as you shook yourself out of a deep sleep. It was the first sense you were able to regain, but before you could force your eyes open, you felt the  pulsing pain coming from the back of your head.  It shot down your neck and around to the front of your forehead, making you wince.  

Images from the dream you had been having were still clear in your mind.  You had dreamt of Luke.  Maybe you dreamt about him because he occupied most of your thoughts, or maybe it was because his face had been the last thing you saw before blacking out.  You remembered seeing his brown eyes- usually warm and inviting, turn wide with worry as they didn’t quite meet your gaze.  It was like he was staring at something behind you. 

You saw him raise his gun and aim it slightly to your left.  You had been just about to ask him what was wrong before he opened his mouth to warn you.  His words were inaudible, though, as the blow that suddenly hit the back of your head had ensnared all of your senses.  The look on his face was what lingered in your mind now.  You tried desperately to memorize all of his features- the lines around his eyes and the way his hairline curved around his face.  You squeezed your eyes shut even harder, thinking of his tan skin and stubble beard. You really didn’t want to open your eyes, because you knew that wherever you were and whatever had happened to you, wasn’t good. 

…

When Luke comes to, he’s propped up against a cold wall and there are voices around him.  A headache was pulsing behind his eyes as he finally cracked his eyelids, eyelashes fluttering on his first few attempts. 

The blurry faces of Emily and Tara slowly start to come into focus as he wakes up.  He sees Tara sigh a breath of relief when her gaze meets his own. 

“Thank God,” she exhales quietly. 

Blood.  There was blood running down his head. And there was a bloodstained brick lying close to him. 

“Luke,” Emily’s voice is louder.  “What happened?”

“He came out of nowhere-” Luke states, he raises his hand to find the spot on his forehead that throbbed.  When Luke pulls away, there’s blood on his fingers.  Suddenly, images of the incident reentered his mind.  “I tried to shoot- but I didn’t want to hit her-”

“Where is Y/N?” Emily asks calmly. 

Just the mere mention of your name makes Luke sit up straighter.  The sudden movement makes his head wobbly, but he ignores it.

“Woah, take it easy,” Emily instructs. She puts her hand out to steady him. 

Luke falls back against the wall.  “She’s not here?” he asks, panic and fear flooding his insides. 

Instead of a yes or a no, Emily states, “We’ll find her.”

...

When you do finally open your eyes, you find that you're sitting in the corner of a dingy room, arms and legs bound to the worn chair.  The room reminded you of a basement, concrete walls with pipes and ducts running along the ceiling between the hanging lightbulbs that were much too bright without covers.  

You blink your eyes a few times, trying to make everything stop blurring together, but it seems impossible. 

You gasp, chest constructing at the sharp pain suddenly shooting up your left side. You breathe through your nose, trying to will down the panic and fear that’s engulfed you.  Each breath pulled in the strong presence of mold and mildew, making you want to gag.    

There’s a man in the corner of the room fiddling with something.  His back was turned to you until he realized you were conscious again.  He begins approaching slowly.  You recognize his wild hair and narrow eyes almost instantly.  

From the information Garcia had gathered online earlier, the man’s name was Greg Atwood. And he was your Unsub.   

You and the rest of the team had been called to Seattle over a week ago- after the third body showed up.  Once Seattle PD made the connection between the victims, it was clear their problem was severe enough for reinforcements.  You had worked the case just like any other- analyzing victimology, creating a geographic profile, combing the crime scenes. It became glaringly obvious that you were dealing with a professional, someone who killed efficiently and knew how to clean up their mess.  And when Emily sent you and Luke to interview the witness who found the latest body, neither one of you had any idea you were about to walk into the arms of the apparent killer himself. But the profile the team had established, fit.  

When Atwood opens his mouth to speak, his evil smile makes you cringe.  “You’re awake,” is all he states.  His voice is filled with venom. 

You jerk, thrashing against the restraints that bind you. The man steps forward, his finger trailing along the barrel of his gun. He smiles confidently, but it’s his eyes that burn into your brain.  

“What do you want from me?” you ask.  You knew all too well how these interactions went, but you were desperate to stall. 

The man looks at you for a long moment before inhaling deeply.  But he doesn’t speak. 

You blink again, trying to rack your brain and remember the profile.  What would buy you some time?

You dig your teeth into the inside of your cheek- a habit Luke had always given you shit for.  You briefly wonder if you’d ever get to hear him lecture you about it again. 

You tug at the restraints again, testing it.  But there’s no give. 

“What do you want?” you try again.  

Atwood takes another step closer, creepy smile still in place.  “I want to know how you found me,” he says simply. 

You bite your lip.  He takes your hesitation as an invitation to talk more.  “You see,” his voice trails. “I was very careful.  I cleaned up my mess, I didn’t leave behind a single trace of DNA.”

“We didn’t find you with DNA, we found you with our profile.” He didn’t need to know you and Luke had originally thought he was a witness. 

His smirk returns.  “Right,” he says, like he doesn’t quite believe it.  He turns his back to you and walks back towards the corner of the room he originally came from.  He hoists something up, you can’t quite tell what it is until he turns around with it in his hands.  It’s a tripod, and attached at the top is a camera. 

Your chest feels tight again- you didn’t like where any of this was going. 

The tripod is placed about six feet in front of you.  Atwood adjusts the angle a bit before pressing a button.  A light flashes red before he turns to look at you again.  His smile has faded. 

“Tell me where she is,” he orders. 

Your eyes widen, but you don’t speak. 

He waits, only a moment, before saying it again.  “Tell me where I can find Emily Prentiss.”

You clench your jaw.  

“I know you know where she is.  She is your Unit Chief after all, isn’t she?”

You ignore his question.  “Is my team seeing this?” you ask, nodding your head towards the camera.  

His silence makes you assume that’s a yes.  “You know- we profiled that you’d be extremely intelligent,” you say.  “But if you think I’d rat out my Chief or anyone on my team, we must’ve gotten that part wrong.”  

Your response gets you backhanded- hard across the face.  Your head whips back, but you try to shake it off quickly. 

You taste copper in your mouth again as you raise your head up.  Your hair has fallen in your face, but you don’t make any effort to move it. 

Atwood is looking at you, expression calculating.  “If you want to get out of here alive,” he says, “you’re going to tell me where she is.  It's up to you how hard you want to make this on yourself.”  When you stay silent, he continues.  “You see, it’s not you I really want.  I don’t want to kill you.  Just like I didn’t want to kill the agent you were with.  You’re collateral damage to me, it means nothing.”

His words make you freeze in place.  

Just like I didn’t want to kill the agent you were with. 

The sentence seeps into your skin like poison. 

Luke. 

Your face is blank and your mind can’t process the entirety of what he’s said, before he proceeds. 

“You see, it’s Prentiss I want.  Tell me where she is and this will all be over.”

“You killed-” your voice is shaky as you try to comprehend the words Atwood has just spoken to you.  “Y-you killed him?”

His smirk brings bile up in your throat. 

He was lying, you say to yourself.  Luke was fine, he was lying.  “No,” you whisper, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “No-”

Atwood sighs, pretending to be sympathetic. “Like I said- I didn’t want to do it. But he got in my way. Just like you’re getting in my way right now.” 

His words are muffled in your own head as your mind races to make sense of it all. Luke- Luke was your purpose and your happiness and your reason.  Luke was everything.  

“Tell me where she is.” Atwood presses. 

If he was telling the truth, and Luke really was dead- then what did it matter if you died too? “Go fuck yourself,” you spit, trying not to show him the brokenness he’d just caused. 

Atwood sighs, “I was hoping we could do this the easy way.” 

He approaches you, rolling up his sleeve as he walks.  You noticed a brass ring on his finger.  

You wonder what the rest of the team was thinking and if they could even see you right now.  You knew that they’d be looking for you, no matter what.  They’d probably even encourage you to give up Emily’s information- even though none of them would.  But it probably didn’t make whatever was about to happen to you easier for them to watch. 

“This doesn’t end until you tell me where she is,” Atwood sneers.  It’s his final warning.  You look straight at the camera and try to broadcast a message to the team.  In case they were watching, you wanted them to know you could handle this.  You offer the slightest smile, one they’d probably only catch if they rewound the tape, you’re reassuring them that you’d be fine.  

…

When the video stream first comes through, it makes Penelope gasp.  She was sleep deprived after being transported to Seattle.  Her job was to comb through the Unsub’s computer, and to hopefully find a hint as to where he might have taken you. 

At first, she’s surprised, and disturbed by the distressed looking girl tied to the chair.  Penelope has seen her fair share of gruesome images and videos in her days with the Bureau, but she never could seem to get used to it. 

But when the girl lifts her head and reveals a face Penelope recognizes immediately, she’s horrified.  Your eyes are tired, and every breath looks ragged. 

“Emily!” she calls out, “Guys!”  

Just then, a man comes into the frame, his voice is muffled and quiet. Before Penelope can turn the volume up to hear what he’s said, he raises his hand and strikes you across the face.

“No!” Penelope cries, squeezing her eyes shut.  Only when she feels a warm hand fall on her shoulder does she dare to open them. 

It’s Emily, and in her trail is JJ and Rossi. 

“What’s going on?” Emily asks, concerned. 

“It’s Y/N-” Garcia has tears running down her face. 

“Oh my God,” JJ breathes, she covers her mouth with her hands. 

“She’s hurt,” Garcia whimpers. 

Emily inhales sharply. 

“Is this live? Can you trace it?” Rossi asks, leaning in. 

Garcia nods, the rapid clicks of her keyboard answering for her. 

“Where’s Luke?” JJ asks, turning her head. “He can’t see this-”

“See what?” Luke’s voice rings through the room, making everyone turn their heads.  He’s standing in the doorframe with an ice pack held firmly to his head.  After being attacked, he’d refused to go to the hospital.  Not until you were home safe, he had said.  No one tried to argue it.  

They stand speechless, unsure of what to say to Luke. 

“See what?” he repeats.  But that’s when he sees the screen. 

“Who is that?” he asks, voice cracking. He leans so that he can see past Garcia. The panic on his face told them that he already knew. 

“We’re going to find her,” Emily says calmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

Suddenly, there’s a man’s voice speaking from the video.  It’s Atwood. 

“All I need is a location,” he says calmly.  “Tell me where I can find Emily Prentiss.”

Everyone in the room inhales sharply. Luke grits his teeth as he sees you pick up your head.  Your face looks scared. “I don’t know,” you say weakly. 

Atwood sighs.  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, Garcia cries out again as he sucker punches you in the jaw.  Just as you’re wincing from the first impact, you take another hit, a punch to the gut that leaves you heaving and breathless.  

Luke is wild, gritting his teeth.  “I’m gonna bash this guy’s head in myself,” he roars, turning away.  

Just then, the rest of the team filters in the room.  “What’s going on?” Reid asks.  He’s holding an evidence bag in his gloved hands. 

“The motherfucker’s recording it- he’s live streaming it,” Luke exclaims.  He’s gripping his hair frantically. 

“Anything, Garcia?” Rossi asks. 

Her typing has become more frantic as she desperately tries to secure a location.  

The assault against you continues, hit after hit, mostly centered on your left side.  It’s clear that you were doing your best to zone out.

Luke has started watching again, despite Matt trying to pull him away.  

You keep your mouth shut, even when your side aches so bad you think he’s broken one of your ribs.  When Atwood finally stops hitting you, your face is hot and bruised and bloody.

It makes Luke want to be sick. 

Just then, a pinging noise comes from Garcia’s computer and the room goes dead silent. 

After a moment, she turns to Emily questioningly. “I have an address,” she states. 

“What’s wrong?” Tara asks, picking up on the confusion in her tone. 

“What’re we waiting for?” Luke roars.  “Let’s go-”

“It just feels- wrong,” Garcia says, unable to put her finger on it. “Why would an Unsub as intelligent as him not block his streaming location?”

“Do you think it’s a trap?”

Garcia shakes her head.  “I don’t know-”

“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take,” Emily says.  She turns to the rest of the team.  “Let’s go.”

“Be safe,” Garcia whimpers. 

…

You barely feel alive anymore.  You had your eyes closed, and were resting your head against the back of the chair when you tried to imagine yourself back in your apartment with Luke.  You imagined being snuggled into him on the couch as you watched some cheesy, romantic movie. You had given up struggling- your restraints were too tight, it was no use. You tried to count how much time it had been since you’d been here. But the truth was, you had no idea how long you’d been out for. Hours? Days? 

You were wondering if the team was still looking for you when you hear a distant thump coming from upstairs.  

The thing was- you knew this wasn’t just about Emily’s location.  It wasn’t even about your team’s location.  It was about beating you- the power involved in outsmarting the FBI. 

You kept your eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying as best as you could to get your body to stop shivering. You were bruised and bloody and dehydrated.

You hadn’t opened your eyes in a while now. And even though you couldn’t sleep, you didn’t want to open them because you didn’t want Atwood to know you were awake.  

You wished your mind would quiet down, but of course it wouldn't.  You had nothing to do here besides think.  You think about the last words you said to Luke, and you think of how meaningless and insignificant they were.  You try to remember when the last time you told him you loved him was.  You think about if you even wanted to get out of here alive if there was no Luke to go home to.  

In the midst of your thoughts, you gasp loudly when the only door leading out of the room blows off the hinges.  Dust fills the air and you flinch at the feeling of your neck suddenly being barred by a strong arm.  

Atwood. 

“Drop it!” Emily’s familiar voice fills the room.  

You sigh a breath of relief, despite knowing there was a gun pressed directly against your temple. 

“You’re not getting out of here,” Rossi’s voice says.  “So you might as well put the gun down now.” When the dust finally settles, you see him filing to the left corner of the room, his gun drawn.  Matt has already situated himself in the right corner. 

Atwood chuckles from behind you, his grip tightening. 

“What makes you think that?” he sneers. 

“Look around you, man-” Matt says.  “We’ve got you cornered.”

Atwood shoves the barrel of the gun harshly against your temple, making your head spin. 

“I like my odds.”

His eyes flicker to the clock on the wall- a motion that Rossi picks up on immediately. 

“What’re you waiting for Greg?” There’s a taunting tone to his voice. “For three o’clock?”

Atwood’s head shoots up. That hit a nerve. 

“We know what your plan was, Greg,” Emily says.  “We found the bomb.”

For a brief moment, you feel the gun being dropped from your temple.  Just as quickly, the sound of a single gunshot makes you flinch.  Atwood drops to the floor behind you, collapsing in a pool of his own blood. 

It was Matt who took the shot- taking advantage of the brief moment of hesitation that Atwood demonstrated.  You turn to him, trying to express your gratitude, but your head is spinning. 

“You’re okay,” Emily states.  It sounds like she’s trying more to convince herself of that fact. 

You nod without even realizing it. 

Matt’s the first one at your side. He’s frantically ripping away the ropes from your wrist.  There’s ligature marks already visible on your skin. 

Cops and EMTs start rushing through the room just as Emily speaks into her mic that it’s clear.  

You try to stand up, but the world around you spins immediately, tilting on its axis.  You almost black out in just about half a second. 

“Woah-” Emily says.  

Matt catches you before you fall to the floor.  

You struggle to look around the room, but everything is too bright and people are moving too fast.  It’s impossible to tell who’s here and who’s not. 

“L-Luke?” You hesitate because you almost don’t want to know. 

Matt gives you a soft smile, pausing when you’re finally free from your restraints. “He’s okay, he’s outside.”

You blink a few times, not sure if you heard him right. “He’s alive?” you lock eyes with Matt. 

Matt nods, his face sincere. 

“But he’s hurt- Atwood said-”

“Hey,” Matt whispers, tightening his grip around your waist.  “He’s okay, I’ll take you to him.”

You let out a sigh of relief, but it could double as a soft sob.  There are tears falling down your cheeks. 

With Matt bearing the majority of your weight, you let him lead you out of the building.  The glaring, afternoon sun makes it hard to see once you get outside, but you trust Matt’s guidance. 

After only a few steps, you hear your name being called. 

It’s so hard to focus, and you can feel your vision blurring in and out- but you’d know that voice anywhere. 

“Luke-” you whisper tentatively, because you still weren’t entirely sure that the voice wasn’t a hallucination. 

But then you hear it again.  This time it’s clearer and closer. 

You blink a few more times, the brightness fading as you strain to see. 

Slowly, Luke’s figure comes into focus.  He’s rushing towards you, and you realize that’s the first time since being taken that you feel like you could breathe again. 

“Oh my God-” Luke stammers.  Once he reaches you, he hesitates, like he’s too afraid to touch you.  You were sure nothing about you looked even remotely beautiful right now.  Between the bruises on your face and your tear-stained cheeks, you can only imagine the type of image Luke was taking in. “Are you okay?” he asks, he grasps your upper arms gently. 

You ignore his question and throw your arms around him, letting your cheek rest against his chest.  He wraps his arms around you, one hand falling on your upper back, while the other cradles the back of your head.  He kisses your hair firmly before pulling away.  He holds you at an arm’s length and scans your body. 

He takes in the sight of you.  There’s bruising along your jawline, red swirled with blues and purples from broken blood vessels.  It makes his stomach lurch to know you’d been hurt like this- that he couldn’t stop you from being hurt like this.  

There’s blood caked into the side of your hair- crusty and turning dark crimson.  Luke runs his thumb along the length of it.  

Suddenly, he sees you frown.  After blinking a few more times, his face has finally come into focus, which allows you to see the cut visible on his forehead. “Your head-” you observe. 

Luke starts protesting immediately.  “I’m fine, I’m okay.” His small cut was nothing compared to the bruises that inevitably littered your body. 

Your head spins again, making you sway in place.  Luke’s quick to wrap an arm around you and you fall into his side with ease, wincing when his hand falls on your bruised side. 

The EMTs are already on the street, ready to throw you into the back of an ambulance. 

You try to protest, assuring Luke and everyone else that you were fine. But Luke insists.  “You need to be checked out.  You’re not fine.”  

It feels like forever before the hospital clears you.  You have a concussion and a couple broken ribs, nothing that won’t heal on its own.  You’re grateful to not be more severely injured.  But you’re also just exhausted and sore and ready to go home. 

Luke barely let’s go of your hand, let alone leaves your side for the next twenty four hours. It’s comforting having him beside you, but you don’t like seeing him so worried. 

Once you’re discharged from the hospital, Luke and you head straight to the jet, where the rest of the team is waiting.  

Everyone wants to know how you’re feeling- how you’re holding up.  But talking about it made you think about it, and you really didn’t want to think about it. 

The plane ride home feels agonizingly long.  Every time the jet jostles or has turbulence, you wince. And every time you wince, everyone rushes to your side to make sure you’re alright. 

“Can I get you anything?” Tara asks.  She had just stood up to refill her own cup of tea.  

You shake your head, offering her your most convincing smile. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

“Blanket?” Reid offers. 

“Ice pack?”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Coffee?”

“Vodka?”

You decline. 

You sprawl out on the couch with your head resting in Luke’s lap and feign sleep just to avoid their fretting.  It makes you feel guilty to know you had them all so worried. 

His hands are in your hair, stroking the strands softly. 

“Luke, m’tired,” you whisper quietly enough so that only he hears. 

“I know,” Luke answers.  “We’re almost home.”

You lose track of the rest of the plane ride to your scattered brain, only picking up on small details: the murmur of Rossi and Emily talking beside you, the roughness of Luke’s jeans against your bruised cheek, the way your legs have to be slightly bent in order to fit on the couch.  Time passes in a disorienting lurch. 

It is an eternity before you land in Virginia.

And it’s an even longer eternity before you’re pulling into the driveway of you and Luke’s shared house. 

He tries to help you walk up to the door but you wave him away.  “I got it, I’m fine.”

You add a small smile when you see the hurt look on his face. 

“Bed or couch?” he asks while rushing to collect his keys out of his pocket. 

“Couch,” you murmur.  Your choice was based solely on the fact that the couch was significantly closer to you than the bed.  It also didn’t involved a flight of stairs. 

Luke drops your bags by the entryway before guiding you to the living room. His hand hovers wearily on your lower back- like he’s afraid you’ll collapse at any moment. 

You exhale choppily when you’re finally able to sit down on the couch.  It’s worn, familiar fabric makes you feel safer. Your eyes are heavy and your head wants to lull forward.  It’s hard to focus. 

Luke pulls the throw blanket down from the back of the couch and lays it gently on top of you.  It’s warmth brings comfort and ease.  

Luke kisses your forehead gently.  

“I’m gonna go grab some water,” he tells you. 

You just mumble incoherently in response. 

You quickly succumb to the exhaustion- letting your eyes fall shut.  But as soon as you let them close, his face appears.  It’s right in front of you, so close that if you reached out you could touch him.  Atwood is flashing his teeth with his signature evil grin, their tint of yellow and crookedness felt way too detailed to be a dream.  You wonder if you’re back in the basement- if you never really left in the first place.  Maybe being rescued was the dream. 

A soft clinking sound makes you shoot up from the couch, alert and panting while you frantically look around the room.  

Luke is setting a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you, but your startled response makes him whip his head towards you. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, face full of worry. 

As soon as you see him, you realize that you’re home and safe. You try to calm yourself down, embarrassed by your reaction.   

You take a deep breath. “Nothing,” you mumble, shaking it off.  “I’m fine.”

You both knew it was a lie. 

But Luke doesn’t argue- he doesn’t push.  He just settled down beside you on the couch, his arm wrapping around your shoulders carefully.  

You wait for a minute, steadying your breathing, before attempting to close your eyes again.  At first, it’s just the back of your eyelids and their darkness.  You stay focused on that and your breathing.  

As you finally start to relax, you start to feel a strange pressure against your wrists.  You jostle your arms, but for some reason they won’t move.  You’re stuck in place- restrained to the chair again. 

Suddenly, you feel Atwood’s fist against your jaw- his ring tearing open the flesh of your cheek.  His snickering is loud in your ears. 

You snap your eyes open again- you’re met by your dimly lit living room.  

Luke’s thumb is trailing up and down your arm comfortingly.  You were safe- these images you were seeing weren’t real. 

The third time you close your eyes- you see him almost instantly.  This time he’s close enough so that you can feel his hot breath on your neck.  

You shoot up quickly, panting heavily.  Your face collapses in your hands as you try to rub the images from your eyes.

It was real. It was very real, and you had the markings and bruises to prove it. 

This- laying on your own couch, finally getting to sleep- was what you’d been waiting for.  But now that your adrenaline had faded and some of the grogginess from your concussion had subsided, you couldn’t shut your eyes without hearing him, seeing him, feeling him- all over.

Luke sits up too, attentive to your uneasiness. 

“I c-can’t-” your voice is shaky.  “I can’t close my eyes,” you explain. 

Luke’s large hand rubs your back soothingly.

“I can’t close my eyes without seeing him.”

Luke nods, his hand travels from your back to your arm, he grips it securely before leaning in and pressing his lips to your temple.  You lean into his touch, letting him pull you closer to him.  He falls back against the couch, and you fall against his chest, practically on top of him at this point. 

“You're safe now,” he soothes. 

“I’m so tired,” you whisper, exhaustion making you start to tear up.  

“I know,” Luke murmurs.  His fingers trail up and down your arm, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. 

It doesn’t take long of Luke holding you like that for you to fall asleep.  At first, it’s nothingness- just a deep, peaceful slumber.  Until it isn’t. 

This time you don’t see Atwood.  Instead, you see someone curled up on the ground.  As you step closer, you realize it’s Luke.  You call out to him, but there’s no response. 

When he doesn’t answer, you reach your hand out, fingers grazing his bicep.  His skin feels ice cold.  You shake him lightly- but there’s no response.  Harder this time, you pull his weight towards you, hoping to get his attention.  Instead, Luke’s lifeless body flops onto his back.  His eyes are still open, lifelessly baring into your own. His mouth is parted slightly but there’s no air coming in or out of it.  That’s when you see the blood dripping down his face and pooled beneath his hair. 

You wake up screaming. 

“Hey-” Luke’s spinning and sitting up to position himself in front of you.  He cups your face between his hands. “Hey, hey- you’re okay. You’re safe, I got you.”

But you shake your head.  “It wasn’t me-”

Luke’s brown eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to understand. 

“It was you,” you say, voice fading into a sob.  “He t-told me that he k-” you swallow the lump in your throat, but it does little to make you stop crying.  “He told me that he killed you.  He told me you were dead.” 

Just saying it outloud makes you erupt into a puddle of tears.  You’re so distraught that you barely notice Luke pulling you into his lap on the couch. 

He’s murmuring soothing words into your ear, but continues letting you cry into his chest.  The numbness from earlier had completely worn off, and while you were scared and hurt- it felt good to feel something other than exhaustion.  

You’re not sure how long you stay like that- curled into Luke’s chest sobbing into his cotton t-shirt.  At some point, Luke had used his free hand to reach for the remote.  He put your favorite show on the television.  You’d seen every episode several times, but Luke knew it brought you comfort. 

Your eyes were red rimmed and puffy and you sniffled weakly. “I’m sorry I’m keeping you from sleeping,” you whispered, when you were confident you wouldn’t burst into tears again. 

Luke tightened his grip around you. “It’s okay,” he assures you.  “We’re both concussed, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep while you’re concussed, anyway.”

You smile. 

Luke linked your hands together, looking down at you and giving you a soft smile. “I love you.” He whispered, lips pressing against the top of your head.

“I love you too.” you replied quietly.

Things were a mess.  And you were sad and scared and it would probably take a lot of sleepless nights and painful sobs for you to get through this.  Luke would be there to dry your tears though, just like he always was. And Luke would probably have to try harder to keep you feeling safe and eventually, you were going to have to talk about what happened.

But right now, wrapped in each other's arms on your shared couch, all you needed was each other.   

[newtonsheffield]

Spicy Sunday request: in the world of the casual au, post them becoming officially official, Kate seduces Anthony in the office now that their silly rules like no office sex don’t apply. Please and thank you!!

Now, Because I'm a heathen, we're taking some inspiration from a certain Magazine cover that was announced yesterday.

you know the one

I'm Still at work, come meet me and we'll go to dinner.

The message had greeted Kate as she got off the train an hour ago. She'd spent a week in Liverpool dealing with some ridiculous dispute between corporate entities that had made her want to bang her head against the wall every day. She'd said as much to Anthony last night on facetime, propped up on the table next to her thai food, His hair flopping in his eyes as he smiled that stupid lopsided smile of his.

"Poor Katie, Do you need me to make you feel better?" His voice had been far too low, his eyes seeming to burn through the screen at her.

She'd forced herself to scoff, though a jolt had run down her spine almost immediately. "No, thank you. I can help myself."

His eyes had darkened, his smile turning a little feral. "Well I'd like to see that."

And part of her had been tempted to do it, she'd been aching for him all week. Since he'd kissed her on the train platform before she left, his voice low in her ear.

"I miss you already."

And really, two months after their relationship officially started, she wouldn't have thought she would miss his presence so much, but by the second night it felt like her chest was aching, and really, they didn't even live together yet. She'd sat, every night in the sweater she'd stolen from him on the first morning she'd woken up as his girlfriend, the one she'd peeled off him the night before, her teeth trailing down his chest. The one she let him wear once every few weeks so it smelled of him, and her thoughts had wandered to him.

But no, apparently she'd decided to tease him, just to see his brow furrow.

She'd taken the sweater off instead, sat in her bra and said

"This is all you get tonight, But if you want to help yourself, I won't complain." His Hand had been in his sweatpants before she'd blinked.

So no, she really didn't want to go to dinner now, what she wanted, was, quite frankly, a good hard shag. And fortunately, she was under no illusions about who her boyfriend was.

She'd slipped into the bathroom in the lobby of the building and slid out of her clothes, retying her coat tightly around her before marching towards the elevator, the doors sliding open and- Oh for Fuck's sake.

"Kate! Hey!" Brian sneered, his eyes raking down her form she forced herself not to squirm.

"Brian." Kate slid round him into the lift, pulling her arm from his reach just in time. "Please don't touch me."

Brian frowned, "So you and Bridgerton are still-?"

The lift doors had mercifully started closing as Kate said , "Brian even if we weren't, it's never happening."

The office was quiet when the doors slid open, she could see the light of Anthony's office on in the distance, her heart thrumming as she made her way towards it. And there he was, spinning idly in his chair, his tie a little undone, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat still on but jacket abandoned, his hair falling into his eyes. And fuck he was so handsome it made her heart burst, as he stared down at his phone as though he was waiting for something.

"You know, all work and no play makes Anthony a very dull boy."

He shot up at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening, a smile on his face, "You didn't text me back."

"Did you think I wasn't coming?"

He shrugged, "I don't know, maybe you ran off with Brian."

Kate rolled her eyes walking further into the office, "I'm pretty sure Brian would be a lousy shag honestly. He's surely compensating for something."

Anthony smirked, tugging her closer, his chest puffing a little proudly. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me too." She couldn't help but smile down at him, when he looked at her like that, with his eyes shining.

"I got you a present from Liverpool."

"Cool. I got us a reservation at-"

"We're not going anywhere, Anthony." Kate sighed, tugging his hand to the belt of her coat.

Anthony's brow furrowed, "But... aren't you hungry?" christ he was dense sometimes.

"I hope you are." She tugged on his hand, the belt untying slowly, Anthony swallowing convulsively, a gasp falling from his lips as he saw only tight black lace stretched across her skin. His eyes darting up to hers.

"You said I wasn't allowed to at work." The slight edge of petulance made her smile as she pulled the coat from her shoulders, settling herself on the desk directly in front of him. She tugged him forward by the tie, the wheels of his chair sliding easily forward, until he rested between her thighs, a soft moan escaping him.

"Well we broke all the other rules. I think this is fair, don't you?"

Anthony nodded eagerly, his hands already tight on her hips, his thumbs dipping under the waistband.

"Now I think you said you wanted to make me feel better." She barely got it out before the scrap of lace was torn from her, Anthony's tongue moving over her, hot and hard and unrelenting, the silky strands of his hair slipping through her fingers sinfully, his stubble scraping against her as her hips canted forward, Anthony's moan sending a shiver down her spine.

It felt like all the air had been sucked from the office, Anthony's arm tight around her waist, anchoring her in place as he forced her closer and closer to the edge,

"Eyes on me Kate." His voice was rough, her eyes locking with his as his tongue started moving again, his fingers joining his tongue and-

"Oh Fuck!" He'd forced her over the edge, his arms gripping her to him even as he pulled back, a smug smile on his face as her shoulders heaved.

"Feel better?" He looked far too smug, far too satisfied. She'd have to fix that. She forced herself off his desk, pushing his chair backwards, watching as his eyes clouded, her hands tugging at his belt, forcing his trousers down as she straddled him. A whine escaping his chest.

"Not yet."

" I can fix that." It was a groan really, his hands tight on her hips again, encouraging them to rock against his, And How had it only been five days? it felt like a lifetime, since she'd had his firm body against hers, rocking into hers, his eyes locked with hers before his eyelids fluttered closed, his head falling against her chest, burying itself there, his voice wrenched from his chest muffled against hers.

Kate, Kate Kate, I love you, I love you,

Her own voice cracking as it left her chest, Anthony I love you too, it's so good I missed you.

The sound of them echoing through the office, their chests heaving, and then everything fell apart. Her voice breaking as a soft scream tore through it, Anthony's own sharp cry muffled by her chest as she shuddered against her.

His eyes were still cloudy when he tilted his head back, their lips finally meeting, tongues tangling lazily.

"I've changed my mind." He pushed his hair from his eyes leaning back in his chair to look at her. "You should go away all the time if it'll be like this when you come back."

Kate chuckled, "Sure. I'll remember that when you say No, Katie please stay, stay forever."

"Well I guess that's as goos a segue as any to what I wanted to ask you tonight," He tucked his hand into the waistcoat he was still wearing, fishing something out. Kate's brow furrowed as she stared down at the tiny brass key. "Wanna bring that loaf of bread you call a dog and move in with me?"

Kate's heart was pounding in her chest. "You're asking me this now? When I'm in my underwear?"

Anthony smirked, "In my plan you weren't in your underwear, so don't blame me for that. Yes or No?"

Kate sighed, "Well, I think Newton would be sad if I said no, so... yes just for him."

As Anthony's lips met hers again it occurred to Kate that maybe doing this at work hadn't been such a great idea, because they wouldn't be ready to leave for quite some time.

[petrichoravellichor]

Crowley kneels, a pentagram traced in the dirt in front of him and a brass bowl at its center. He adds ingredients to the bowl as Sam urges him to hurry; nearby, Crowley can hear Dean yelling as he unloads a gun on Lucifer.

Then the firing stops, and Crowley hears the weapon’s empty click. He glances up from his work and sees Sam’s panicked expression, and he knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

“Dean,” Sam gasps and moves to stand, but Crowley reaches out and catches his sleeve. “Crowley, let me go!”

“So you can get yourself killed and waste our only advantage?” Crowley snaps. “What exactly do you plan to do, strangle Lucifer with that hair of yours? No.” He exhales. “We do this ritual, we seal that rift, and we lock the Devil in this godforsaken place; that’s the plan. Remember: two birds, one spell.”

“Right, right,” Sam mutters, then draws a breath; when his eyes meet Crowley’s again, the worry is tempered with resolution. “Just hurry.”

From nearby, a grunt of pain splits the air, then another, and then another. Crowley clenches his jaw and continues adding ingredients without looking up. Dean can handle himself, can handle whatever Lucifer does to him for at least a few minutes. Castiel will be able to heal Dean later; he’ll be all right. Crowley will make sure of it.

“Dead Sea brine, mercury, lamb’s blood, holy oil,” recites Sam, pouring the last one into the bowl. “Here we go...”

Yes, thinks Crowley, and it’s almost funny how completely, utterly calm he feels as he thinks it, here we go.

Crowley had never been a good man. He knows this deep in his borrowed bones, knows that he wasted his life in alcoholism and finding novel ways of letting people down. It hadn’t been surprising, really, when no one had come to his funeral; for all Crowley knows, they were too busy celebrating, and why not? The world had, objectively, been better for having him gone.

Then he’d become a demon, and naturally, he’d been very good at it. He’d been a mastermind, a marvelously manipulative Midas whose touch had turned potential into power and placed him at its peak. He’d been a visionary, valued for his villainy, and his victories had been as legion as they had been legendary...but what did it matter, what did any of it matter, if they were also lonely, loveless, and overlooked?

They didn’t, thinks Crowley; they didn’t matter, not even a little. Not even at all.

“Okay,” Sam says, setting aside the jug of holy oil. “That’s the last of it. That’s everything.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

“What?” Sam’s brow furrows in confusion.

“It’s not everything, not yet.” Crowley raises his eyes to meet Sam’s. “If you want to heal that rip, we need one more...minor ingredient.”

Sam frowns. “What?”

“A life.”

Crowley stands, ignoring Sam’s shell-shocked expression and stepping out from behind the mound of dirt that’s been sheltering them, and as he walks, he remembers, suddenly, a poem by a man called Shelley:

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert…

Lucifer is too busy beating Dean to a pulp to notice him. Crowley approaches unseen just as Lucifer throws Dean to the ground, Dean shifting to get back to his feet even as he spits up blood. Lucifer taunts him, moves in for another attack…

...but Crowley is faster. He channels the bulk of his remaining energy and blasts it all in Lucifer’s direction, knocking the Devil to the ground, then steps forward, clearing his throat. “Surprise.”

...Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read…

He watches disinterestedly as Lucifer laughs and kicks, crowing, “Crowley!” as he climbs to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Sam come tearing into the fray, reaching down to grasp Dean’s hand and haul him up. He focuses on the sound of Dean’s breathing as Sam pulls Dean away.

Before him, Lucifer sneers. “You sneaky little…”

Dean’s breathing is fainter now, further, as are the sounds of Sam and Dean’s footfalls. They’re near the rift now, Crowley knows. They’ll be safe.

“So,” continues Lucifer in cold contentment, “I guess I get to kill you twice, huh, Crowley?”

Crowley gazes coolly back. “I doubt it.”

Lucifer sneers. “Oh no no, you had your chance. You could’ve put me back in the Cage, but you had to make it personal, didn’t you?”

Crowley’s gaze flickers down, lands on Dean’s blood in the sand. “You're right,” he says. “It is personal.”

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

He steps forward. “You humiliated me. I...I hate you, deeply. Truly.” Almost as much as I hate myself. “And I’m going to enjoy wiping that smug, self-satisfied look off your face.” Because the only thing I hate more than myself is the idea of you winning. “Personally.”

Lucifer smirks. “You mean, this one?” he taunts, teasing at his dimples.

Yes, thinks Crowley, shifting his sleeve to let the angel blade fall into his hand. That one.

Lucifer leers. “Come on, Crowley. You know whatever you try, you’re gonna lose.”

And Crowley palms the handle of his blade, and he says, “You’re right,” and thinks, But so will you.

And on the pedestal these words appear: My name is Ozymandius, king of kings; Look on my works, ye Mighty…

Crowley closes his eyes. He takes a final breath he doesn’t need, then turns to look one more time at Sam, at Dean. Crowley has never been a good man, but he thinks, perhaps, that he can save one. “Bye, boys.”

...and despair!

He plunges the dagger into his gut, gasps as he feels his life force flicker and flame. His vision fades, and he falls to the ground, vanquished...

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

...yet victorious.