#i just churned out an entire chapter listening to this

[7-ratsinatrenchcoat]

neurodiverse ambiance. enjoy

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Baby, Mine

Azriel x Reader - Angst/Fluff - One shot

Rhys returns from under the mountain and Azriel’s life is changed forever as a bond snaps with the female his brother brings back with him. After an unexpected pregnancy is revealed, Azriel strives to show his mate just how much she and their child mean to him. Please read warnings below.

Bonus Chapter/Part 2

Warnings: discussion of rape and S/A, pregnancy resulting from rape, mentions of trauma, language, mention of pregnancy termination

“We should get up. My stomach’s growling.”

“And I thought it was just the little one chatting with my shadows.” Azriel teased, flushing beneath her gaze as his scarred fingers traced lightly over the growing swell of her abdomen, becoming more apparent by the day. He’d been nervous touching it for the first time, like he’d desecrate that precious life force growing underneath with his hands that had inflicted so much pain. But the way her eyes lit up the first time he touched it, he never wanted to forget the feeling of love and joy radiating into him through that newfound bond. It was beautiful - made him feel worthy of helping raise the beautiful life she was bringing into the world.

Though her stomach growled again, she made no move to get up, and by the way her hands were holding onto him, Azriel knew better than to go retrieve a plate from the House of Wind’s kitchen for her. So he sent a shadow beneath the door to see if Nuala or Cerridwen were there and if they could bring leftovers in, that is if Cassian and Mor hadn’t devoured the entire breakfast already.

“How’s she doing?” Rhys asked into his mind.

“Better than some days but not great, Rhys.”

There was a pause before Rhys’ guilty voice reentered his conscious.

“She’s the most selfless person I know, Az. I’m glad you two have eachother. But if she needs anything, if you need anything, let me know.”

And she was. Selfless in a way that Azriel couldn’t fathom. Selfless in a way that made his gut churn, a way he wanted to roar at the moon and the stars, and anyone who would listen. Selfless when she should have never had to be. She was bright and radiant and kind. The world looked at her and saw ethereal sunshine, walking starlight, unfathomable beauty both inside and out. But there was darkness and pain there too, so buried down deep that only Azriel could feel it in the middle of the night as whimpers disrupted her sleep.

So many nights Rhys would have to come in and cradle her mind, send her soothing thoughts and visions of anything beautiful that could mask the perils that haunted her dreams.

Azriel hated himself for it, the jealousy. He wished he could soothe her in that way but no matter how much love he sent through their bond, that darkness rooted itself so deeply within her that sometimes it took significant power from Rhys to reach it.

As if Rhys wasn’t already fighting his own trauma and waging against the insurmountable guilt he carried after being under the mountain, plus worrying about Feyre in the Spring Court. And that wasn’t to say Y/N was a burden in any way, though she felt she was. It killed Azriel to see both his mate and his brother fighting so much grief and not being able to do anything about it.

She’d have been better suited to be Rhysand’s mate than Azriel’s own by their intertwined traumas, by their ability to put themselves aside for a better world. Azriel, of course, fit into this court of dreamers but she… despite only being here for such a short period of time, she was the biggest dreamer of them all.

Another rumble from her stomach snapped Azriel out of his thoughts, mentally noting to Rhys, “She could use breakfast.”

“I’ll send some for both of you. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Azriel smelled the salt of her tears before he saw the silver lining her eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow, draping a wing over her, he began to ask softly, “Hey-“. Her head immediately shaking and she choked on the word, “No.”

“Baby, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a burden. He just wanted to know if you needed anything.”

She took a few deep breaths, willing away those tears. “He doesn’t have to check on me. It’s my f-“

“Stop that. Listen to me, I’m always here to listen to you and I know that you’re dealing with complex emotions and trauma that I cannot even begin to fully fathom but this.. it’s not your fault.”

Her eyes welled up further as Azriel continued,

“I don’t want to lecture you or invalidate what you are feeling. Your emotions are justified but… these thoughts will eat you alive, they’re vicious lies that have been conditioned into you, and I can promise you that nobody blames anything on you. This entire family is so fucking grateful to have you as a part of it. In a world of darkness, where you had every right, every reason to bring that darkness with you, you chose light.”

He choked on his words as those tears flowed down her face. “You chose light when it only brought more darkness upon yourself.”

She cut him off. “She’s not darkness.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “She?”

And through her tears, he saw the slightest gleam of radiance in her eyes. “I can just feel it. Feel her.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to Y/N’s belly. “Yes, you are absolutely right. She is not darkness - she’s a beacon of light, the brightest star in the sky, perhaps aside from her mother - but the mental load you are carrying, it is dark and it’s heavy. And yes, you would carry darkness with you regardless of this spark of hope” he rubbed her belly in tender circles for emphasis. “But I know that mind of yours. That you are telling yourself that you’re a burden, that you made the wrong choice, when there was no wrong choice.”

At this point, the tears were streaming down her face, his shadows dutifully whisking them away, but only gratitude and love flowed from her.

A knock came on the door. Azriel’s eyes glazed over as Y/N recognized the telltale signs of what was happening. A line creased in his brow before she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

“You sure, my love? He understands when you need space.”

She nodded. “I know but I think I need to see him today.” Azriel brushed his thumb in soothing ministrations across her abdomen until she pulled her night gown back down to cover herself.

The door creaked open and Rhys padded over to the bed, guilt and adoration limning his features. “Hey, starshine.” She blushed at the term. She hated her own name after Amarantha had called it so many times under the mountain. Rhys had begun calling her Starshine in secret due to her Day Court origins and the fact that he was convinced she’d been more suited for the Night Court.

Rhys had been drawn to her under the mountain, something about her reminding him of his brother. Rhysand could admit that Azriel was the most beautiful of the three brothers, his features seemingly crafted by the gods themselves. But if Azriel’s features were crafted by the gods, Y/N’s were crafted by the Mother herself. Aside from that, she had a quiet presence, though far less stoic and broody than Azriel’s, it was more of a quiet, gentle grace. A grace that Amarantha had tried so hard to shed her of but was never quite successful.

Amarantha, of course, made it her mission to both seek pleasure from her and torment her. When she never fully broke, Amarantha decided that instead of throwing her to the dark corridors she stuffed most lesser fae in, she’d make an excellent play thing. She looked mostly High Fae after all, yet had enhanced sexual appeal due to her nymph ancestry - perfect high and round breasts, long legs, a firm yet supple ass, and an arousing scent - needless to say, Amarantha delighted to add her to her roster of bed chamber accompaniment.

Y/N and Rhys developed a quiet understanding of each other and the roles they were forced to play in the year that she’d been under the mountain before Feyre arrived. They did not grow close enough for Amarantha to become concerned but enough that she knew her play things got along well enough to bring them both into her chambers at the same time.

Rhys would never forget the first time Amarantha had forced he and her into her chambers at the same time. Y/N tried to be strong, and she was. Another aspect of her that reminded him of his brother.

But she began to crack slightly, and Rhys knew Amarantha would make it so much worse for her if she did. So he did the only thing he knew to do and held her mind. He showed her visions of the Night Skies of the Night Court, the spirits of Starfall, the laughter of a family surrounding a table in a beloved restaurant, anything that could help her through it.

As he held her mind, she’d unwittingly sent visions from throughout her twenty-two years of life prior to being captured and brought under the mountain. She was loved deeply by her family who had little more than love to give. Eventually they had been murdered by Amarantha’s cronies at the age of nineteen - she’d been able to escape and live among the High Fae who sneered and objectified her, but offered enough coin to sleep with her to keep a roof over her head.

Rhys had determined that night that if they ever made it out of there alive, he was taking her to Velaris with him. She’d never live like that again.

He even smiled at the thought of introducing her and Azriel when she was ready to meet his family, already picturing his brother’s rose-dusted cheeks in her presence.

“Thank you” Azriel’s low voice withdrew Rhys from his thoughts, taking the plate from his hands.

A familiar scent wafted off of Rhys to Y/N. Pregnancy had heightened her sense of smell substantially.

As she sniffed the air Rhys gave a soft, sad smile at the eye brow she raised at him before asking, “Where is she?”

He shook his head, darkness rolling in waves off of him. “Tamlin locked her in his fucking manor. She had a breakdown.”

Her face drew tight. “That bastard!” Azriel flinched at the rage flowing down the bond. “She must have been terrified.”

“She certainly terrified the servants in his manor. She shrouded herself in darkness and nobody could get through to her.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Rhys nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Rhys. Where is she?”

“At the Town House.”

Her eyes blew wide. “Cauldron boil me, is she staying?”

Azriel smiled as he felt her excitement flow into him. A bit of that Day Court sunshine returning to her.

“I don’t know. She knows she can’t tell anyone if she goes back, but…”

“I felt it through the bond, Y/N. I think she’s here to stay.”

Azriel’s shadows agitated at the pause in verbal conversation, chattering back and forth,

“Secrets”

“Secrets”

He rolled his eyes and dismissed them, already knowing there were some things that remained between just Y/N and Rhys. He’d accepted it the very moment he’d shown up after he received word that Rhys was finally home and the bond snapped as soon as he laid eyes upon the radiant female by his side. He knew it snapped for her too when she walked right up to him, touched the hands he tried to hide behind his back, her eyes speaking everything she couldn’t. “I see your scars. I bear them too.” And pressed a kiss to each hand.

“Do you want me to leave? I assume she’s at the Town House but I’m sure she’ll be visiting here too, yes?”

Azriel bristled. No way in hell was Rhys going to make his mate leave, whether this home was his or not, she had a right to be present wherever she wished.

“Easy brother.”

Azriel shook off the feeling. The mating instinct was still so strong that he had a hard time not jumping in to defend her at the thought of any threat, physical or emotional.

“Y/N” Rhys took her hand.

“Don’t bite my head off for holding her hand, either.”

Azriel huffed before firing back to Rhys’ mind “I can’t wait for you to find your mate someday so you can see what it feels like to be so wound up like this.”

Rhys only gave a small, secret smile in return.

Y/N interjected. “Are you two done gossiping or can I know whether I should pack up or not?”

“This is your home just as much as it is my home. You are my family and I want Feyre to meet all of you. Cassian has already barreled through the door of the Town House along with Mor begging to be fed. Feyre went up to nap and recollect herself.”

“Can we have dinner with her… if she wants to?” She asked softly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness to her voice.

Rhys gave a nod. “I was thinking that same thing. Would you be comfortable?”

She nodded before the reality of the situation caught up with her.

“Y/N.” Rhys leaned in, gently tilting her head up to look at him. “I am not ashamed of you. I will never hide you or the life you are selflessly bringing into this Court of Dreamers.” His eyes lined with silver. “And I will always be so proud of the love that you both share. I knew from the moment I met you that my brother would adore you. And the fact that you two are mates? It’s one of the greatest things to come from that shit hole of a mountain. A reminder of the beauty that can prevail, even after the most dreadful of circumstances. I love all three of you.”

Azriel held his mate closely, ensuring she felt just how loved she truly was.

“She kicked for the first time the other day.”

Rhys raised a brow.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Ugh, you two are so skeptical. I really believe that this baby is a girl.”

Rhys eyed the scarred hand protectively placed over her round bump, so many complicated emotions running through him, with love being the strongest.

“Feyre will likely ask questions tonight regarding all of us, our stories. Nobody has to share anything they do not wish to, but you also may share if you are comfortable doing so. I would really like for Feyre to become a member of the Inner Circle-“

Rhys looked to Y/N rolling his eyes at the smirk and waggling eyebrows she gave him.

“Stop that. My point is just that, I would like for her to know all of you. I know she’ll love you all just as I do. Hell, she’ll probably love all of you before she’s ready to even fully tolerate me.”

Azriel let out a chuckle as his mate quipped “Tell me the story of the time she threw a shoe at you. It’s my favorite!”

“You cruel, lovely little thing.” Rhys laughed. “See you both for dinner.”

As Rhys exited them room, Y/N sighed. “You were awfully quiet.”

Az nudged her. “And that surprises you?”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Azriel pulled her in close, peppering kisses across her forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for. You are still healing and now you’ll be facing someone else that was under the mountain with you.”

“She saved us all, Az.” She looked up into his hazel eyes with nothing but genuine adoration. “Without her, I never would have met you. And what kind of existence would that be?”

She began picking at the plate Rhys had brought in. Letting out a moan as the flavors burst on her tongue.

Az couldn’t help the involuntary twitch of his wings at the sound.

She laughed. “Don’t get any ideas until I’m finished with my food.”

Azriel raised his palms. “I’d never get between my pregnant mate and her meal. With the way she’s started moving, she’d likely kick me away anyway.”

She took another bite while nonchalantly commenting, “I thought of a name for her.”

“Oh yeah?” Azriel’s brows raised in anticipation of a potential name for their child.

“Azure. The same blue as the skies. I thought…”

Azriel cut her off, marveling at the name. Whispering more to himself than her. “Blue like the Day Court skies, blue like the skies that I love to take you flying in.”

She flushed. “Yes, exactly. And though it’s a different shade of blue, like your siphons.”

A lone tear escaped his eye. “And,” she continued with a coy smile. “We could call her ‘Az’”

Azriel sat still for a moment. And she would have thought he didn’t like it had it not been the rush of pure shock and awe flowing through the bond.

Suddenly he took her face in his hands, barely giving her time to swallow the bite of bacon she’d just taken, and crashed his lips into hers. And after her lips were swollen and puffy from the heat of his lips, he began pressing kisses all over her belly, whispering between them, “I love you, little Az. I love you more than the skies I fly in. More than my own name. More than any dreamer could dream of being loved. I can’t wait to fly you through the open skies, and show you every shade of blue this beautiful world has to offer. Nothing in this world matters more than you and your mother. I couldn’t be more proud to be your father.”

And he meant it. Every single word. The blood running through the baby growing inside of his mate didn’t need to be his, what mattered was the love flowing within the child and he intended to pour every single ounce of love he had into their baby.

It was Y/N though who broke down at those words. She and Azriel had spent every free moment together since meeting. He’d healed her in ways that she never could have dreamed. Finding her mate changed the time after Under the Mountain from the lonesome trauma reckoning hellhole she’d anticipated and into a time of healing. He listened to her, understood her, let her set the pace in every aspect. And he’d shared his trauma with her, all of it.

The child who had been abused by a wicked stepmother and horrid step-brothers, overlooked by his own father had grown up to be loving, caring, and patient in every way. And now, he was going to be the parent of a child that was not his by conception, choosing to love the child just as he would his very own. A vow he’d sworn in their mating vows and sealed with a bargain.

“What is it, love?” Azriel wiped away her tears.

“Stupid hormones. I just love you so much and I need you to know that you are so much more than I ever could have dreamed of. If I had to, I would go through it all again as long as it led me to you.”

Azriel’s eyes began watering again. “Look at us, Y/N. We’re quite a sight. Whatever you say tonight, just don’t let Cassian know that I’ve gotten so soft.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled as she gave a sweet smile. “I have a feeling that softness has already been there, my love, I just had the privilege of coaxing it out of you.”

He smiled. “Truth Teller personified.”

————————-

“We’re heading up now.” Rhys’ voice cut into Y/N’s mind.

“Are you sure about this, Rhys? Most of them do not know what all happened under the mountain. What if it’s too much for Feyre to take in?”

“She’s my mate, I have to hope that she will love and accept us all in time. It may be a lot to meet us and hear our stories but they’re a part of us, a part of loving us. I’m worried about Cassian scaring her off more than anything.”

“Valid concern. See you soon. Despite the circumstances, I’m so happy she’s here.”

“You know,” Rhys chuckled. “I feel the same way about you, Starshine.”

“You flatter me. Now enjoy your flight with the literal girl of your dreams.”

“She’s glaring daggers at me right now. Pray I make it there alive.”

“Where’d you go?” Az nudged.

Leaning into her mate’s side, embracing the warmth of his arms wrapped around her shoulders she replied, “Rhys and Feyre are on the way.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked.

“I’m sure you can already feel my nerves down the bond but I appreciate you for asking.” She teased.

Azriel kept his pace slow as they wound through the hallways of the House of Wind toward the dining table. “If you’re not ready…”

She took a steadying breath. “No, he needs to get off on a solid foundation with her. And Cassian, Mor, and Amren have eyed us for a while, they realize that something is off. Plus, I mean, look at this thing.” Her delicate hands found her stomach. “They’re going to figure out that the timelines don’t match up soon enough.”

“Our girl IS growing.” Azriel spoke, not missing the opportunity to feel the life growing within his mate.

She teased, “You’ve referred to the babe as “her” a few times now. Coming around to the idea?”

“I know better than to go against your intuition.”

With that, Y/N gave a wicked grin. “Mother knows best.”

As they approached the dining room, Azriel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right by your side.”

She beamed. “And I’ll be by yours too, with whatever you may share tonight…and forever, of course.”

As everyone arrived and gathered at the dining table, Y/N couldn’t help but admire how lovely Feyre and Rhys were together. Though she hated the situation that brought her there, that Tamlin tried to hoard her away in his manor, she couldn’t help but feel joy knowing that she was finally beginning to see the true Rhysand.

The Inner Circle kept up with the typical antics and plenty of laughter filled the space, but the conversation eventually turned more serious as everyone took turns giving Feyre insight into themselves.

Feyre looked to Y/N with curiosity. “You were under the mountain, but Azriel was not?”

Her hands shook as she prepared to share. A warmth covered them as Azriel gave a gentle squeeze, sending waves of that reassurance in abundance. She took a breath.

She began by sharing the background of her family, their deaths, that she’d sold her body to survive afterward, how she’d only been under the mountain for a year before Feyre arrived.

“You didn’t know Azriel before they took you?” Feyre asked. Not harshly, just inquisitively.

Y/N held her head high. Her story was not one to be ashamed of.

“I did not. Rhys was one of the only souls to show me kindness under the mountain. I have nymph ancestry with primarily High Fae features. Amarantha took an interest in me and….”

An unreadable expression covered Rhys’ face. This was his trauma too, but he gave a reassuring nod.

“She began taking me to her chambers. I had no choice. It was warm her bed, or face physical torture until death.”

Feyre flinched along with Rhys. Y/N recognized that they were remembering the human girl Amarantha had tortured to death just before Feyre’s arrival.

“She also, against our hopes, realized that Rhysand and I had an understanding of eachother - serve her or die. Being the lust-driven wretch that she was, she began taking us both to her chambers. There was no room for weakness in there. She wanted us just weak enough to submit to her, but we had to remain strong in every other aspect. The first time she had Rhys and I, together,” she cleared her throat, giving pause before continuing, “Rhys saved me. I began to crack, and he held my mind. I will let Rhys speak on his own trauma and the mental load he carried, but he didn’t hesitate to help me get through it. It was not the last time he had to help me through it.”

The table was completely silent. Heart-wrenching expressions filled each face at the table. Palpable rage could be felt radiating off of Amren, though her face remained straight.

Her voice began cracking. Azriel pulled her close into him. “When you saved us,” She looked to Feyre. “I don’t mean to fawn or gawk over you, but Feyre, you did save us.” Feyre gave an empathetic look, nodding to Y/N to continue. “Rhys brought me back to Velaris because he couldn’t bear for me to return to the life I was living, because this Court of Dreams is made up of individuals who have lived through terrible traumas and, despite every reason to lead bitter lives- have chosen to dream of a better world. To fight for a better world. And he knew a certain Shadowsinger and I would get on quite well. In fact, he’s been a smug bastard ever since over just how well things went between us.”

“When I met him.” She stared lovingly to Azriel who swallowed a lump in his throat. “The bond snapped between us immediately. The same day I was brought here, I met my mate.”

Instinctively she placed her hands on the swell of her abdomen. “Rhys gave Azriel leave to spend time with me, for him to help me through the aftermath of what I’d been through…”

“But two weeks after arriving back, my scent began to shift.” Mor’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I became very sick shortly after that. Rhys called in a healer, Madja, who confirmed that I was two and a half months pregnant.”

Cassian audibly gasped and Mor murmured “Oh my gods.”

Azriel kept his composure for the sake of his mate, but this was killing him. His brother and his mate being forced by that fucking witch. “Azriel is not the biological father of this baby. The child was conceived under the forced coupling of Rhysand and I by Amarantha.”

Feyre’s face was a mix of sadness, and rage, and sympathy.

“There were options to terminate the pregnancy. However, due to my Nymph ancestry, such options can have negative, potentially deadly effects. Aside from that, though I never planned to have a child - I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another family member. Rhys, after losing his family, felt the same, which he only expressed after I shared my feelings with him. He was completely supportive of any decision I made.” Feyre looked to Rhys and then back to Y/N, no negative judgement written on those lovely features.

Y/N looked to Azriel with a loving grin “And Azriel- he took me to a priestess that night. We both wanted to accept the bond from the moment we met, the connection was unbelievably strong, I never believed in the power of the bond until I found him. And now because he’s ever the romantic, though I see him already blushing at the mention of it, he wanted to make a vow before the Mother - a vow to love me no matter what choice I made, a vow to love the life within me as his very own child, to love and cherish us both until his last breath.”

She pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, revealing the intricate tattoo solidifying his vow.

“And Rhys,” She gave a soft smile. “He made a bargain to love and care for this child and to recognize Azriel as its father. We will not hide the parentage from our child. And Rhys, I know, already loves them dearly, but mine and Azriel’s decisions for our baby come first and will be respected as any biological parents would.”

She’d left out the part where Azriel had gone under the mountain to investigate later on and found that Amarantha had begun supplying a fertility tonic instead of birth control to Y/N after the Calanmai that Rhys had gone to the Spring Court and seen Feyre. Though she didn’t know who Rhys saw, she likely suspected he’d developed interest in someone else and become jealous, hoping an accidental pregnancy would either create a rift in any potential relationship or, even worse, that the baby could be used as leverage against him.

The table remained silent until Rhys chimed in. “So my brother is my child’s father. I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Despite that sadness the Inner Circle felt, Rhysand’s comment elicited smiles. Azriel gave his brother a nod of thanks for breaking the tension while affectionately caressing his mate.

Mor eased the tension further by chiming in “Y/N! You are further along than we realized which means….. we get to go shopping for our newest family member sooner!!!”

Feyre decided soon after that she would like to work with the Court of Dreams.

————————-

Epilogue

Because his mate was always right, Azriel was indeed the father of a beautiful little girl, clever and stubborn like her mother, and the light of his life. Her mother the sun, and she the moon.

He and Rhys had just returned from taking “Baby Azzie” who was now a toddler to get pastries along the Sidra. Azriel returned with his half-asleep daughter in his arms, who perked up upon seeing her baby brother cooing in his bassinet. “Nyxie!!” She yelled, hurrying over to the winged babe. Rhys, however, arrived with numerous shopping bags in his own arms.

Feyre, who had been lounging with her head on Y/N’s shoulder gave the two a big smile. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “All of that better be for Nyx.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a laugh before Rhys spoke. “Well, half of it is, but only because someone batted her little lashes at us repeating ‘Brother, present. Brother, present’ until we took her into what is conveniently her favorite toy store.” Az cut in, “And because my brother is getting soft in his old age” before Rhys could remind Azriel that he was, in fact, the older of the two, Az continued, “Rhys had to buy something for her for every item she picked out for Nyx.”

Y/N groaned. “Cassian literally just bought her five new toys and six new outfits on their last outing.”

The raven-haired toddler with her mother’s nose and radiant skin, Rhys’ smile, and by some gift of the Mother - had Azriel’s golden-flecked hazel eyes, toddled up to Feyre, giving her a big hug. She then turned to her mother, leaning in to whisper something, that came out as quietly as a yell. “I got something for sissy too. Daddy has it in the pocket realm.”

Y/N’s face flushed as Rhys and Feyre gaped. “So much for keeping that a secret for a little longer.”

Feyre squealed leaning in and throwing her arms around Y/N. “I thought that maybe I was getting allergies, your scent hasn’t been as strong but you were glamouring it!”

Rhys pulled Azriel into a long hug, then walked over to Y/N with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Azriel placed a hand on his chest as he took in the sight of his blended family. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected but, to him, it was everything.

[sashaisready]

Starting Over: Chapter 2 - Broken

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending.

I'm sorry, part 2 got a little out of hand in length so I've decided to split it up into different chapters! There should only be one more part after this (maybe??!) Hope you enjoy! This is more of Bucky's POV and gives some more insight into what happened. Thanks for all your engagement with this series, as always comments and reblogs are appreciated! Unfortunately I no longer use taglists.

💔

Your phone sat on Bucky’s desk as he stared at it blankly. He wasn’t really sure what he expected, maybe that you’d call it, or it would magically reveal some sort of answers to the many questions he had. But it didn’t. It just laid there, about as useful as a rock. A ‘babe, how are you?! we need to hang out soon!’ notification from Natasha had lit up the screen an hour or so before, but otherwise it just continued to sit silently – an insulting prompt that mocked him with your absence, the clock on the screen taunting him with how late it had become.

He'd had a glance at the checking and credit card accounts he’d set up for you, but they hadn’t been touched. In fact, nothing had been touched. None of your clothes had moved, your toiletries remained in the bathroom. You hadn’t even appeared to have taken any shoes with you. Natasha’s casual check-in text suggested your friends were unaware of what had happened. You’d just…vanished. A ghost in the night.

He felt nauseous, his gut churning. He’d tried to find the CCTV footage of you leaving, but the image was grainy – he could hardly make you out. The cameras had been acting up lately, he needed Steve to get them fixed. He kept thinking about you wandering out into the night by yourself, no money, no plan, how he’d forced you out into the cold. The one person he swore to protect, to keep safe.

His guilt was eating him alive.

But then he thought of the recording. Your voice so clear, laughing with the fed – mocking Bucky, calling him names and sneering at his gullibility. He could hardly believe it all at first. Not you? Not his doll, who had opened him up to love in ways he could have never imagined. Surely it couldn’t have been you, who had uprooted his life for the better, who had hit him like a whirlwind, changing his very being forever in all the best ways?

But he’d checked in with Banner who ran the tech and had confirmed you had been there. Your phone had pinged the cell tower in that exact spot they’d tracked the meeting point to. They’d even found a CCTV clip of you getting in a strange car that day, despite telling Bucky you were having Wanda over for a girl’s night. The audio was delivered by his own men, verified by their informant. The evidence was overwhelming.

‘It was so easy’ you had giggled cruelly on the clip, the words burned into his memory, ‘I just fluttered my eyelashes a few times and he was asking me to move in after a few weeks. I barely lifted a finger yet he swallowed everything I gave him and asked for more. Now I know how his whole operation works…but I need more time on the Stark deal. Just give me a bit longer and I’ll have that one-armed pussy spill everything after a few more ‘I love yous’ and dirty fucks. I promise...’

Of course he’d seen red. How could he not? He’d always been hot-tempered (passionate, his mother used to say), and the recording had destroyed his entire world in a matter of seconds. Aside from the betrayal, the pain, he felt humiliated. He’d finally been vulnerable with someone, shared intimacy in ways he’d never experienced with another person – only to find out it was all a lie. A trick. A joke. It affirmed his biggest fear – that he had been correct to build those walls, to protect himself from anyone who would use his feelings against him. Love could be exploited as a weakness, and he’d turned up to the fight unarmed.

In his mind, he’d not thrown you out – not sweet, beautiful you. Not you who held him close in your sleep and nuzzled into his chest, not you who traced his scars with her fingers and encouraged him to take off his prosthetic when you were intimate if he wished to. Not you, who stayed up late on his birthday just to present him with a homemade cake when he came home after an exhausting meeting – insisting he blew out the candles. Did she ever even exist? He’d always joked you were too good to be true. Now he’d accidentally manifested that into reality.

No. He’d thrown out her. The woman who had been gathering intel on him since the moment the two of you had met. The woman who exchanged kisses for information. The woman who had laughed about all of this as she gleefully ratted on him, delighting in her prowess over the foolish, lovesick mob boss she’d so easily toppled. The woman who’d callously worn the mask of someone who loved him. She was thrown out of his house, out of his embrace.

Unfortunately, the two versions of you were one and the same.

But at least he knew better, now. He’d go back to casual sex and pretty girls hanging off his arm. Easy. Fun. Uncomplicated. The walls would go back up and they wouldn’t come down again. Deep down he’d always known that men like him weren’t meant to be loved, that they weren’t worthy of genuine affection. Not all voids could be filled. People like you, or at least who he thought you were, were not for him. They deserved better. You’d always deserved better. He’d had a brief taste of happiness, but that was all he deserved. The universe would continue to punish him for his many bad deeds.

The only thing left to do was finally go to bed, but a solemn knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He could tell it was Steve. 

“Steve?” he called, checking his watch. It was late, he’d assumed his second in command had already gone home.

Steve entered looking sullen. He was tensely holding his phone, and someone appeared to be on FaceTime with him. He cautiously extended it to his long-time friend.

“I’m sorry, Buck”, he said gravely.

“Steve..what?” Bucky asked as he gingerly took the phone from him. Sam looked back at him from the small screen, his solemn expression mirroring Steve’s.

“Bucky…I’m sorry,” Sam said quietly in that same tone, filling Bucky with a sinking dread.

Something was very wrong here.

“What is it?” He fired angrily at Sam, “just spit it out…”

Sam flipped the camera around to face what looked like a heap of old rags on the ground. He appeared to be in a parking garage, surrounded by nothing but concrete and darkness. It was hard to make anything out.

“What am I looking at here?” Bucky squinted at the camera as he tried to focus the image. Steve silently observed over his shoulder.

“Tell him what you just told us,” came the sound of Sam’s furious voice off-camera.

Bucky watched with confusion at the screen as Sam's boot suddenly kicked out at the heap, and the heap moved.

And then he clicked.

The ‘heap’ was a man.

The man groaned and cried out as Bucky realised the ‘rags’ were ripped, bloody clothes. He rolled over in obvious pain as Sam manoeuvred the camera to get a better look. As the man turned over, Bucky recognised his face. 

It was one of his own. 

“Rumlow?” Bucky asked with confusion. 

Behind him, Steve moved closer and leaned forward to watch the screen. “Just watch, Buck” he said sombrely.  

Rumlow looked up at the phone, blearily staring into the lens as he squinted at the phone light. His face was bruised and bloodied. Someone had given him a good going over. 

“It was me. Alright? I did it,” Rumlow groaned.

“Did what?” Bucky sneered, still not entirely clear on where this was going – but already feeling his anger mounting.

Rumlow sighed heavily and Sam gave him another swift kick to the ribs to encourage him to continue. 

He moaned out in pain and closed his eyes. “Aaargh. Alright…I did it! I did it okay! I made the recording!” he spat.

Bucky’s eyes darkened as comprehension of the situation unfolding began to take hold. His fist tightened around the phone screen. “Which recording…Rumlow?” He asked, his voice sinisterly calm. 

Rumlow paused and spat a wad of blood onto the floor. Bucky recognised the look of fear building in the man’s eyes, he’d seen it many times before. Rumlow was stalling to delay the inevitable.

“Tell me!!” Bucky roared at the phone, holding it so tightly in his fist that the screen might crack.

He watched Rumlow wince as he turned away from the screen, dropping his head in defeat.

“Of your girl…talking to the police…it wasn’t her-uh-it wasn’t even real. I used AI. From…from recordings of her voice from old security footage…I’m sorry…I just-”

But Bucky was eerily composed. Rumlow took his silence as the cue to continue.

“I hacked into the security system and planted the clip of her getting in the car. And I stole her phone for a few hours when she was at the house with a friend, planting it at the meeting point then driving back with it. She didn’t even notice it was gone…I’m sorry I��”

Bucky cleared his throat. He tapped a single contemplative finger over his lips as his eyes glazed over.

“Sam?” he asked, his voice void of emotion. 

Sam flipped the camera back to face himself. He looked grimly into the lens. “I’m sorry Buck…we had no idea…I caught him on the phone with the feds about the shipment – he thought I’d already left and-”

“Keep him warm,” Bucky interrupted, his voice cold like ice, “I have more urgent matters to attend to first, but I will deal with him”.

Sam merely nodded. Just as he cut the call, Bucky heard Rumlow wail and beg in the background. He’d be doing a lot more of that soon.

In a sudden fog of anger, Bucky pelted his phone hard against the wall. He roared with rage, lobbing his scotch glass at the window – shattering both. He flipped his desk, the chair, the bookcase – leaving a tsunami of destruction in his wake. Steve merely watched on, patiently. He knew Bucky needed to vent whichever way he could.

Eventually Bucky slowed, panting with exertion as he took a second to try and slick back his hair, now unkempt and messy from his outburst. He pulled back his shoulders as he attempted to regain his composure.

“We’ll find her, Buck”, Steve told him unwaveringly. “She can’t have gone far on foot. Then you can explain everything and apologise”.

Bucky shook his head as he ran his hands through his hair. Toeing the pile of debris that now cluttered his office floor he sighed heavily. “She told me she didn’t do it, Steve. And I didn’t believe her…”

“The recording was very convincing,” Steve clamped a sympathetic hand onto Bucky’s shoulder, “it sounded just like her – and had all of us fooled. Not to mention the phone location evidence…the CCTV of her leaving…before I came up here, Sam told me that this AI is brand new tech, far more advanced and convincing than what the masses have access to…”

Bucky bleakly shook his head, “Doesn’t matter. She’s my girlfriend and I’m supposed to trust her. Believe her. When I heard her voice on that recording I just…”, he trailed off sadly, “…it tapped into my worst fears…”

Steve nodded sagely. “Let’s just find her first, and you can talk to her. And then we can deal with Rumlow”.

Bucky grimaced, “I knew he was a risk to take on…with our shared history in HYDRA’s organisation…but I never thought…”

“Let’s just find her for now,” Steve repeated, always calm in a crisis. He pulled out his phone, making calls to various members of their group, sending out texts and kicking off various communication chains. In mere minutes, they’d have entire squads of their men scouring the area with a fine-tooth comb.

Bucky stood amongst the wreckage – the room’s physical ruins a glaring reminder that this wasn’t the only mess he’d made tonight. He pulled his own phone from his jacket pocket, opening his photo album as the pings and buzzes from Steve’s device filled the room. He flicked through the pictures of you: your face cheesily grinning at the camera, your lips sweetly planted on his cheek, a candid shot of you cooking in the kitchen – caught off-guard, your mouth a small ‘o’ of surprise. You’d asked him to delete it as you thought you looked dumb, but he insisted he keep as he like the way your eyes sparkled in it. It was one of his favourites. Looking at the pictures helped him calm down, his breath evening as he remembered what was important here. He ran a finger over the image of your face, “I’m sorry, doll” he whispered, “I promise I’ll do anything I can to fix this…”

A couple of miles away, you slept deeply in the tear-stained hotel sheets – completely unaware of the organised efforts to track you down. You didn’t dream, you didn’t stir, you just slept - grateful to give yourself over to oblivion.

💔

There had only been a few places you could have gone on foot.

Bucky’s men had worked quickly despite the late hour. The local police force, already firmly in Bucky’s pocket, loaned him a few law enforcement bodies to assist with the search, no questions asked – as was standard. Sheriff Bodecker always played ball. They collected the CCTV from local businesses, doorbell cam footage from local residents (who weren’t particularly happy to be woken to do so, but didn’t have much choice), swept the area on foot and in vehicles. It was faintly possible you had hitchhiked and thumbed a ride into the city, but Bucky knew this wasn’t likely, so they put that option on the backburner – although it hadn’t been entirely ruled out.

The gas station staff hadn’t seen you, but their CCTV did catch a blurred figure passing in the road opposite the camera. A faint outline of your route started to emerge as the puzzle pieces came together. Eventually, Bucky was sent the security footage of you checking into the Holiday Inn. His heart pulled as he watched you looking lost at the reception desk – your eyes round like saucers as you produced crumpled dollar bills, head turning left to right as you surveyed your drab surroundings. He could only imagine how lost you must’ve felt, how hurt and betrayed. Exiled by the man you loved, you trusted, and having to hunker down in a shitty roadside hotel. Part of him was impressed by your ability to pick yourself up and keep going even in the toughest circumstances – it was one of the many reasons he loved you. But mainly, he was ashamed. Ashamed that he’d pushed you to this, that he’d failed you in so many ways.

Bucky inhaled deeply as he closed the hotel clip on his phone, nodding to his driver and stepping into the dark SUV.

I’m on my way, doll.

[highvern]

Espresso

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader

Genre: smut

warnings:  dom/sub dynamics (switches back and forth), public fondling/exhibitionism, dry humping, fingering, breath play, oral sex (all the kinds), swallowing, spitting, degradation (reader calls herself a slut, hoshi has a moral dilemma about it), spanking, vaginal sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, double penetration, sex toys (butt plug, dildo)

Length: ~8.3k

Note: a new chapter for my horangdan queen @horanghater hope you enjoy pookie. and thank you to @c-oupsie for beta reading!! now i must go repent for forty years.

series m.list: Houdini [s], Green Light [s, f], YUCK [f], Talk [a, f, s], Casual [a, s, f], Mine [f, s]

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Sweat beads at the small of your back under the high sun, the churning waves of the sea echoing in the distance. Your boyfriend is somewhere down in the shallows. He could only sit still on his towel for so long before wandering off to find shells. Last time you looked up from your chair he was chasing minnows across the tide pools.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice breaks through the wind. 

Your eyes land on a man about your age. Maybe older. His gaze prickles down your body, leering at the stretches of exposed skin. In Soonyoung words, you can wear whatever you want, he knows how to fight. You wish he was here now, not down by the water. Not with how creepy this dude is. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, eyeing him over your sunglasses.

“I was wondering if you’re from around here?” 

“Nope,” you dismiss.

“So you don’t know any good places to grab a drink later?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Listen, I was just—“ 

“Can I help you?” Soonyoung interrupts. He’s less than intimidating with the lines of a cheap snorkel etched into his cheeks and a bucket full of shells. But his cheery demeanor is replaced by protectiveness you’ve only witnessed on rare occasions. 

“Hi, baby,” you coo. 

“Hi,” Soonyoung greets, dropping a kiss to your forehead and staking claim the end of your chair for himself. “And you are?” 

“Leaving,” you supply for the stranger before examining the contents of the bucket. “Ooo, this one’s pretty.”

Soonyoung watches the other man stalk away, refusing to look back at you until he’s long shrunk in the distance.

“No, I don’t know who he was.” You answer the question you know he’s dying to ask. 

“I don’t care about him,” he lies. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you assure. 

Soonyoung shows you all his goodies: plenty of shells, a sand dollar, some sea glass. The entire time his hand creeps up your thigh, the familiar feeling of skin on skin without the usual edge. He just likes touching you. Whenever you’re in arms reach he likes the comfort of making sure you’re real. An arm over your shoulder, his head in your lap, the one time you two argued and Soonyoung kept his foot touching yours because you insisted on sitting as far away from him as possible on the battered couch of your apartment.

“I think you’re getting a little crispy out there.” You trace the constellation of freckles dusting his shoulders from so much time in the sun, pink skin hot to the touch. “Hand me that sunscreen.”

You cover his upper body in a thick layer without much protest from Soonyoung. He happily continues presenting his haul, waiting for your oohs and ahhs before moving to the next piece as you tinkle your fingers across his collarbones.

“Can you help me too?”

He takes the tube without argument, covering his hands in white while you present your back. 

Soonyoung smooths the cream over your shoulders, down the length of your spine to the flair of your hips — methodically massaging into your skin and working any knots he encounters along the way. No one is around for a good fifty yards and the shade of the umbrella obscures how your ass arches into his palms. 

“Make sure you get it under my suit too, I heard you can burn through the fabric.” 

“Oh?” He chokes. His fingers dip under the hem of your bottoms. There isn’t much skin covered by the tiny red bikini. If you had it your way you’d be sunbathing naked with no one but your boyfriend to see. But public nudity isn’t welcomed on a beach no matter how deserted it appears. You’ll have to settle for doing so back at the house you two rented for the weekend.

Need screams through his touch, rough hands squeezing your ass, fingers spreading your cheeks apart not so subtly. He can’t see anything but his thumbs creep beneath the hem and that’s more than enough for a spiral. The inside of your thighs receive the same treatment, Soonyoung pushing and pulling suggestively while you hum content.

He straddles the back of your thighs. The thin strings of your top are no match for his dedication, pulling taunt as he reaches to work a fresh handful of sunscreen into your sides, fingertips ghosting the sides of your breasts. 

“Soonyoung,” you sigh. You arch your ass again, pleased to find the weight of his cock eagerly greeting you through his shorts.

“We can’t,” he gasps. 

You knew he’d say that. But no one is around. No one would see. If he pushed his shorts down and your bottoms to the side it wouldn’t look any different than what you’re doing now. You two could be quick and pretend it never happened except for the stickiness of his cum staining your bathing suit. 

But Soonyoung isn’t the exhibitionist. You are.

“Please,” you beg.

It won’t get you much but your boyfriend can’t resist the temptation when you’re pliant under his hands. Soonyoung pulls at your hips until your back meets the plastic of the chair. The pink of his chest has nothing to do with the sun over head and everything to do with the way your top has twisted around your breasts, barely covering what it’s meant to. Which isn’t much at all. Taut nipples peeking around the edge of the fabric teasing him to dip down and taste.

“Fuck.”

Under the guise of covering you in sunblock, he squirts some across your stomach. It resembles something far less appropriate for current circumstances, especially with how he kneels between your splayed legs, both of your chests heaving. The greasy glide of lotion carries his hands straight to your chest. Your top is pushed up and out of the way, fingertips cruelly teasing your breasts.

The umbrella is perfect cover, and even if it wasn’t the only other person you’d seen all afternoon deserved to see how shameless you are for Soonyoung. How eager he is for you. The way neither of you can think of anyone else outside this moment with the band of his swim trunks stretching under your wandering hands and his teeth bruised lips. 

Someone has to call chicken first. You won’t because you love the attention and your boyfriend won’t because he loves giving it to you. But you have to. Because Soonyoung would never live down the embarrassment of actually fucking you in the open if you were caught. You’d never stand a chance at talking him into doing it again, even if in a more secluded place where the chances of being seen really are zero. So you pull away first. Hands returning to your sides, propping yourself up to plant a kiss on his heart. 

“Go cool off,” you command. He pinches your nipples again for good measure; a rough tug you’d beg for in the privacy of his bed. But right now, you both need a breather. You swat his hands away, flopping back onto the chair and closing your eyes. “Go.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m pretty sure if I stand up I’ll pass out.” 

“Well if you stay here someone is gonna catch us with your dick in my mouth so pick.” You run a hand back down his front to punctuate the threat.

The heat of his body disappears, Soonyoung up and sprinting towards the water without a second glance.

You right your swimsuit, not that there’s much modesty to be protected, and doze into a fitful nap. The ache in your gut lingers, mind plagued by images of your boyfriend, some real and some pure fantasy, fucking you on the beach chair. Waking you up with rough thrusts of his cock, a hand over your mouth the only thing to keep everyone from turning to watch. And even that’s not enough. You dream of a crowd, faceless people circled around where you two go at it. Soonyoung fucking you face down like you’re nothing more than a hole for him to dump his load into. Or you riding his cock until he cries from coming so many times but refusing to begin for mercy.

As the heat of the day crescendos so does the raging boil of want in your veins. It’s well past noon and the few people that were at the beach have long left by the time you open your eyes. Soonyoung is still in the water, floating through the waves. Each step down towards the sea foam threatens your resolve. You won’t fuck him. Not in the nasty ocean. Not on the public beach. But there’s still fun to be had. 

Broad tanned shoulders and a mop of pale hair are the only things you can see above water. Hopefully something waits below to greet you. 

“You’re gonna turn into a prune if you stay out here any longer,” you call while wading closer. The gentle laps of water cool against your blushing skin.

“Okay mom,” he jests. Soonyoung pulls you the last ways into his chest, bringing your legs around his waist and locking his arms around your own. 

“I think we should head back soon. Maybe take a shower before dinner?” 

“Maybe we can order in and hang out at the house,” he suggests, nosing along your jaw. His motivation is obvious; prodding against your thigh despite his attempt to seem subtle. 

Your hand snakes beneath his shorts. This time you don’t care how conspicuous you are. There really is no one to see. Not this time. The water hides everything and Soonyoung’s back is to the beach. 

“Maybe…” 

“Babe,” he warns. 

“Are you not feeling well, baby? Is that why you wanna stay at the house?” 

“No.” He rasps. His hips curl into your loose grip, fucking your hand like he’d fuck your cunt given the chance. With limited room you'll make the most of it, nipping at his earlobe while your other hand tugs his hair.

“Then what is it? Too tired?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me what you want,” you demand with a squeeze. 

“You.” 

You gasp in mockery, “me?” 

“Wanna fuck you. Wanna—shit—make you ride my cock.” He heaves through the request, images of you, head thrown back on that damn sun chair plaguing his brain.

“‘Make me’? You think you can make me do anything?”

 “I—” he chokes.

You rub him with a firm hand. If the water wasn’t a factor, he’d have dropped you on your ass by now. Soonyoung can barely keep himself upright when you tease him like this, let alone balance for two. Fingers sinking lower, you don’t stop until his balls sit heavy in your palm.

“I ride your cock because I want to. Because it makes me feel good. You like making me feel good don’t you?”

Soonyoung squeezes your ass, dragging your cunt over his crotch with enough force to bruise. “Yeah.”

“So let’s go home and I’ll let you make me feel really good.”

“Okay,” he grunts, another tug of your palm shooting bolts up his spine.

You let him go without argument, a wicked smile plastered on your face. The swim to shore takes much longer than it should. All due to your boyfriend’s wandering hands beneath the waves, tugging your suit loose and grabbing whatever comes in reach: thighs, ass, your hands. Soonyoung can’t stop pulling you back for more kisses, teeth cutting into your jaw when you indulge him too much. His mouth tastes like the ocean but his hands slipping beneath your bottoms to massage your ass are too distracting to care.

Only when you get to the shallows, water barely skimming your knees and providing no more cover, does he relent. 

But you don’t.

You turn around, pretending to invite him in for a hug with deceptive softness in your gaze.

“Hi,” you smile as he meets you halfway.

“Hi,” Soonyoung smiles back.

Gentle kisses lure him in, PG pecks across sunburned cheeks that’d make you sick to your stomach if it weren’t the kind of contact you’ve grown to enjoy. He’s sweet on you. Easily distracted by gooey eyes and bubbling giggles.

Which is why it’s too easy to push him back into the next wave.

The mop of drenched blonde hair pops up after a moment, gasping for breath as he stares up from the surf with disbelief. There’s no reason for him to be surprised. You did the exact same thing yesterday.

Laughter chokes your gasping breaths; eyes watering at the incredulous expression twisting his features. You’re too distracted by your own glee that when Soonyoung jumps in pursuit, you barely manage two steps before ending up flung over his shoulder for revenge.

“Put me down!” you scream. Your fists beat against his backside to no avail.

“Awww baby,” he pouts. The surf sloshes around his legs as he carries you deeper.  “but I wanted to swim with you.”

You swat at his ass. “Soonyoung I swear to god!”

“Can’t hear you!”

“Please!”

“What was that?” he calls.

“Don’t do this,” you beg. He fakes like he’s tossing you into the next wave but you cling tighter. “Asshole!”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Soonyoung, will you please put me down.”

“Fine, but only because you’re pretty.”

You slide down the front of his body, chests pressed flat and trembling from laughter. The rest of the way to shore is on jelly legs. Soonyoung follows, unperturbed by the tent in his bottoms now that the beach is clear. 

Damn that bikini. He thinks. And damn the three others you’ve donned this week that show more skin than the last. It’s almost worse than if you decided to prance around naked the entire weekend. The tease of what little skin no one else is supposed to see. Not even the sun. But he gets to. He gets to peel off the itty bitty pieces of fabric and look as much as he wants – touch as much as he wants. 

You’re a tease through and through; bending over to riffle through your bag, bottoms riding up. It does nothing to help his straining cock. If anything it makes it worse. Spine arched, ass perfectly positioned for him to reach over and make free. He’s got all the permission in the world but he still hesitates even though you’re begging him to do it. You look back over your shoulder, bending deeper after catching his gaze, hips wiggling suggestively back and forth.

He wants to. God, does Soonyoung want to pull the shameful excuse for bikini bottoms aside and take up the offer. Sink as deep as he can and fuck you until you’re shaking. But you’re loud and he’s louder and once you two start it’ll take a miracle to stop.

So when he stands behind you, cock heavy between your cheeks, he responds to your grind backwards with a harsh grip around the back of your neck.

You inhale sharply, surprised by the sudden show of force. “Soonyoung?” 

He steps closer, free hand pulling at the fabric covering your ass until his cock slips beneath. His own bottoms cover him but one less layer is better. “Behave.” 

Breath hitching, your eyes slip shut. “If I don’t?” 

He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. You can’t keep your hands to yourself any better than he can. Two pathetic needy messes perfectly matched. His hand slips around the front of your throat. There’s no heavy grip, just the weight, the promise of something. The potential resting in his fingertips. 

“You don’t wanna find out.” He’s bluffing. He must be. But if he’s not, if the threat is real, you’re in no position to argue. You packed lube and nothing else in terms of sexcapades. Nothing here to get off with besides your own hands if Soonyoung taps out. And he’s strong enough to pin you to the bed until you forfeit.

His chest scorches against your back, hand still cupping your throat. His other presses against your stomach, holding you in place for the thick grind of his cock.

“Oh,” you pant. The movement pulls your bottoms tighter, just enough friction against your core to make you crave more. You moan with forbidden pleasure of a public rendezvous out in the open.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung grunts.

Rather than give you more, he lets you go. Leaving gravity to do its damage as your knees buckle. You catch on the beach chair, narrowly avoiding a face full of sand. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m sorry.” He joins you on the chair, rushing for a towel to cover his lap. 

That’s when you spot what freaked him out: a pair of old timers up by the dunes. No shot they saw anything given their animated arguing, the crashing waves barely managing to muffle their shouts.

“Seriously?” you scoff. 

“I’m not trying to get arrested!” he argues. 

Sometimes you wonder if he knows how lucky he is that he’s cute.

“Whatever, c’mon.”

The beach has private showers. Little huts to rinse off sand and salt in privacy. You drag Soonyoung into one. He’s still paranoid someone might see but willing to ignore the consequences in favor of whatever inevitable torture awaits. Besides, couples shower together all the time; in the name of saving space and water. But when the door locks and no one is left but you and him, the outside world fades into nothing.

Your suit comes off first. Wet thuds against the floor leaving you naked for his gawking until his trunks join. Cock standing proud, Soonyoung joins you under the spray.

You tease him the same way he teased you on the sand. Lingering touches, obvious gropes; slithering your palm across his crotch and spitting on the leaking head staring up at you. The shower rinses away the evidence of the day as you work up a new mess. 

“Oh god, yeah.” He’s limp under your ministrations.

“Feels good?” you goad. “All of this for me?”

“Uh huh.” His voice cracks. 

You mouth at his neck, cocky from the way his hips cant into your fist. Crowding him into the wall is too easy when using his satisfaction as a distraction. A nipple comes in view and your latch on. Teeth and tongue and spit get him to the edge and you’re on your knees to catch it just in time.

More blushing that has nothing to do with the sun blooms on his front as he hisses, “Shit.”

His cock pulses between your lips and you take it all like a pro; nose to crotch with a wet choke Soonyoung will certainly think about later. 

When he stops twitching long enough to drag you off, you surprise him with a mouthful of cum trickling back down his cock and a tight fist at the base.

“Ha—oh fuck, you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?” you ask before swallowing his dick again.

He grips the back of your head desperately, unsure if he wants to drag you off or force you down to take another load. It’s not fair. He’s only a man and the fact you’re pliant and eager from sucking his cock like you get off on it all the same might just kill him.

“Please,” Soonyoung begs. For what, who knows, but you drop to mouth at his balls, using his own perversion against him,  and he’s coming in weak trickles down your knuckles.

“Good?” you smile, licking between your fingers.

He’s an absolute dream leant against the wall, cock soiled and chest heaving. “One day my dick is gonna fall off.”

“Drama queen,” you snort. “C’mon, let's go home.”

Drying off in comfortable silence, Soonyoung refuses to let you go long enough for a thorough job. He’s always cuddly after sex. Or before sex. And just in general. A long day in the hot sun and two orgasms make him cling like a second skin in the steamy bathroom.

He only lets you go to shimmy on your clothes for the drive home. But his usual gawking lingers with an edge as you adjust the straps on your shoulders.

“What?” 

“Why are you wearing that?”

“Wearing what?” you ask, tone full of faux innocence. The white sundress had kept you from leaving the house this morning, Soonyoung planting you on the counter and ducking beneath the skirt just to press his face into the crotch of your bottoms like some pervert. Now, you wear nothing underneath, nipples showing through the sheer linen fabric.

“Babe…”

“Babe,” you mock.

“Let’s go home, you freak.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

The drive back is quiet. The roar of waves from the coast and a dull hum from the radio accompanying the comfortable silence. Soonyoung keeps his hand on your thigh, pushing your skirt high enough to tickle the skin of your knee beneath his fingers.

“Did you have fun today?”

“I always have fun with you,” you smile, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Wait, pull over.”

“What? Why?”

“Because. Take this exit.”

He takes the next turn, following your vague directions with ease. There’s nothing more than a decrepit gas station as far as you can see but the billboard advertising the shop implied it’d be a little further down the road.

“Where am I going?” Soonyoung asks.

“Over there!”

You point at a lone store in a strip mall full of empty storefronts. Only one seems to bear any sign of life, a neon ‘OPEN’ that flickers rhythmically. Bad Kittyz.

Soonyoung pulls into an empty spot, mouth open in a mix of horror and shock “What the fuck?”

“You’ve never been to a sex store,” you say. You pull out all the stops, puppy dogs eyes and pouted lips. He won’t say no. But just in case.

“And now is the time you want to pop my cherry?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” You hop out of his Jeep, beelining for the door with Soonyoung close behind. “Besides, maybe we’ll find something to play with later.”

The chime over the door announces your entrance. An older woman, verging on grandmother territory, leans against the counter. She nods a greeting and goes back to reading her book leaving you two to browse in silence. 

“Holy fuck,” Soonyoung chokes. A massive four foot tall dildo is displayed at the end of the table, thick as one of his thighs. “Do people use that?”

Face twisting in horror, you move towards more manageable displays. “Maybe as a discussion piece.”

“Discussing what? Being ripped in half?”

“Stop staring at it.”

“I can’t,” he whispers.

The longer Soonyoung stands there looking at it the more you’re tempted to stare with him. This isn’t an art museum for you two to gawk at. God forbid the employee sees and asks if you have any questions about it. 

Snagging his wrist, you pull Soonyoung away. “Let's look over here.”

A wall of toys, feathery wands, handcuffs, nipple clamps and more greet you in the backroom; a colorful array of options with a few catching your eye.

You snag a fluffy tiger patterned pair. “These look familiar.”

“Haha,” he says flatly but the burn tips of his ears give him away.

You take turns pointing out toys, some much too adventurous but others that pique your curiosity. An electric shock wand more than your monthly salary, a penis pump Soonyoung can’t seem to make direct eye contact with, cock rings made of glittery silicone, a butt plug that supposedly glows in the dark.

“‘2-In-1 Stroker Realistic Vagina & Ass’,” you read off the package of a fleshlight.

Soonyoung eyes it over your shoulder. “How do they make plastic feel like a vagina?”

“I don’t know. Wanna test and see if it’s like the real thing?” you jest.

“It seems like a waste of money since I can only vouch for one.”

“Well, what about this then?”

Snagging one of the less garish packages, you present the plain silicon plug. It’s not deathly intimidating, none of the fancy bells and whistles promising vibrating or a light show. Just an old fashioned, run of the mill, classic plug.

Soonyoung whips his head around like someone might hear you. As if it’s the most insane item in the store and the monstrous penis from before no longer exists. “Are you serious?”

You examine the package in your hands. Not too big, girthy enough your spark to take a challenge is fed but not so afraid it might rip you in half. You’ve always been curious about it. Played with yourself a few times but never with the same promise of satisfaction the idea of someone else doing it brings.

“Might be fun. I’ve thought about it,” you shrug.

“Really?”

Soonyoung’s gut tightens at the idea; flashes of you with your ass stuffed full, begging for more. Never in his life (except for a brief time in college when porn piqued his curiosity) did Soonyoung think he’d be into anal. It wasn’t his thing; for him or his partner. 

But you challenged everything he thought before. Submitting to whatever your latest fantasy was, allowing the needy side of his psyche to flourish under your gentle command. He loved it. Loved everything you wrangled him into. Fucking you in someone else bed? Incredible. Taking your fingers in his ass while you gag in his cock? Nothing short of mind shattering. The time you made him cum so much he started shooting blanks? It’s enough to keep him up all night with nothing but your pictures and an aching wrist. 

So fucking you on the beach chair had been an all too tempting edition to that list. But as much as he enjoys groping his girlfriend as the next guy, public indecency isn’t his kink. However, dumping his load in your ass is. Or it is now that you’ve brought it up. Just the suggestion of it is enough for his cock to twitch in interest.

In the car ride home, you both pretend to ignore the bag full of goodies at your feet; favoring watching the sun setting along the horizon, humming to the radio while Soonyoung tangles your fingers together over the center console. 

You barely get the front door of the beach house open before Soonyoung is on you, crowding you against the wall with his mouth at your throat. The hem of your skirt edges up your legs until his hand strokes between your thighs.

It's a tiny place; barely ten steps to the bedroom from the entryway. But neither of you can manage that when the promise of something so filthy lingers in the air.

He kisses you with promise before falling to his knees. You wish he’d stayed, let you grind across his thigh while you suck the air from between his lips but this is better. A familiar chill slips down your spine as he eases the white fabric up and disappears beneath to search for the taste of your cunt. 

There’s no sound beyond your quiet pants and your boyfriend’s moans. Devilish licks to your clit paired with nimble fingers make you twitch. Soonyoung likes it sloppy; adores pulling back just to admire the soaking mess coating your thighs before diving in. But all he has on his brain right now is returning the favor from before even if that means he’ll have to pin you to the wall so you don’t melt to the floor.

“Oh god, Soonyoung,” you sing, raising your hips and riding his fingers. “There.”

You want to pull his hair, to suck on his fingers like they’re his cock, to touch him; anywhere. Use anything you can to shatter the monopoly his mouth has on your senses. But he’s lost under your dress and you lack concentration to pull him out.

It doesn’t matter how much praise you lavish him with, Soonyoung is lost in his own spiral. The grip of your walls on his fingers, three now and soon to be a fourth because he’s predictable. Or maybe you are.

Your knees begin to buckle under the next harsh suck of his lips and without missing a beat your leg goes over his shoulder and you’re pinned to the wall.

“Soonyoung—fuck—please.” Your hands cup your breasts, pushing the smocked neckline down until the AC greets your burning skin. Insides clenching at the thrill, you sink lower until he catches the hint and fucks his fingers hard enough you hiccup with each thrust.

It feels like you're underwater. That spot that makes you glow becomes his plaything until the ceiling comes crashing down and you with it. You grit through the first shake before your vision blinks into darkness.  “Baby, I’m—”

Soonyoung fucks you through it, unaffected by how tight you squeeze around the digits battering your insides. He pushes you back into the wall when you wobble on shaky legs and keeps going; suffocating himself with no concern.

You ride his face for a moment. The prolonged burn of a good orgasm hurting in the right ways as your clit goes raw and your walls swell. But if this continues you’ll be too tired for the main event.

Even with that knowledge you don’t protest as he rises to his feet, turns you around, and flips your dress back up to fuck you against the wall.

With eyes closed you feel, rather than see, Soonyoung peak over your shoulder; breath hot against your ear. He flattens his chest to your back, cock nudging at your entrance until the first inch sinks home without resistance.

“God,” you sigh. “More.” 

He gives you just that. Careful to keep from crushing you under his weight, Soonyoung bends you at the waist, cock buried as deep as possible. “Like that?”

 “Love it,” you warble.

His thumb is warm against your rim, a tease of what's to come. It’s nothing challenging but Soonyoung pinning your arms at the dip of your spine with his free hand makes it dirtier. 

“Want me to fuck you here?”

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please?” 

“Give me your cock.” 

“You have it.” His voice roughens, betrayed by his own need to please you. “Still need more? That desperate?” 

“I swear to fucking god if you don’t—“ 

THWACK!  

Your skin scorches in the shape of his hand. All you can do is choke on more noises of pleasure as he does it again.

“You’ll what?” Soonyoung bites. “Gonna fuck yourself?”

You can’t argue back, mouth stuff with his fingers as he starts fucking you deeply. It’s good. The embarrassed heat tinting your cheeks from his reprimands. Soonyoung likes to be rough but never like this. The shift in demeanor prickles along your spine.

“Gonna take my cum in your perfect little pussy.” He groans. “Gonna look so fucking hot dripping out of you. Fuck it into your ass.” 

You whimper around his digits, sucking them deeper into your mouth until the weight disappears to give another wet prod against your asshole. “You’re so tight baby I don’t know if you’ll be able to take it.” 

Head bobbing, you sigh at the stretch. “I can take it.” 

A finger slips into your ass, spit and arousal easing the intrusion. You arch your back for more. Everything feels full. His cock deep battering your insides, his fingers wedge in your hole, the blanket of his body crushing you into the wall so much you can barely breathe. 

He might be right. You might not be able to take anything remotely resembling the girth of his length. Not if you’re this strung out from some fingering and dirty words. “Wait.”

Soonyoung is off you like he’s burnt. “What's wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No, baby,” you murmur, finding his face and kissing away the terrified frown. “I just thought it’d be more comfortable if we were in the bed.”

He slouches with relief. “Oh, okay. Yeah. Good idea.”  

Soonyoung doesn’t let you walk. You’re over his shoulder fireman style, one of his hands tickling the back of your knee until he almost drops you as you squirm. “Soonyoung I swear to god!”

“Wait, are you ticklish here?” he asks coyly. He knows you’re ticklish there, ended up kicked in the head the first time he decided to take advantage of the information. 

Squeals and laughter bounces off the walls as he races the short distance to the bedroom before tossing you on the mattress with a bounce. He drapes over you, sweet kisses on your cheeks and chins as he crowds you into the mattress.

“Go get a towel, I don’t think they’ll appreciate lube stains on the sheets.”

He disappears again – leaving a terrible coldness along your skin in the absence of his warmth. But his trip to the en suite gives you plenty of time to toss away your dress and to crawl to the head of the bed. Face down in the pillows, you arch your back for a view that might very well kill your boyfriend. Pussy soaked, entrance stretched and ready for use.

“Well, shit,” Soonyoung breathes. There's a thud and a few things skittering across the floor; not loud enough to be his head bouncing off the hardwood but whatever he was holding is forgotten in favor of ogling.

You sink deep enough it hurts. “Like what you see?”

“You know I do.”

“Then do something about it.”

He crawls up the bed, kneeling behind you and massaging your ass in his hands. The tickle in your gut flourishes as he spreads your ass apart. Two fingers curl into your cunt with ease while his mouth finds other use – sucking a bruise along the back of your thigh he’ll obsessively trace later. 

Muscles pliant, you liquify into the mattress under the gentle stretch of your core. His fingers return to their previous task; a feather weight you quickly become accustomed to before they slide in and you rut back into the motion. “That’s—that's good.”

You force a hand between your legs, mindlessly rubbing slow circles around your clit. Soonyoung bats it away and takes command; a little firmer, enough it makes things fade into haze.

“Wow, multitasking,” you praise, fisting the sheets.

“Trying to give my queen the full experience.” 

Even with both holes full of his fingers, you can’t help but snort. “You’re lame.” 

“You’re about to let me put my dick in your ass.” He presses deeper to emphasize the point. 

Familiar motions, a curl here, spreading the two apart enough you moan. “So?

“Can’t be that lame.” 

“It’s—ah—cute lameness. My little loser.”

“What did we say about being mean to me in bed?” he tuts.

“That I should only do it if I want you to come fast.”

“That’s right, so save it for later.”

His tongue joins his fingers, a firm heat spreading between your cheeks. Soonyoung is good at making it messy. You jump with stiff legs as his tongue breaches your hole; there and gone before he’s laving long strokes; a drooly mess left in wake of exploration. “What's it feel like?”

“You’d know.”

“Humor me a little.” Soonyoung leans back enough to spit where his fingers disappear – the smack of his lips leaving you flustered. He eats ass just as well as he eats pussy: devoted and eager.

You curl into the stimulation. “L-like I’ve got fingers in my ass.”

“Is that good or bad?” 

“It’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

“I don’t think I’ll come from it, but it's not bad.” Lies. If he keeps going you’ll definitely come. If Soonyoung hands you the vibrator sitting just out of reach it’ll happen faster than your ego would allow.

“Relax,” he commands. Soonyoung pushes until you’re flat to the mattress with nowhere to move besides back into filthy satisfaction.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re not. I’m not doing this if it’s gonna hurt you.” He moves away, an uncharacteristic show of restraint triggering a tantrum of your own.

“Wait, don’t stop!”

The heady pressure multiples ten fold as he drags everything out; his mouth, his fingers, the tight grip on your cheeks to keep the spread for convenience. You crave the sting of his hand again but are left with the grit of his teeth against the shape of your thigh as a generous amount of lube joins the mix; cold and slippery. 

“Still good?”

“Great,” you breathe. A third finger joins and it might just be your demise. You might give Soonyoung a run for his money for the most needy; you, begging him to fuck your ass harder. Or him, rock solid and humping the bed for a drop of relief. “Where’s the plug?”

“Are you ready for it?” He strokes the dimple at the base of your spine in slow circles. Honestly, this could be enough. At least for Soonyoung. Since you started this entire endeavor he’s been a quick gust of wind away from blowing his load.

“Go slow.”

A new pressure, not as warm as before but equally intoxicating, rests against your hole. More lube, enough the towel between your legs gets soaked in its own right. You take it though. An easy stretch until the silicon disappears and a foreign fullness makes your tongue feel thick.

You squeeze around it instinctually. Soonyoung keeps your ass spread like a voyeur, both holes teasing him. Your fingers don’t stop on your clit. He could watch you get off with a full ass and an empty pussy and die happy.

“Fuck,” he chokes, pulling the plug out just a fraction before you suck it back in greedily. “What now?”

“Now you fuck me.” 

You flop onto your back without much grace, too focused on the intoxicating promise of having your boyfriend’s cock to care about looking sexy. Soonyoung kneels between your thighs – swollen length sitting heavy in his lap, tempting you to lap away the mess if there weren’t better things to do.

He doesn’t waste time. Your clit takes the head of his cock full on, muscles twitching. You go limp and cross eyed – you could lay here all night letting him play with your body as he pleased. But you want him inside you. Need the overwhelming rush you know Soonyoung can give you.

But he tries to kiss you with a mouth covered in lube and you stop him short. “Ew, I’m not kissing you.” 

“Why?” he whines. His cock teases your entrance with a slow grind; just the tip.

“I don’t know, maybe the fact your tongue was in my ass less than five seconds ago? Go brush your teeth.” 

“Really?” 

“Hop to it butt boy.” 

“You eat your girlfriend’s ass one time.” Soonyoung shakes his head but peels off you and jumps from the bed.

“I’ll return the favor, don’t worry!” you call.

The cover of running water from the sink disguises the sounds you digging through a suitcase. Tucked away is a tried and true favorite – a vibrating dildo from back home snuck along for the trip when the weather report forecasted rain the entire weekend and you were sure you’d need something to keep you both occupied while kept indoors. Nothing but clear skies for miles made it slip from your mind but now you say a quick ‘thank you’ to yourself for having the forethought even if it’s not exactly what you intended.

“Getting started without me?” Soonyoung calls from the foot of the bed. He doesn’t do a thing to stop the show – entranced by your clit swelling beneath the vibrating head.

You spread your legs wider, knees to your chest. He can see everything: the plug splitting your ass, arousal dripping from your entrance. “Come over here and make me stop.”

“I remember – a few hours ago actually – you saying I ‘don’t make’ you do anything.”

He climbs over you, arms caging you in but just out of reach. You meet his gaze – surprised by the fire burning there. You want to see what will happen if it’s fed.

“Maybe I want you to.”

“Oh? And what do you want me to make you do?” 

“Hmmmm, when we were on the couch I wanted you to call me a slut.” 

“Really?” 

“Makes me feel dirty.” You spread across the bed, ass curving into the mattress and shifting the plug deeper in your ass.

He sucks at your jaw as he sinks inside. “You like being dirty?” 

“For you,” you gasp. “What about you? What do you want me to do to you?”

 “Dreamed of you choking me,” Soonyoung admits with a fresh rush of his hips.

“That’s so hot,” you whine.

“Calling me a good boy.” He goes for your nipple, a tender suck you keen into.

The tidal wave of pleasure floods your brain. All you can do is lay there and take it while murmuring praises. “You are a good boy.” 

“Yeah?” 

“The best,” you tease.

Soonyoung rolls onto his back, you planted firmly in his lap as he goes for the plug. It’s difficult enough to sit still when you’re full of his cock, let alone the new addition. You sink deeper into it – knees bent and legs spread to take as much as possible. A stinging stretch in your insides that threatens to tear you in two. He twists the silicon and you collapse into his chest.

“Fuck, just like—nhhh.” 

He plants his feet and keeps fucking you from below. The vibrator is stuck between your stomachs but you pull back enough and it’s there, almost painfully forced against your clit. You curl into the painful throb. “I’m—”

His hand is at your cheek, forcing you to look at him with lidded eyes. Soonyoung is beautiful but when he’s like this – skin flushed and eyes wild, the complete picture of debauchery – it’s devastating. 

You kiss him. Tongue along his teeth and panting breath, a hand at his collar for balance as you focus on rutting back into the motion of his cock with a tight squeeze. Your throat raws with his name. “Soonyoung.”

Your chin is wet with drool, vision blurry as you collapse into his chest. Soonyoung slows but doesn’t stop, maintaining gentle strokes as condense back into reality; fingers tracing the notches of your spine.

“Holy shit.”

“You squirted,” he whispers awestruck.

You certainly did. Even through the slick of lube the mess is evident, soaking his own crotch and no doubt ruining the sheets.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard,” you gasp.

Grabbing for his face, you kiss Soonyoung again with slow and lazy indulgence. The room warms or maybe it's just Soonyoung’s chest against yours but you crave more.

“You done?” Soonyoung grunts as you thumb one of his nipples.

You sit up, ass flat to his thighs and breasts pressed together between your arms. “Nope, still gotta take care of my man.”

“You don’t have to.” Soonyoung perks up with another lazy thrust. “I can do it like this.”

“You ate my ass. I’d feel like a hypocrite if I didn’t let you fuck it. Besides, I think I can come again.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

You roll off. There’s a pang in your gut at the sudden emptiness but it’s bearable with what will happen next.

Back on your knees, Soonyoung settles in tight behind you. He adds more lube while working out the plug. Gritting against the drag, you nearly rip the sheets under your nails. “Huh.”

Soonyoung fishes the vibrator from somewhere. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your walls split around it while he plays with the plug, gently rocking back into the motions. You’ll definitely come again. 

Batting his hand away, you fuck yourself with the dildo with command. “Spank me.”

Heat blooms in the same place he branded you before; right at the seat of your ass. “Like that?”

Soonyoung isn’t goading. He’s unsure. Rarely is he composed enough to call the shots, so you sink deeper and preen for him. “Harder.”

Another slap, sharp enough you lurch into the sheets. You nod because there are no words capable of slipping past your teeth other than a weak mewl of his name. 

“Fuck, babe.” 

You reach back, spreading your ass so he can focus on the task at hand. The plug disappears. In its place is the potent weight of his cock.

Soonyoung sinks deep, weight focused behind his hips. It feels…different. Not bad, not necessarily good either. It feels dirty. Like you shouldn’t be doing it but you are anyway. Good girls don’t do this. But you are. You’re letting your boyfriend use your ass as his personal cum dump. And because that's not enough, you squeeze around the dildo still sheathed inside you.

“Good?”

“Big,” you pant.

“Want me to stop?”

“No!” you argue.

Soonyoung maintains a tight grip on your hips to prevent you from overwhelming him. “Oh—okay, fuck, okay.” 

“Does it feel good for you?”

“Yeah, tight.” He palms your ass, spreading you further to watch your walls open around him.

You focus on fucking yourself with the fake cock. Matching everyone of his timid thrusts with one of your own. “Tighter than my pussy?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Soonyoung prattles without thought. He’s unraveling in the dangerous heat of your body. 

“Which would you rather fuck?”

“I don’t know, they’re both—god—they’re both good.”

“Wish you could fuck both of them at the same time. Do you think that makes me a whore?”

“No,” he sobs. But a twinge in his core betrays his thoughts.

You’re being downright cruel with the imaginary. “No? You don’t think your girlfriend wanting you to fill her ass and pussy at the same time makes her a slut?”

“I don’t think you’re a slut!” Soonyoung argues. But that edge is still there, he’s taking the bait.

“But I wanna be your slut, baby.”

“Fuck.” Another barely restrained thrust you take with sick glee.

“Say it,” you bark. “Call me your greedy little cum slut.”

“I—”

“C’mon, baby. Watch your girlfriend take your cock like a whore.”

He shoves your face into the pillows – a tight fist in your hair that adds to the fog. A raspy ‘my slut’ slips down your spine as he drives into you with enough force you choke. 

His cock swells, the beginning of his end as he wrecks your insides with bruising force. You push forward for your own; abandoning the vibrator and swiping frantic circles around your clit. Soonyoung doesn’t say it again but its more than enough to fuel you and retaliate with more muffled groans to match his.

Soonyoung moves in deep waves; losing pace and rolling into the heat of your ass with choppy thrusts. You wish he was choking you. Maybe it’d be too much but next time you’ll ask him to do it. Or you’ll ride him with his cock seated deep and your hand serving as his new necklace.

“Gonna come. Gonna come for you—oh my god.” 

You nod eagerly with an eye roll as if he can see the wreckage of your face. A familiar warmth you’ve experienced countless times in your pussy floods your ass, thick and sticky.

“Oh my god.” Soonyoung drops his weight, a perfect blanket against the AC of the bedroom now that the heat of having your guts battered has faded. “Jesus.”

“I was close,” you pout. 

Squirming back in his grip, he’s still hard with a heavy throb. Soonyoung doesn’t disappoint. Weak thrusts maintain the fire stoked in your gut and a reach around to pinch at your clit keeps you right at the edge.

“Soonyoung, please.”

“Beg for it,” he pants.

“Please make me come,” 

“My pretty little slut wants to come?”

Fuck.

“Ah-h. Yes! Fuck, yes.”

His other hand circles your neck, enough force you press into your hands and break your back in half just for a peak of him. The second you're done he’ll pass out – his eyes are wet, chin covered in drool. Soonyoung will go all night for you, for this.

A thumb splits your lips open, you think it’s a ploy for power. Something the grip at your throat gives him plenty of but he leans over and he spits in your mouth. “Then come.”

“Ugh, fuck Soonyoung—fuck me harder.”

Your body jumps over the cliff with permission; seizing, claws of endorphins shredding through your veins as your boyfriend rises to the challenge. Every drop turns into a flood with hard pulses, Soonyoung choking behind you from sensitivity.

Twitching in his hold, he pulls out, careful with the vibrator as well. The second he’s done he flops face first next to you like a rag doll.

“I think I died.”

You respond with a kiss to his temple. “I guess we’re both ghosts.”

“Being a ghost wouldn’t be so bad with you. My ghost would have a crush on you.”

“I would hope so considering I’d still be your ghost girlfriend.”

“You’d date me as a ghost? Simp,” he snorts but curls you beneath his arm. A play straight from your own book.

How romantic.

After an hour of naked dozing across the bed, you two manage to shuffle to the bathroom and slip into the tub. Sitting between Soonyoung’s leg, you drift off as the water soothes the muscles already beginning to ache. Soonyoung doesn’t speak; preferring to drag his lips up and down the slope of your neck for comfort. Every time he stops you squeeze at his arm draped over your stomach until he smiles against your ear and starts again.

“So where are we sleeping tonight? Because I’ll be honest, the lube covered bed is not my top choice.”

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[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 11)

first chapter >> last chapter

-

Your heart could very well have stopped beating and you’d be none the wiser.

By now, you’ve experienced fear in all its varietals. The stomach churning and the latent, the languid; the swift moving silverfish slipping out of your grasp. The monstrous rising beast of it the day you turned around to find the master of the house turning the lock on the door and trapping you in with him. Then the delayed panic in the aftermath of bringing the bust down over his head and hearing his skull crack under its weight, the blood pooling around his body, almost aureole-like. Pondering the miraculous like, well, isn’t that just the devil of it. A halo for a man intent on your ruin.

 The fear washing over you now is entirely new though. Like a rapid exhalation. Of course you were right all along . Right to expect the devil showing up on your doorstep. The weeks of silence had imbued you with a sense of confidence. An arrogant, undeserved confidence that whispered in your ear to let your guard down. 

But you know now that the world is not large enough to hide in. It is a wasteland of false prophets and false directions. There are no second chances.

The only consolation is the silence from the man behind the counter as he studies the warrant. You imagine him standing there giving it a good once over, his face maybe scrunching up as it calls to mind the woman that just walked through his door. You wonder if they thought to add a sketch of your likeness, whether there’ll be a woman on the warrant that looks an awful lot like you. 

You stay put behind the shelf though, not risking so much as a peep. 

“Any information you might have would be much obliged,” Graves says, trying to coax an answer out.

After a few more seconds, the shop attendant answers with a rueful, “Can’t say I have, sir. You want me to leave this with the sheriff?”

Graves breathes out through his nose in frustration. “Now, are you positive about that? Take a closer look—I don’t mind waitin’ a bit longer for you to sift through your memories. I’m sure a town as big as this must get passersby from time to time.”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m certain. Never seen a woman fitting this description or name. Couldn’t even tell you the last time we had a stranger come through town and stay longer than a day.”

“I see.” It’s hard to tell whether Graves takes him at his word or not. The aura of menace that the man exudes suggests that anything said to him might rouse his suspicions. That they’ve already been roused, in fact. It makes even you second guess the man behind the counter, wondering if perhaps he knows and simply stays his tongue. 

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Still want me to pass this along to the sheriff?”

The floorboards creak under his feet when Graves takes a step back. “If you don’t mind. Been having the darndest time tryin’ to track down the man and, frankly, I’ve got other obligations. I do appreciate your time though.”

You stay hidden behind the shelf, listening to the sound of the spurs on his boots rattling as he leaves. The chime on the door jingles when it slams shut. You flinch at the sound. For a minute after his departure, you wonder if the door will burst back open and he’ll come crashing in, heading straight for the back to haul you out by your hair.  

A minute passes and nothing happens. The floor beneath you still feels like it might give out at any moment.

When you take your first step, the nausea comes rushing up. 

“Mrs. Price,” the shop attendant says, perking up at the sight of you coming out from behind the shelf. “I forgot you were still here.”

You feel like an automaton or a ball-jointed doll, your movements stiff as you approach him. Morbidly curious as to what you’ll see on the warrant spread out on the counter separating the two of you. When you look down, your breath comes shuddering out. 

The sketch on the paper does bear a passing resemblance to you, but only if you squint. Nothing that anyone could point to and claim with certainty that it depicts you. Underneath the sketch, you balk when you see your real name. It’s jarring to even look at. Though you’ve gone most of your life answering to it, the past few weeks have disabused you of any connection to it. Now, you feel permeable, malleable—a substance that has been reshaped into something new. That girl on the warrant is gone now. Done and dusted. So detached from memory that even the sketch of her depicts someone else, proves false. 

Still, you’re shaken by how close he’d gotten. Supposing Graves had come in while you’d been within sight. Supposing he’d looked you in the eye and asked you directly, and you’d stuttered under his sharklike gaze and drawn further scrutiny. You almost can’t believe how close it’d grazed you. The sharp edge of fate like a blade now sheathed again. 

“Would you mind taking this to the sheriff?” he asks, not realizing the gift he’s given you. “I’m a bit tied up minding the shop.”

You nod wordlessly and take the folded up warrant from him.

It burns red hot in your hands when you step outside. You glance around nervously, unsure as to whether Graves had stuck around to question more people. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were still within earshot. 

You waver in the street with the folded piece of paper tucked in your hands. A horse pulling along a cart laden with firewood creaks as it passes, rousing you from the trance you’d fallen into. You flinch, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the sun. It’s blinding suddenly. A clear sky, the clouds long since taken away by the wind. 

John could be anywhere at this time of day. Despite the fear curdling in your belly, you can’t help the knee jerk reaction to go to him. That’s precisely what you don’t want to do though. You don’t want to be around the county sheriff on the day a bounty hunter came into town looking for you. 

A crow sitting on the roof of a building across the street caws and flaps its wings, taking off into the sky. 

You want to be anywhere but in town waiting anxiously for John to come find you. You don’t want to lay eyes on him and see that he’s found you out. The thought of John finding out about the man you killed back east is beyond contemplation. It nearly has you keeling over in the middle of the street. You can hardly bear the thought. How could you bear to live a moment beyond that, withering under his disapproval? His contempt? 

You don’t think you can.

Every shadow fills you with dread. A barmaid comes out to toss a bucket of dirty water in the alley and you flinch like you’ve been caught. You keep your head down as you walk, eyes straight on the ground. Someone calls out your fake name and you ignore them. 

Your instinct, as usual, is to run. Abscond from the scene of the crime. Even if the thought hurts. Even though you’d let yourself begin to hope that the times of trouble had passed you by. That perhaps you could’ve made a home out here in the middle of nowhere. You should have known that those dreams were just that. You should have known better than to want. These days, it is dangerous to long for anything.

It’s better if you fade from memory like a bad dream, you think when you spot Buttercup fixed to the post outside the sheriff’s office. Better if they think of you with a bad taste in their mouth and nothing more. A girl that came and stole their sheriff’s heart and his horse and then vanished into the night. 

When one of her black eyes fixes on you, you still in your advance. A horse can’t possibly read your intentions, but you feel like she does somehow. Like she knows you intend to take her and flee. She shifts, hooves coming up and back down, and you swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth suddenly, nerves taking on. You won’t let yourself be ruled by them though. There are bigger things to fear.  

“Come on, Buttercup,” you whisper, hesitating before smoothing your hand down her nose. You flinch when she nickers. “I just—I need you to help me, okay?”

It’s an outrageously bad idea. Even to you that’s obvious. You don’t have nearly enough experience riding solo or even with John trailing behind you on another horse to help offer correction if you falter on your own. You’re blinded by fear though, practically shaking as you undo Buttercup’s lead from the post outside the sheriff’s office. 

You’re clumsy trying to hoist yourself up onto her without John to boost you up and hold you steady. It takes a couple of tries before you manage to swing your leg over, and you curse under your breath when your dress bunches up around your waist, exposing the bare flesh of your legs. There aren’t many people roaming the street, fortunately for you.

Buttercup resists at first when you tug lightly on the reins to guide her away. She stomps her foot when you try again, giving a light whinny. Panic seizes you, a coil in your belly. You’ve only ever ridden her before with John at your side; you wonder if she’ll even listen to you in his absence or if even she can tell you’re about to do something foolish and wants nothing to do with it. 

“Please, girl,” you beg. “I promise—I’ll figure out some way to get you back.”

On the third attempt, she finally listens. The way she abruptly breaks into a fast trot nearly sends you toppling over. You catch yourself by clutching the horn, tight enough that your knuckles ache. Your forehead breaks out in a nervous sweat. Buttercup covers ground fast, and without John sitting behind you like a silent sentinel, you feel control slip out of your slippery hands, clammy with sweat too. 

“Whoa, girl,” you breathe, trying to calm her by stroking a hand down her neck. 

It does precious little to calm her down. You remember something John once said about animals smelling fear. They know it like your name. 

You lose control of her fast. Almost in the blink of an eye, you go from steering Buttercup towards John’s house to holding on for dear life. Your body rocks with hers and you’re forced to tighten your thighs around her midsection when she breaks into a gallop, your hands still clinging tight to the reins. Her hooves kick up dust and dirt in her haste, sending it flying behind you. 

“Slow down!” you shout, but the words are swept away by the wind, already behind you. 

Not once have you ever ridden a horse at this speed. Your direction seems like more of a suggestion to Buttercup, and not one she’s inclined to take. The town rapidly vanishes behind you, the vegetation sparse for the first few hundred yards, arid scrubland scorched by the sun and fed off of by the horses and mules coming in and out of town. The sun beats down hot on your head, no hat to shield you from the heat.

You can’t imagine you would’ve been able to hold it down though, you think wildly, mind still in a flurry of panic. It would’ve flown right off ages before. 

Your breath comes out in hitched pants as you clutch with all your might to the horn of the saddle, your hands soon transferring to her mane for better purchase. Buttercup moves like a rogue wave beneath you, like something sailors only speak about in hushed whispers. She takes a wide arc around John’s property, heading towards the mountains instead, and no amount of trying to steer her with your legs seems to work. 

Your head whips back to watch the house pass, the dark shape of it sailing past you, and it nearly causes you to lose your balance. Looking back in front of you only makes it worse. Panic courses through you when you stare ahead only for the world in front of you to spin. Bile creeps up your throat. You swallow it back, but only just.

The half-formulated plan you’d had in mind is long gone. All you can focus on now is remaining astride the horse beating dirt under you. Any thought of bringing her to a halt dissipates. Even the thought of escape evaporates into thin air. 

Only when you feel Buttercup slow to a trot do you peel open your eyes. The breath you let out as you look around is short, panic still churning in your guts.

Over the weeks since John married you and took you home, he’s taken you through the mountains a fair few times, familiarizing you with the land to the best of his abilities in such a short amount of time. But the wilderness stretches far and the terrain beyond John’s homestead is rough, treacherous. 

When you look around, you realize that you don’t recognize this part of the mountainside. 

The trail Buttercup takes you down is cut haphazard into the landscape—a crude, handmade path, not one seared into the ground from frequent travel. It feels distinctly wilder than where you’ve been before. Your head swivels around as you try to look for something that might jog your memory. The striated mountainside tells you nothing. The trees out this deep into the mountains are thicker and older, gnarled root systems bursting up from the earth and coiling around the nearby rocks like snakes winding around their prey. 

You sit up a bit straighter, still shaking when you rub your hand down Buttercup’s neck. “You know where we are, girl?”

She puffs out a breath.

That tells you nothing, but she keeps going down the same path deeper into the woods. No amount of squeezing your thighs or patting her neck gets her to stop. You should be thankful that she’s at least no longer sprinting, that you can actually sit up and catch your breath now, but the fear from earlier is but a paltry shadow compared to that which is brewing in you now. 

Every crick and snapping twig makes your head spin round. You stare intensely past the treeline, searching for the barest hint of motion. You don’t know much about these parts, but you know that this is no place for a woman by her lonesome. Even a man on his own out here might feel jumpy. This far out of the way, only cougars and bears take refuge, and the odd band of outlaws making camp for the night and taking advantage of the relative isolation this far out west. 

“Come on, girl, we can’t be out here,” you whisper, leaning closer to Buttercup to hopefully muffle your voice. Even as low as you speak, it still seems to echo.

You don’t know where you’re meant to go though. In the flurry of panic that had come over you at Graves’ arrival, you’d bolted without thought. Without a compass or map, you’re as good as lost in the unsettled land deep in the mountains. 

As that reality dawns on you, you realize that you haven’t had a drink of water in quite some time. 

An hour must pass with Buttercup stubbornly refusing to listen to your commands to turn back. Maybe longer. She resists even when you pull on the reins. In truth, you don’t blame her. Your commands come feeble, no strength behind them. The fear of being bucked off her back makes you soft. John would be gruff, unyielding—you can’t imagine him giving into fear.

That somehow upsets you even more. You can’t help but wish more than anything that he were here with you. 

The temperature drops as the sun begins to set. Without the sun beating down on you, you shiver in the cold air. There’s nothing to keep you warm other than the clothes on your back. Your lips smack when you part them, parched after hours without water. You haven’t stumbled across a river or stream in the hours since starting down this path.

Then, from behind you, you hear it. 

The name that isn’t yours. You don’t catch it at first until it comes again, louder this time. When you look over your shoulder and down the path behind you, John’s furious face stares back at you, his lips worked into a flat line. 

The way you gasp must spook Buttercup, because she abruptly breaks into a gallop, forcing you to hunker down and hold on. You want desperately to look back, torn between relief and distress, but you stare ahead instead. 

The black horse he rides gains on you fast, legs pumping beneath its massive body. It’s not a horse you’ve seen before. Maybe borrowed in his haste to chase after you. You don’t let yourself digest that thought though, too concerned with remaining astride. 

Despite its size, it collapses the distance between you two quickly, nearly on you now. Instinct has you leaning into Buttercup, trying to get as low as possible and let the air glide around you. Her gallop quickens into a sprint. You’re just holding on now, facing straight ahead, no chance of being more than a passenger on this trip. 

John shouts at you from your rear to bring Buttercup to a stop. You squeeze your lips together instead of shouting back that you can’t. If you open your mouth, you think your stomach will come straight out. 

Your body jostles around on top of your horse, on the verge of slipping off with every passing second. When she takes a turn too quickly down a trail leading up into the mountains and you slide a bit to one side on the saddle, only your foot in the stirrup catching you, your heart stops. Fear is ice inverted; poured over you. It drenches you in another layer of sweat that dries rapidly in the air whipping around you. 

Hot and cold. The ground seems to come towards you every time Buttercup’s legs kick up. Always on the verge of falling and breaking every bone in your body. You suck your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn’t get caught between your clacking teeth and bitten right off. 

“Pull up on the reins!” John roars over the cacophony of stomping hooves. 

A glance to your right finds him close enough to graze with your fingertips. Your heart jumps in your chest.

“Pull up!” he shouts again, but all you can do is stare uncomprehendingly. 

You don’t know if he can see the terror in your eyes. It must be splayed clean across your face. He has to see the way his words mean nothing to you. Your panic effaces any meaning; all you hear is noise and anger pouring from his mouth, and trampled dirt and labored breath. 

When his horse pulls up alongside yours, he gets close enough to lean over and snatch the reins out of your hands. He pulls firm, tugging Buttercup’s head back until she almost rears up and you scream, hands fisting in her mane. 

Your body lurches forward when she comes back down, slumped over the saddle horn. It digs hard into your stomach. There’ll be a bruise there come morning, but nothing like the bruises that’ll bloom between your thighs. Even now the ache radiates down your body. You look up at the sound of John’s breath panting out like a bull, and he glares down at you with undisguised fury, the angriest you’ve ever seen him. 

“What in the blazes were you thinkin’?” he booms. Even the horse he sits astride shakes its head at the sound. “There’s nothing out here but outlaws and predators!”

The hand fisted in Buttercup’s reins pulls her closer, and he guides both horses into a slow trot and then to a stop. You can feel the way Buttercup’s ribs expand and contract under your legs. 

“Stop it— don’t touch me!” you snap when he reaches for you, smacking his hand away.

“Darlin’, if you get off that damned horse—” John warns, but you’re already swinging your leg over the saddle as the words come out of his mouth. 

You almost trip over the stirrup when you slide off Buttercup’s back and take off on foot. You fist the skirt of your dress in both hands to lift it as you run, letting it swish around you with the force of your strides. A curse and grunt come from back behind you. The sound of John’s boots hitting the dirt is loud, and when he chases after you, his boots pound into the earth.  

It’s a desperate last move, but all you can think is that you’d rather be anywhere else but in his arms. You’d rather take your chances with the wolves and bears in the woods, or with the bandits and brigands on the trails leading to the next town. 

You barely make it past the next tree before he barrels into you and takes you both to the ground, the world spinning as you fall down. He angles his body to take the brunt of the impact, but you still cry out when your hip hits the ground hard. The way he pulls you into his chest just barely keeps your head from slamming into a rock. 

“Goddamn it, woman,” John spits. “Where d’ya think you’re even going? There ain’t nowhere to run out here!”

Your head spins. When you open your mouth, all you can taste is rust and salt, sweat dripping off your upper lip. You can feel the heat of his chest against your back and he doesn’t give you a chance to gather your bearings before hauling you to your feet, tugging both of your arms behind your back. 

“Let me go!” you scream, trying to wrestle out of his hold to no avail. 

You know he doesn’t understand, but you can’t help the way you try to fight your way out of his hold. There’s no explanation that’ll make sense to him other than the truth, which you clamp tight in your chest. There's no telling if he already knows, if maybe Graves finally tracked him down or if someone else brought their suspicions to his attention, but you won't go spilling the truth yourself. 

He’s a solid mass behind you, breath labored from hours spent tracking you. You wonder if he noticed mere moments after you took Buttercup and left or whether he came back to the sheriff’s office only to find the two of you gone. 

John holds your wrists in one big hand at the small of your back and gives you a mean shake. “I don’t know what’s got you so riled up, but you better fix this attitude of yours and explain yourself before we get home or so help me God, I’ll take my belt to your ass.”

The mention of him belting your backside makes your hands go clammy, but you must have abandoned your common sense a mile back because your mouth keeps running. “I’ll gut you like a pig if you touch a hair on my head!” 

“We’ll just see about that,” he grunts, and you can hear the raw edged smirk in his voice and the anger behind it. 

When he leads you stumbling towards the horses waiting in the middle of the trail, you realize that capture had always been an inevitability in your mind. Maybe it even comes as a relief to know that the jig is up. 

You just hadn’t realized that it would be someone else hauling you back by your hair.

[honeyhotteoks]

this night together - chapter nine (j.yh + s.mg)

chapter nine: too little too late

chapter summary: you probably would have preferred the cold shoulder. yunho and mingi find out about your heat, and things get harder.

warnings: this chapter is a pain train. no other warnings except angst and consistent references to heat and all that goes with that.

notes: i'm SO glad you all enjoyed chapter eight!! it was a fun one. please enjoy the moment many of you have been waiting for..... yungi's return and everything that comes with that. good luck because oof our y/n is going through it.

pairings: alpha!yunho x alpha!mingi x omega!reader

genre: smut, a/b/o/omegaverse, angst, fluff, romance, polyamory

word count: 6.3k

previous chapter | next chapter | AO3

You expect to see them immediately when you walk into the studio a little early on Monday but it’s painfully empty. The back office door is shut and locked tight, so you know Yunho hasn’t been in yet and if he’s not here, neither is Mingi. It feels familiar, and you’re starting to wonder if every heat is going to end with them throwing a tantrum. 

“You just going to stand there?” Wooyoung’s voice nearly knocks you sideways and you jump in your shoes. 

“Don’t do that!” You spin on your heel and smack his shoulder. 

“You’re literally staring at a door,” Wooyoung levels you with a look, “I’m trying to pull you back down to reality so you can make it through this stupid day,” 

“Fine,” You sigh, “I guess… I don’t know, do I look okay?” 

He rolls his eyes, “You know you do,” 

“I just don’t want,” You start but the sound of the heavy back door to the studio startles you once again and your heart lands squarely in your throat when you see them. 

They barely look at you. A swift, fast glance, just enough for you to know they’ve seen you. Your hands suddenly feel slick and clammy and your stomach starts churning immediately. 

“Hey,” Wooyoung steps around you to grab their attention and break the sudden awkward tension in the hall, “did anyone ever call to get the lights in Studio 3 fixed?” 

Yunho blinks, almost confused by his words but then he recovers, “Uh, no, I thought they were fixed already,” 

“Out again,” Wooyoung shakes his head, “I think it’s electrical if the bulbs keep blowing,” 

Mingi listens for a moment, but the moment he’s sure this conversation has nothing for him he simply says, “I’ll catch you guys later,” and then he’s pushing past the two of them to cut down the hallway. 

He doesn’t look at you at all. 

Yunho watches him go and then refocuses on Wooyoung, “I’ll call someone,” he says, “is it the whole back panel again?” 

“I’ll show you,” Wooyoung gestures down the hall, throwing a fast glance at you that communicates so much with just one flick of his eyes - Don’t follow, you’re welcome, you owe me. 

As Yunho turns away from you to follow Wooyoung down the hallway you mouth a thank you and watch them go. The cold shoulder you can deal with, you’re almost too practiced with that at this point, so at least you can breathe a little easier and get back to work. 

You bottle it all right back up, and even though the day has been terrible and long and awkward, you know that San’s right. It’s your studio too. You’ve missed things being out for your leave and you have to catch up quickly to stay an unshakeable member of this group. All you have to do is focus on the work. 

You know you probably have to talk to them at some point, but you really didn’t think it would be today of all days. You thought they’d go back to the way it was before, an entire day of their tense glances communicated that clearly. But suddenly Mingi’s in front of you while you’re tucked up on the computer in the corner of one of the studios rewatching a cut of today’s practice and you know it’s going to be now, now or never.

“So, you’re good?” He asks suddenly, a little starting since you had expected him to just pass you by without a word, just like the rest of the day behind you. 

“What?” You manage, swiveling around in your chair. 

“You’re good?” He asks again, but his face is blank, passive. 

You open your mouth to answer but Yunho’s voice from the side has your head snapping towards it. 

“Mingi,” Yunho’s voice is firm, “let’s go.” 

“One sec,” Mingi doesn’t look away from you. 

“I said let’s go,” Yunho shakes his head. 

“Hey,” Mingi starts and then Yunho looks at you. 

“Can you lock up if you’re not leaving?” He asks, jaw tightening as soon as the words are out of his mouth. 

“Sure,” You manage. 

“Mingi, let’s go.” Yunho’s attention leaves you instantly, and you’ve never felt more invisible to him. 

“Bro,” Mingi shakes his head, “can you fuck off for one second?” 

“No, I’m getting in the car, do you want a ride or not?” Yunho’s jaw jumps in frustration. 

Mingi mutters something under his breath and then meets your eyes again, “y/n,” 

“Yeah?” You’re so overwhelmingly confused. 

“I said, are you good?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be good?” Your brows draw together. 

Mingi shuts his mouth tightly, his hands forming loose fists and then he nods once, “Fine,” 

“What’s going on with you two?” Your eyes dart between them, the anger in the room so palpable. They’ve been cold, they’ve been passive, but they’ve never, ever been angry with you. Not like this. 

There’s a long beat of silence and then finally Yunho speaks, “Are you serious?” 

“What?” 

“You disappear for three days,” Yunho drops his gym bag and looks to you, “and you can’t even answer a single fucking text message, and you want to know what’s going on with us?” 

Your stomach clenches hard, his dark eyes boring into you now and you need him to look away. “I was on heat leave,” You say clearly, “you got the paperwork, I know you did.” 

They’re both silent. 

“Look,” You sigh, and it’s already harder to maintain the wall than you thought it would be, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you back, that was shitty, but I was a little preoccupied,” 

Yunho grimaces. 

“Yunho, jesus,” You push yourself up off the chair and take a few steps towards them, “I don’t know what you want from me,” 

“We were worried,” Mingi offers, and his voice is still low and firm, but his words at least are a little kinder. 

“Well, I appreciate that, but I was fine.” 

Yunho huffs, and you can almost see him fighting an eye roll. Anger bubbles inside you at their entitlement over you and your time and you can’t stop your mouth or your hot head now. 

“Seriously,” You square your shoulders towards him, “Yunho, we’re friends so I feel like I can say this, but you’re acting like an asshole right now.” 

“I’m acting like an asshole?” His voice gets sharp at the end, anger radiating in him. 

“Yes!” You push farther into his space, “Sharing a heat together doesn’t mean I owe you something,” 

His jaw jumps at your words. 

“No one’s saying that,” Mingi cuts in immediately, physically pushing between you both and holding his hands up. 

“Tell that to him,” You nod towards Yunho. 

Yunho stays silent. 

Mingi keeps his hands up, “Listen,” he catches your eyes, “no one’s angry. We just didn’t hear from you for three days, we didn’t know if you were somewhere safe. That’s all.” 

“Well, I was,” You assure him, “I had everything handled, I’m back on my suppressants,” 

“I know,” Mingi nods, and you suppose he would be able to tell, with your scent dampened. 

“What about onboarding?” Yunho pipes in and you crane around Mingi to see him. His cheeks are flushed pink, and you can see how frustrated he is, but he tries to ask this question a bit more softly. 

“What about it?” You give him one more chance, just one. 

Yunho clears his throat and says again, “Onboarding. Mingi said it can be a lot, like before,” 

“I had it covered,” You assure him. 

“I just thought,” Yunho shifts from foot to foot, trying to find his words, “I thought maybe if it was as hard as before you’d be out of it, and I, I don’t know,” 

You want to be mad at him, you really do, but that part of his fear makes sense to you. When you think about your time with them and how much you don’t quite remember perfectly, how hard it was to make it home, you get it. 

“Honestly,” You exhale, relaxing the tension a bit, “I am sorry I didn’t text you back. I can understand why you were worried,” 

His shoulders relax with yours, “I’m sorry too,” 

You can’t say it’s okay, but you nod, glancing up to Mingi who’s seemed to soften up a bit too. There’s a long beat between you and finally Mingi asks, “So, we’re good?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “we’re good,” 

Yunho nods and agrees, “I am really sorry, I really was just worried about you,” 

“I know,” You nod, “I think I should have just texted you, but I didn’t know what to say,” 

“Yeah,” Mingi laughs a little, just a huff and he runs his hand through his short hair, “that’s fair,” 

You smile too and press your hands to your cheeks for a little cool relief, letting out a long sigh as the tension starts to release. It could end here, they could say goodbye and goodnight and you could finish up and then it would be over, but when Yunho shifts and glances between the two of you, you know immediately it won’t be so simple. 

“Well,” Yunho clears his throat, “next time if you’d rather not be alone, you know, I think we’ve done pretty good at staying friends,” 

“Oh,” Your heart feels like it might just fall straight out of your chest, “Yunho, I,” 

“It was weird for a couple of weeks,” He adds, “but,” 

You know you just have to say it, you have to get it out of your mouth before you can’t, and the words bubble up sharp and sudden, “I wasn’t alone,” 

“You weren’t?” Mingi’s brows shoot up. 

Yunho falls silent, ears running dark pink. 

“No,” You shake your head, “I wasn’t,” 

“Of course you weren’t,” Yunho manages, “sorry, that was… I don’t know why I assumed,” 

“Probably because I told you that’s what I normally do,” You soften, “so I understand why you were worried, but I’m telling you that I was fine, taken care of,” 

He asks it like he can’t help himself, the word falling right off his tongue, “Who?” 

You take a half step back, shaking your head, “Yunho, no,” 

“Why not? We’re friends,” Mingi rationalizes. 

They suddenly look so much like jealous lovers you can’t breathe. Something deep in your gut must have been right all along about them, and you don’t know why you can’t stop making this same mistake over and over again. Your biology must really want you to fall for a guy like this but as harsh as the twist in your gut feels, you push it back, refusing to submit. 

“No,” You turn on your heel, “I’m leaving,” 

Hands on your arms pull you back and twist you around in Mingi’s hold, “Fuck,” he says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that was so out of line,” 

“You don’t get to ask, okay?” You push him off, putting a foot of distance between you. 

“I know that, we know that,” Mingi nods, holding your gaze and trying to diffuse whatever this conversation has become, “it was stupid, forget it,” 

Yunho moves closer, stopping by Mingi’s side to give you the same distance, “Completely stupid, I’m sorry,” 

You’re already so sick of them apologizing, but you swallow tightly and try to let it go, “Okay,”

“Only,” Yunho pauses, debating on whether or not he should say this and your breath catches in your throat, “only, why didn’t you call us?” 

“What?” You can barely believe him. 

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Yunho says, looking quickly at Mingi who nods, “I just… I thought you would have called us, and when I saw the paperwork and you didn’t answer I thought maybe something happened.”

The stretching silence between you is crushing you. A flare of anger bubbles in your belly, “You said my heat before was a one time thing.” 

“I never said that.” 

“You did,” You shake your head, and now you just can’t stop the words, “and you know what, Yunho? Maybe this wouldn’t have been so hard and confusing if you didn’t treat me like I was invisible for weeks after we had sex,” 

“You were avoiding me too,” His tongue is quick when he’s angry and you can almost see the regret in his eyes but he doubles down, “both of us.” 

“I’m not going to listen to this,” You cheeks flare with angry blush, “I’m done. We work together, that’s it. I don’t know what you want from me, I’ll get whiplash if you keep-”

Your words die on your tongue, your back connecting with the hard studio wall behind you. You don’t see Mingi coming, your eyes steady on Yunho and you’re about to throw up your hands and leave again when Mingi collides into you, his lips on yours. 

“Mingi!” You squeak against his mouth. 

“Please,” He pleads, shaking his head.  

His body feels so good you might lose your mind entirely. His plush mouth stays on yours, tongue dipping between your lips to flick along yours. His scent envelops you, his hot hands holding you against him, and you melt into him as your body responds to him. He kisses like you’re his only lifeline, messy and hungry and pouring desperation into you ounce by ounce. Your hand tightens on his back. He hitches your leg up onto his hip, pressing your body open for him to slot between your legs. 

Your eyes stay shut as he kisses his way down your jaw, nipping along your skin until his mouth is on your throat, ghosting softly over your pulsepoint. Your mind is spinning, flooded hot, everything falling away and then it all stops. 

Mingi stiffens, body locking up and you hear him take a deep inhale of breath. He rocks back away from you, “Seonghwa?” 

“What?” Yunho’s voice re-enters the mix. 

Mingi steps away from you and you brace your body against the wall, finding your feet under you and trying to catch your breath, “Don’t,” 

“I’m right,” Mingi’s face knits up in confusion, his fists tighten, “fuck,” 

Yunho looks stricken. 

“You slept with Seonghwa?” Mingi repeats.

“Don’t,” You repeat, anger curling inside you and you push off the wall, “we’re friends and maybe I should have texted you, but that’s all we are, you made that perfectly fucking clear after my heat. You don’t get to treat me like I cheated or try to mark your fucking territory,” You scrub your hand across your throat where Mingi kissed you, where he let his tongue linger. 

“We’re not together,” You reiterate, “we’re not in love, or soulmates, or scent matches, or whatever the fuck else people say. We had sex, that’s it.” 

The words are out there, dropped between you like lead and you realize coldly somewhere in the back of your mind, you can never take that back. 

Yunho and Mingi stand stock still at the grenade dropped between you, but then Yunho shifts forwards one step with a tight inhalation of breath.

“That’s not all it was for me,” He manages, and when you meet his eyes your resolve nearly, nearly crumbles. 

“Whatever you feel for me isn’t real, it’s biology,” You shake your head, trying to catch your breath and keep your words straight. If they loved you before they would have come to you then, you just have to hold onto that truth. 

“Don’t tell me what I feel,” Yunho looks away from you, his hands tight, “don’t patronize me.” 

“This is why we should have never,” You shake your head, looking at Mingi like you might see a scrap of reason in his eyes, but you see nothing, pure passive inattention like he’s shut down and left the conversation. 

“y/n,” Yunho shakes his head, “I’m not some lovesick virgin,” 

“I know that,” You sigh, “I didn’t mean,” 

“You did,” Yunho interrupts, “and if you don’t feel the same about us, just say it.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You feel like you’ve entered an entirely different narrative, “You said you wanted to be friends, isn’t that what we are?”

“Friends don’t kiss like that,” Mingi admits gruffly. 

“You kissed me,” You manage. 

“y/n,” Mingi says softly, “I felt it, the way you kissed me back, touched me… there’s something there,” 

“Is that what this is about?” Your jaw tightens, “You think I’m yours?” 

Mingi’s jaw snaps shut, muscles jumping. 

Yunho shakes his head, bringing you back to his eyes, “No,” he sighs, “but,” 

“But what?” You won’t cry, not here, “You’re perfectly fine treating me like I’m invisible until another alpha gets a little too close? I’m a person! A whole entire person, I’m not an omega for you to… to…” 

“I know that!” Yunho exclaims, “I like you. We like you, it has nothing to do with designation,” 

“That’s the most naive sentence I’ve ever heard,” You take a step back, away, closer to the mirrored wall, “if that were true why didn’t you say anything weeks ago?” 

“I didn’t know then,” He insists, looking to Mingi for help but finding none in his vacant eyes. 

“That’s what I’m saying,” You sigh, exasperated, “you’re just realizing it now? Right when I spend my heat with another alpha? You’re confused.” 

“It’s not confusion,” Mingi says simply, “we’re not stupid.” 

“So, you both have feelings for me? Is that what you’re saying?” You bite back, and you clench your fist tight. You won’t cry.

They say nothing, silence filling the room like smoke and you need to get out. 

“After we spent that time together,” You take a steadying breath, “I missed you both so much it hurt. All the time. I would convince myself not to come to your place and knock on the door and… and I don’t know what I wanted. I thought about you all the time, and the things you said and did for me. I missed you so much it made me sick,” 

“Then,” Yunho starts, his voice small but you shake your head. 

“But you didn’t want me,” You insist, “you spent weeks making sure I knew it. Every day you wouldn’t look at me, you wouldn’t talk to me, I’ve never felt so small.”

Mingi’s eyes cloud and he drops his head. 

“And it was hard, but the things I felt for you went away,” You press, despite the tightness in your chest, “with a little time and space, it went away. I know you both care about me, and I care about you, but you don’t love me.” 

“I don’t accept that,” Yunho shakes his head, moving forwards before you can process it, his arms around you as he tucks you into his chest, “how can you say that when this feels the way it does?” 

Your head throbs with the scent of him, washing through you and making your limbs go soft and your heartbeat slow to a stutter instead of a pounding thump, but your brain clicks back into place and you wriggle in his arms, “Let me go,” 

He leans away, cupping your cheek in his hand to draw your face up to his gaze, “Don’t you?” He manages, voice cracking gently. 

You’re dizzy, mind flooded and confused, but you try, “I don’t,” 

His thumb strokes a gentle line over your cheekbone, shifting just a little closer, “y/n,”

“Yunho,” You manage, your voice shaking as you try to stay level, “if you kiss me now, there’s nothing for us.” 

His brow creases as he studies your eyes, exhaling an unsteady breath. 

“I’ll go, I’ll find another studio.” You grip your hand tight and let your nails dig into your soft palm, “I need you to let me go, please, let me go,” 

His arms fall away, and he takes two sizable steps back, running a hand through his hair, “After everything, that’s it?” 

“It has to be,” Your eyes feel prickly, “I’ve moved on. I need you both to do the same. Find someone else, another omega. I know you think you want me, but it’s just your alphas talking. And maybe we could have been more than this, but you hurt me, you both did, and I’ve moved on.” 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Mingi manages. 

“No,” You shake your head, “you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry,” His voice is small. 

“This,” Yunho tries to say something, but his voice is thick with emotion and he clears his throat, words dying on his lips. 

“I’m sorry too,” You finally add, “and I thought we could go back to being friends, but this, it hurts too much.” 

“What do we do?” Yunho asks, voice hollow. 

“I need some space,” You swallow tightly, “we’ll do the work, but that’s it. If we ever have a shot at being friends someday, at feeling like this isn’t always there… that’s what I need, and maybe we can fix this.”

“Okay,” Mingi says. 

“Tour,” Yunho takes a deep breath, and you realize now that he has tears flooding his eyes that he’s doing his best to blink away, “we’ll be gone for months,” 

He’s right, in a matter of weeks they’ll be gone with a small group of the BB Trippin dance crew to Europe. You have your focus here with the newly debuting group alongside Dahan and Yujin, but they don’t, they’re leaving with New World and it would be almost three full months until they’d be back in Korea. 

“Good,” You breathe, ignoring the pit forming in your stomach at the thought of not seeing them, “then let’s just get through the next few weeks, but after that you go. Don’t text me, don’t call me, just… move on.” 

Silence stretches, but Yunho nods. 

If you stay here for one more minute you’re going to cry, “I have to go,” 

He nods again. 

There’s more to say, you can feel it, but you can’t do it now and you have to push yourself to get out the door. You push past them as quickly as you can, eyes on the door in front of you, but Yunho follows behind and catches you once more in the hall. 

“y/n,” He doesn’t touch you, but calls after you in the hall, but you don’t turn around you can’t. If you look at him one more time you’ll cry, you’ll go back, you’ll throw all the things you said to the side just to feel his arms around you one more time or Mingi’s lips on yours and you can’t. You have to be better than this, for yourself. 

You stop though and turn your head just a little to let him know you’re listening. 

“I’m,” His voice tightens and hitches, “I’m really fucking sorry we lost you,” 

Hot tears overflow at his words, spilling over down your cheeks and you drop your head and nod. You grip your hands tighter and steady yourself and hope to god that your voice will hold up, “Me too,” 

He takes a tight, wet inhale and you have to move, one more second in this hallway and you’ll want nothing more than to comfort him, to soothe your alpha and smooth this moment over, but the latent thought of him as yours strikes panic in your chest and you push forward down the hall.

You round the corner at the end by the office, and the image of him coming out of the doorway that first night won’t leave you alone, the way he softened when he saw you in heat, the way he took you in his arms. 

You stifle a sob with your hand over your lips, and then you’re running. Out of here, away from this, and you don’t know where you’re going until you get there, every step a blur. 

You knock fast on San’s door, and you feel bad about crashing their night, but you can barely breathe and you need to see a friendly face or you just might fall apart. You had gotten your tears under control on your way over, out of sheer embarrassment that you were crying in the middle of the street, but tightness gathers in your throat now as you wait for an answer to the door and pins prick the back of your eyes. 

You hear shuffling on the opposite side of the door, a hand on the knob, and tears spill over already. 

San’s smiling when he opens the door, looking over his shoulder back into the main living space and finishing saying something to Wooyoung who’s inside, and your breath hitches. 

His eyes settle on you, “y/n?” His face falls as he sees your tears, “What?” 

“S-San,” Your tears rush faster, your words cut off in a sob and you launch yourself forwards to collide with his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder, sobs wracking yours. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” He stumbles back, wrapping his arms around you, “what’s going on?” 

“y/n’s here?” Wooyoung’s voice comes from the side and you can’t stop yourself from crying harder. 

“I need you to breathe,” San soothes you, his voice low, “I need you to tell me what happened,” 

You shake your head into his neck, hiccuping as you do. 

“Are you hurt?” He presses, one of his hands sliding up your sides to search your body, “I need you to talk to me,” 

You drag in a shaky breath, but Wooyoung sees you now and jumps forwards, “Is she hurt?” 

“Woo,” San interrupts him, “hang on, okay, just,” 

“I’m,” You clear your throat, “I’m not hurt,”

San exhales heavily, relieved at your words and nods, cupping the back of your head, “Alright, just breathe,” 

“What the hell happened?” Wooyoung says. 

“I know as much as you do,” San says, “just grab her stuff and let’s get inside,” 

“Yeah,” You hear Wooyoung moving, picking up your bag from the floor outside his apartment door, and then you hear it click shut. 

“y/n,” San tries again as you try to get your breathing under control, “can you tell me what happened?” 

“I t-talked to Yunho and Mingi,” You murmur wetly into his shirt. 

“What the fuck did those idiots do?” Wooyoung’s hand settles between your shoulder blades as he shifts closer to try and catch your eyes. 

“It’s a mess,” You manage. 

“Woo,” San says softly, “get her a glass of water,” 

“But,” Wooyoung starts. 

“Go.” San insists. 

Wooyoung’s hand leaves you. 

“y/n,” San says, “come inside and sit down,”

You peel yourself away from him, covering your face immediately as tears continue to roll down your cheeks, but San steers you inside with a warm arm until you’re sinking down onto the couch. 

“Water,” Wooyoung says, holding an icy cold glass in his hand and taking his spot on the extended length of the sectional so he can angle towards you and see your face, “drink this,” 

He presses the glass into your hands and you take a shaky sip, the cold shocking your brain a little as you try to get a little more down. 

San tugs the coffee table a little closer and takes a seat on the wood top and then leans forward to catch your eyes, elbows resting on his knees, “Can you tell us what happened?” 

You sigh deeply and then recover your breath, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater, “They know,” 

“About this weekend?” San surmises. 

“Just Seonghwa,” You clarify, taking another sip of water, “they were so angry, I didn't want to tell them the rest,” 

“Fucking assholes,” Wooyoung curses, his jaw tightening as he looks away. 

“What else?” San’s voice is gentle, so unlike confident alpha tone you had gotten used to, “You can tell us,” 

“They… I mean, Yunho… he said that they,” The words get jumbled in your mind as you flash back to the studio room, “it’s all so fucked, they’re acting like this is…”

“Babe,” Wooyoung plucks the glass from your hands and passes it to San, returning his hands to yours so he can steady your shakes, “you’re not making a lot of sense, and I’m about two seconds from driving over to their place and castrating them. I need you to please tell me they didn’t do anything stupid,” 

“Youngie,” San sighs, exasperated. 

You shake your head, “No,” you manage, “they have feelings for me, they said… when they found out about my heat they were so…”

“Now?” Wooyoung’s eyebrows go high, “Now they have feelings for you?” 

“That’s basically what I said,” Your lips turn up in the smallest smile. 

“What else?” San cuts through the commentary. 

“If they had said something, anything weeks ago,” You trail off. 

“They didn’t though,” San reminds you, “and that’s on them. Not on you.” 

“So you fought?” Wooyoung surmises. 

You wipe your eyes again and nod, “It was awful,” 

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung takes your hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over the back of your knuckles, “We all knew they might be upset, we shouldn’t have left you alone,” 

“I handled it,” You shake your head, the telltale feeling of a migraine coming on in the back of your skull from how many tears you’ve shed, “I… just - I don’t know why this is so hard,” 

San shifts forwards, cupping your cheek in his hand and soothing you, “How about you stay over tonight? We can order some takeout and just forget about this for now,” 

“I’ve got soju if you need a drink,” Wooyoung adds, “whatever you need, we’re here,” 

“I just want to know what to do,” You push San’s hands away and drag your fingers through your hair, “it shouldn’t be this hard,” 

“How did you leave it?” Wooyoung asks gently, hand on your knee. 

Yunho’s words in the hallway strike back through your chest, but you shake your head, “Kind of terribly,” 

“Okay,” He prompts you for a little more. 

“I told them to go on tour and to not contact me so we can get some space,” You say it in a single breath and then you duck your head in your hands again. 

“Damn,” Wooyoung grimaces. 

“I know,” You sniff back fresh tears, “maybe I should have stayed, but, I just… I couldn’t,” 

“y/n,” San pulls your hands down and takes them in his, smoothing his thumbs over the soft hollows of your palms, “you did the right thing. Space is good,” 

“Is it?” You said it, and in the moment you believed it, but months without speaking to them feels like torture. 

“It’s good,” He nods, wiping away your tears, “you need time to figure out how you feel and they need time to do the same. You’re never going to be able to get it if you’re working on top of each other every day,” 

You let San’s words sink in and you know he’s right. All of the talking and the not talking with them up to this point had just left your relationship a jumbled mess. Time away could fix this. You knew it deep in your gut in the studio as you backed out the door and you know it now. 

With a deep breath you scrub your hands under your eyes to clear away the last remnants of tears and any smudged mascara and you nod, “Woo,” you face him, “where’s that soju?” 

“On it,” He grins, “I know exactly what you need,” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” Wooyoung hops up and heads for San’s kitchen, “Beer, soju, and junk food. I’m making chapagetti,” 

You groan, knowing exactly what your body is going to feel like tomorrow.

“At least put some protein on it,” San calls back, “for the love of god,” 

“Sannie,” Wooyoung says, his head clearly in the fridge at the muffled tone, “just let me work my magic,” 

“Mhm,” San shakes his head. 

“I’m going to be so hungover tomorrow aren’t I?” 

“Definitely,” San laughs, “but you can crash here, we’ll take care of you.” 

You nod, knowing they absolutely will. 

When Wooyoung hands you the cold glass of beer and the shot you clink your glass with him and knock it back in sync and for a little while you put it all out of your mind. 

It isn’t until later, in the safe darkness of San’s bedroom with your best friends on either side of you, that you feel like the words might make it out of your mouth without it all ending around you. The alcohol in your system has started to dissipate, leaving you exhausted and a little heavy feeling, but your thoughts are starting to stitch back together and you just have to tell them. 

You’re snuggled tight to Wooyoung’s chest, your forehead pressed to his sternum, San behind you but not really touching you, just laying on his back and staying close enough to give you the comfort of another body. You can’t stop replaying it, seeing them when they realized you had been with not just someone else but someone they knew. 

You don’t know what possesses you, but in the darkness you murmur, “Mingi kissed me,” 

Wooyoung’s breathing hitches for just a moment as he registers your words, but he recovers cleanly, his fingers just running over your hair again and again, “When?” 

“Tonight,” You shift, pushing yourself to lie on your back between the two of them, “I think he was trying to show me he meant it,”

They let your words sit there for a moment, and then Wooyoung turns to look at you, “How do you feel about it?” 

“Stupid,” You exhale, answering honestly, “really fucking stupid,” 

“Why?” San props up on one arm, hand on his cheek and brow furrowed as he looks down at you. 

You feel the outline of his mouth on yours again, his hands and how they held you, how much he poured into one moment just to get you to understand. “Because,” You answer, “all I could think about was how much I missed him,” 

“y/n,” Wooyoung murmurs, “do you think they meant it? That their feelings are real?” 

“Maybe,” You say, “but the timing,” 

“Yeah,” 

“And besides,” You shake your head, “I said some things I shouldn’t have,” 

“Like?” San asks. 

“I told them they fucked it up,” You blink back tears, “and that we weren’t soulmates and that they’re wrong,” 

“Oh,” San says, “that’s direct,” 

“I know,” You groan, dropping your hands over your eyes, “I was just so angry,” 

“Space will be good then,” Wooyoung offers, “you all need a breather.” 

“There’s no easy way to work together when that’s how you left it,” San points out, “so time away gives you all a chance to rethink some things and get some clarity,” 

“What if,” The words die in your throat. 

“What?” San nudges you. 

“What if they come back and nothing’s fixed,” You sigh, “what if it’s worse?” 

“You won’t know it until it happens,” San takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together, “you can’t control everything, y/n, sometimes you just have to let things work out.” 

You nod, and then you ask the question you’ve been afraid of since you walked out the studio door, “Should I have just stayed? If… if they do have feelings for me, and they’re real, should I have just stayed?” 

“It would have been easier,” Wooyoung murmurs, “but babe, you’d still have the same questions,” 

“Yeah,” You breathe, stomach in knots.

“Tour is soon,” San reminds you, “you got through weeks of the cold shoulder last time, you can do this,” 

You nod. 

“It’s late,” Wooyoung comments. 

“I know,” You murmur. 

“It’s going to be okay,” San says, “I know it will.”

“You’re right,” You breathe, “I just think it shouldn’t be this hard, if we were meant to work out, shouldn’t it be easier than this?” 

They’re quiet for a moment and then San sighs, “Probably,” 

Wooyoung turns and looks at him, his lips closing before he shrugs and rolls towards you, snuggling up to your side. 

“What?” You nudge him, reading through his silence. 

“Nothing,” He says. 

“Woo,” You nudge him harder. 

“I just think you shouldn’t close any doors,” 

“Mm,” 

“I’m just saying,” He wraps an arm around your middle, “take the break from them, see how you feel later. You’re overthinking this,”

San drags his thumb over your knuckles and Wooyoung shifts closer, resting his head on your shoulder. The quiet stretches around you as you take in his words. He might be right, but you can’t think about that now. Not with the day you’ve had and the headache behind your eyes. 

The fight plays over and over again in your mind every time you close your eyes, a loop of Mingi’s mouth on yours and Yunho’s eyes shining with tears. The feeling of their hands on you, begging you to stay. The look on their faces when they realized you had sought out another alpha for your heat, and not just any, but one of their best friends. You wonder what might have changed had you texted them back, who you might have met at the studio today instead. 

That’s not all it was for me. 

A little piece of you wishes you could take back everything you said. 

[saerins]

⋆୨ chapter four ୧˚ behind a box of reasons why

⋆୨ if not for you (masterlist) ⋆୨ previous: chapter three - for a while, you were all mine <> next: chapter five - if not for this love of mine ୧˚

⋆୨ synopsis ୧˚ neither of you want this. both you and sae reluctantly agree to this marriage, although sae’s dissatisfaction far outweighs your own. with hidden agendas and old flames, will this ever work out between the two of you, or will your forced spark be doomed to fail?

ೀ series: sae x f!reader | wc 7.3k | ೀ content warnings: fluff/angst, modern au, arranged marriage, rich!sae and rich!reader, jealousy/paranoia, third parties, abuse/gaslighting, some blood, trauma sharing | notes: sorry if there’s any mistakes !! rushed this out and had no time to proof >_< but heh i tried to keep angst minimal so enjoy <3

Tumultuous is a fair word to describe your honeymoon. Between being over the moon when Sae finally started acting like an actual husband to you and being down in the dumps when you realise that he’s still in contact with the ex-girlfriend that he had apparently promised to wait forever for, you’re still a little conflicted.

Still, you’re easy to appease, given how easily you believed him when he promised you he’d stay. You chalk it up to you being efficient—you’re not about to let your overactive imagination ruin your days. You’re just going to trust Sae, even with that little seed of doubt already planted in your mind.

There’s a part of you that believes he wouldn’t bother promising anything he didn’t mean; although you should know he could, given the day of your wedding, both of you lying through your teeths about loving each other. You’d like to believe that the present is different somehow.

It proves hard to do though, given how you’re achingly suspicious every single time a routine changes.

Like this morning, when Sae tells you he’s taken the day off and tells you it’s for no particular reason when you asked him about it. That paranoid voice in your head keeps wondering if he’s just using that time to meet with Mirin.

The chat messages you saw from her that day is an indication that they’re still on friendly terms, if anything. And somehow, it’s enough to make your stomach churn.

“Hey Y/N, you okay?”

Your coworker and best friend at work, Sumi, asks as she swivels her chair around to look at you, the concern lining her brows.

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” you tell her, trying to brush it off as you offer the widest smile you can manage.

Sumi sighs, the scepticism clear on her face. “You’re always bottling things up to yourself,” she chides, with a hint of motherly affection your own lacks. “If you need to rant just remember I’ll listen to you anytime, okay?”

Days like this, you’re thankful for nice people like her who treat you normally despite knowing you’re the owner’s daughter. Even working in a subsidiary they own, it’s hard to escape the greedy ones who try to get close for perks.

“Thanks, Sumi,” you tell her, a genuine smile on your face this time. “Maybe I’ll take you up on it one day.”

You’re usually grounded, and you don’t usually allow stray thoughts to influence your mood or decisions. But somehow, it’s difficult when it comes to Sae, and you have to wonder whether it’s because this is the first time you think you’re in love with someone.

How would you know what it is, anyway? How should you know if it’s what you’re feeling? You’d thought Reo was someone you loved, but that felt entirely different. It was always comfortable, like a safe space that you’d rather keep stagnant than to try rocking the boat.

You think about it the entire trip home. Back home, where you’re wondering if Sae’s there, or whether he’s out with—god, you don’t even want to think her name.

When you open the door, you don’t see anyone there, and you feel a sinking in your chest. You’d been hoping that he’d be there and you can keep from overthinking, but maybe that’s asking too much. And just when you’re ready to give up and pour yourself a bath and hope to fall asleep while having one, you hear someone clearing their throat as you retreat down the corridor to your room.

Spinning around, you see your husband there, hair a mess and face stoic as usual, looking like how you first left him in the morning. You blink once, twice, wondering if you’re dreaming. Sae doesn’t usually like to stay cooped up in his room, which was why you’d thought he wasn’t home in the first place, but it looks like you thought wrong. (Yay!)

Sae’s about to speak when you cut him off.

“Oh! Right, dinner—let me put my stuff down and I’ll cook something up!” You’re already bounding down towards your room as Sae tries to call out your name, unfortunately falling on deaf ears.

But he doesn’t have to wait much to get a reaction out of you, your mind twirling a thousand possibilities in your head as to why the fuck your stuff are gone from your room.

Sae thinks it’s absolutely comical how the first things he hears out of your mouth are: “Sae, are you kicking me out? Where’d you send my stuff?”

Because in every single universe, that would be your first thought.

He doesn’t say a thing, only offering you a roll of his eyes and a sigh as he gestures with his hands for you to walk the other way. 

So you do—slowly. You walk towards him, furrowed brows and eyes searching his expression for answers which, unfortunately, do not give anything away because he’s annoying like that.

Fifteen agonising seconds (for Sae) later, you open his bedroom door to find your “missing” items.

The books you’re reading are on one side of the nightstand, your clothes that you’d haphazardly collected on a pile on your chair are in a similar arrangement on the other side of the room where the study desk stands, and even your beloved Santa doll is situated on one side of the king-sized bed, sitting atop the pillow.

Turning around to face Sae again, you suddenly feel the guilt wash over you. While you were thinking that he’d go out and meet his old flame, he probably spent the whole time carefully moving everything over.

To his bedroom.

It takes you a while to really connect the dots.

Sae, on the other hand, is too impatient to wait for you to speak, your mouth slightly open and looking like a total idiot. For once, the expression you see on his face isn’t completely stoic. There’s a lilt in his eyes, and a hint of a smirk tugging on his lips.

“Okay, you figure out where the fuck your room is, and I’ll sit here and wait for you,” he tells you, the playful sarcasm dripping from his lips, his inviting subtle chuckle sounding like the signal of forever.

He sits down on the couch, idly flipping through the channels while you enter the bedroom further and take your time looking around. And by that, you mean to make sure you’re not dreaming.

You slap your face a couple times, you open the cupboard to ascertain your clothes are there, you peek into the bathroom to find that Sae is unexpectedly kind of corny because you find matching his and hers sets of toiletries.

A few minutes later, you find yourself at the doorway, Sae looking at you expectantly, brows raised. “Yes, wife?”

Now he thinks you’re kind of pathetic because he can see your face light up from just a little call of your title. But Sae thinks he might like that look on you. Maybe a little too much than he’s comfortable with.

Your excited grin dissolves into a sheepish one. “That sounds kinda corny.”

Sae shrugs, getting up off the couch, “guess that’s the last time I’ll call you that then—” But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because you slap your hand across his mouth, and Sae can almost laugh at how different you are from the first time he saw you. Still as pretty, just a little less reserved, a little more happy.

“I take that back,” you tell him, giggling and skipping away to the kitchen, not giving him any time for a rebuttal. “What do you feel like tonight? Fish?”

He follows you, looking over your shoulder as you get the food ready. “Anything, as long as you’re cooking,” Sae says, as if it’s normal that he says shit like that and it takes everything in you not to make too big a deal out of anything he says. “Oh, I’m going out drinking with the guys later by the way, so you can get to bed first.”

Yeah, as if you can get to bed when you’re that happy and excited. Later that night you just end up tossing and turning in bed, grinning yourself silly. And who can blame you? It’s the first proper time that Sae is solidifying that he’s had a change of heart. Even if it’s in spite of all your uncertainties. To which Reo had told you to try talking to him and asking him about it because he’s your husband and you really shouldn’t have to be afraid of talking about the difficult stuff when you have to be with him forever.

Reo’s right, you know that. But you’ll hold off on it. Only because you don’t want to possibly ruin this right after it barely started. It’s foolish, but you really don’t want to go back to square one.

Even if it’s the right thing to do.

That night, Sae gets home only after three, to which he finds you peacefully sleeping on your side of the bed, phone still with its screen lit up. You must’ve been scrolling through it before you passed out.

If he was sober, maybe he would’ve allowed himself to think that this gesture of his was just a whim, that it was a moment of weakness. That you don’t really mean all that much to him. After all, how could you, when he just met you not long ago?

But he finds himself treading carefully, and he finds himself moving quietly, all in the name of not disturbing your sleep. And maybe he can’t convince himself you don’t mean that much to him anymore.

While he gently settles himself on the other side of the bed, your phone buzzes and Sae looks over, your text chat with Reo left open on your screen. The slept already? weak. message he just sent you would’ve been left at that by Sae, except he sees one message at the top, a night, stupid. call me if you need anything. 

And so maybe he feels more for you than he thinks. Because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that message especially because Reo’s your best friend but Sae’s stupid in relationships and he scrolls a little bit upwards and sees the previous message from Reo.

maybe i should marry you instead, sae who 😇

It’s irrational how much it can bother him. Even if it’s dated over a month ago.

When you wake up the next morning, you find yourself pressed up against Sae, his head atop of yours, his arms wrapped around your waist. His breathing’s slow and steady and he’s definitely not up for work, it looks like. And neither are you, because this moment feels precious and you’re not sure what spurred that on, to hug you to sleep out of nowhere, maybe it’s the alcohol, but whatever it is, you’re thankful for it.

At times like this, you’re grateful for the fact that your parents own the company. They’ll be fine if their daughter ditches a day of work. Especially since this was what they wanted from the start—for the marriage to work.

ok, i’ll pick you up later. see you, stupid.

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

Frantically, you try to suppress your grin and lock your phone screen, but it doesn’t escape her—your reason for being happy.

“Meeting your husband for dinner tonight?” Sumi asks, looking like she’s been bored out of her mind for the past half hour anyway.

Deciding it’s pointless to act coy, you nod. “Managed to convince him to cook with me so we’re just gonna stop by the market later.”

“Wow, look at you guys,” she cajoles, nudging you playfully on the elbow. “You know, the first few weeks of your marriage you looked absolutely miserable, I was beginning to wonder if he was abusing you or something.”

You laugh awkwardly, because you can’t blame her for that. For the first few weeks you’d been spacing out at work, going home looking so downtrodden, and then going back to work looking like a zombie. It’s not that much of a stretch for Sumi to think so.

“If he ever treats you like shit, you tell me, okay?” Sumi tells you, looking as fierce as she can muster. Which is funny because she’s a small petite-sized girl, not any older than you and has such pretty brown doe eyes that it’s almost more adorable than angry. “I’ll beat the shit out of him.”

Later on, when Sae waits for you in his car at the lobby, Sumi follows you, curious to see what your husband even looks like because she wasn’t invited to your wedding despite your adamant requests to your parents to include her. Lucky for you, she’s understanding enough.

“Hey, from here your husband looks kinda handsome,” she whispers to you, trying to make out what he really looks like from behind the tinted windows, but it’s hard to see especially when Sae has his shades on. Still, Sumi tries to wear her cynical face, “but a husband who doesn’t even open the door for his wife? What a—”

As if sensing her cynicism, Sae hops out of his car at that moment, black Burberry wool coat shielding him from the cold. He looks straight out of a magazine that you can’t even blame Sumi for gaping as he walks over.

“Hey, ready to go?” He asks you, ignoring Sumi at the side who’s completely gone mute.

“Yeah let’s go,” you tell him, internally laughing at how meek Sumi turns, reminding yourself to make fun of her tomorrow for it until your mind goes completely blank as Sae plants a kiss on your cheek.

You’ve been able to process when his affections go on in private, or around strangers who barely pay any attention, but when he kisses you in front of your friend, you’re half-embarrassed and half-flattered.

Sae puts his hand on the small of your back, starting to guide you to the passenger seat before he turns back to look at Sumi. “Do you need a ride too?”

Sumi hurriedly waves both her hands, shaking her head. “No no, it’s fine I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date,” she tells him, and you snicker. She’s being a whole lot more polite than you’re used to her being but you suppose it’s not weird for people to be intimidated by Sae.

He nods curtly in acknowledgement before he goes around to the driver’s seat, Sumi mouthing a ‘have fun’ as she winks at you.

That’s exactly what you plan to do—you and Sae being at the grocery store together makes you feel like everyday life with Sae, even if it’s doing something simple like this, it really won’t be so bad. His initial cold shoulder and semi-hostile nature has completely gone, and he’s been initiating a lot of things too that you wouldn’t feel right doubting him too much over whatever you might’ve seen back in Korea. Or maybe it’s just your aversion to confrontation that’s speaking.

Either way, you decide to shove it to the back of your mind for the future you to deal with.

A flick to your forehead brings you back to Sae, his deadpan face unamused as he finishes the self-checkout.

“What’re you daydreaming about?”

With a cheeky grin, you shake your head. “Nothingggg.”

Sae clicks his tongue, brushing his card against the reader and doesn’t even wait for the receipt before he’s pushing the trolley full of dinner out to the car. “Mm, must be about me then.”

You feel the heat creep up to your cheeks, pouting as he raises a brow at you, taunting you to deny him. But you don’t, because you’re honest to a fault and Sae knows that.

He suppresses a grin, looking smug as he loads the food onto the trunk, earning a smack on his arms from you.

The ride back to the apartment is so different from the first that you can barely believe it. Sae’s cursing out everyone he had to deal with at work today and you know he’s only doing it because he’s comfortable with you now and it warms your heart. Compared to the first time where he barely spoke to you or even deigned to look at you, you’re impossibly happy right now, your playlist blasting over the speakers while Sae entertains your questions about his day.

“If you hate it so much, why’d you agree to take over the business then?” You ask, though quietly, because you’re not sure if it’s too sensitive of a question.

Sae goes silent for a second, like he’s considering whether he wants to tell you. “There was something else I wanted to do.”

He’s not really answering you, but he’s trying to give you something, and that’s all you really need.

“What was it?”

By instinct, he drives slower whenever he’s thinking. His hand on the joystick tenses up a little, gripping it slightly tighter before he ultimately releases it and shakes his head. He looks in your direction before looking back to the road ahead.

“I’ll tell you next time, okay?”

If he isn’t ready to share, then you’re not willing to press him either.

“Okay.”

By the time you reach home, the atmosphere between you and Sae has dissolved to normal, and you’re all for a wonderful date night in, happily thinking how you should torture Sae by giving him some insanely difficult tasks just to see how he would handle it—until you realise the world loves giving you bad surprises.

The moment you open the front door, your laughter dissipates, replaced by a perplexed smile as you notice the two guests sitting in the living room.

“Darling, there you are!”

Your mother bursts forward to hug you while your father remains expressionless, standing in the bright living room, black suit a stark contrast against the white walls.

Behind you, Sae sticks close, whispering an are you okay? in your ear, waiting for your nod before he relegates to the kitchen to put down the groceries.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, we had a copy of the key since we were helping to furnish the place for you both and we just missed our baby so much that we wanted to drop by,” your mother announces, and you already want to gag from the amount of bullshit you hear.

This is definitely not normal parenting.

“Would you like some tea?”

From the kitchen, you can already hear Sae brewing something. You want to help him, but your mind goes numb, drawing a blank. It’s never good news whenever you see your parents. Their care has always been a ruse for some other agenda, and you don’t know if you want to know what they’re really here for.

Questions fill your mind. Questions like why must they come at such a time? or why are they here at all? and then comes the feeling of impending doom all because that since you’ve been young, you’d only ever been taught that your parents’ will are absolute and that you’d rather die than have to disobey and suffer the consequences.

But a warm hand on yours begs to differ. Before then, you didn’t even realise you were trembling.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sae’s right there, beside you, already made sure your parents are distracted by the tea. Calloused fingers intertwined with yours, a gentle squeeze—one, two, three times—to get you to calm down.

“Yeah, I’m fine, really.”

“Sure you don’t wanna just tell ‘em to go?”

“I can’t.”

Two simple words and Sae doesn’t ask any more. There’s a certain kind of comfort to know that he’s here with you, that he’s someone like you, that he knows what you’re going through and out of everyone, he would understand. Two older siblings who unfortunately have to obey their parents’ every wish for probably different reasons and yet suffer in the same way anyway.

“Let’s go,” he tells you, gently dragging you by the pinky. “I’ll take your side whatever it is, so don’t worry so much. We’ll get them out of here in no time.”

Sae makes it sound so easy he makes you nearly believe it. But you of all people know your parents are anything but easy.

About five minutes into small talk (and by that you mean that they’re skirting around, asking about all the pictures hung up in the house, asking why you two still looked kind of awkward when your pictures show otherwise, and last but not least a very awkward question your mum threw about asking for a grandson to which Sae had choked on his tea), your father wastes no more time trying to get to the point.

“So, Sae, how’s our daughter treating you?”

Caught off guard by the question, Sae clears his throat, picking his words wisely. “She’s perfect, sir. Why do you ask?”

Internally, you’re grateful he’s being more polite than he usually cares to be. Can he feel you stressing out beside him?

“Nothing, just curious.” Your father throws you a dirty stare before focusing his attention back on Sae. “So nothing’s been off, then? Everything’s all good?”

Sae’s just as confused as you are, but he keeps his cool, nodding. “Everything’s great. We were actually having a date night in before, well, we saw the both of you here.”

Your father doesn’t say anything much after that. Your mother does most of the talking, but you know this is all just part of their plan. That’s what they always do. Your father is the one who’s straight to business, doesn’t waste his time or energy speaking in some roundabout manner. But he’s not a businessman for nothing—you can’t get anywhere without establishing a connection, and that’s always where your mother comes in. She’s always charming to people who aren’t aware of the inner workings in your family. That’s why you’re immune to it. And after hearing so many negative things surrounding your parents, it looks like Sae is as well.

The next ten, twenty minutes are carried by your mother, talking about anything and everything in the world. Sae talks more so you don’t have to.

“It’s fine, you can pick that up, we’ll have some alone time with our daughter,” your father says after noticing that Sae’s phone has been vibrating for a while now. There’s a pattern—his phone vibrates, Sae silences it, it starts vibrating again. Like the caller either has some emergency or they know nothing about personal space.

Sae’s about to reject again when you put your hand over his, squeezing it in the same way he did. “It’s fine, just go.” And come back soon because I don’t want to be left alone with them for too long—you try to telepathically implant that thought in his head, anxiety gripping tightly onto you.

It’s not like he wants to leave you defenceless, either. He of all people know what toxic parents are like and yours are class A vultures. But he’ll get this call out of the way and then switch his phone off and help you get out of whatever this is.

But then he sees the caller ID and he stills for a minute before picking it up. “Mirin?”

Over the phone, he can hear her muffled voice, saying his name and then a string of words he can’t understand.

“Hey slow down, what’s wrong?”

Mirin’s just sniffling now, and maybe it’s because of all the years of friendship and relationship they had that she can still tug on Sae’s heartstring.

“Remember that you said you’d be there for me if I needed you?” She asks, half sobbing in between. Sae doesn’t know what to answer her, so he keeps quiet. “I really really need you right now.”

Sae hesitates a little. “How bad is it? Can it wait because—”

Mirin’s sobbing gets even louder. “No, please, I just… I really need you here, Sae.”

Maybe it’s because he rarely ever heard her cry like this. Or maybe it’s because of how it’s different when there’s someone crying and begging for him that the words just slip out of his mouth before he realises it.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Wait for me, yeah?”

Out in the dining room, you’re drumming your fingers nervously on your thighs, shrinking under the heat of your father’s gaze.

“So, have you been behaving, Y/N?” It’s your father speaking, and he’s as relentless as ever. The moment Sae is out of earshot, he’s back to his authoritative tone, the one that he used to ring terror on you and your little sister as children. The one he still uses to this day to assert his authority over you. To remind you that you’re being seen as his properties, that you’re just a cog in the machine that runs for him.

Even if you’re not sure what he’s referring to, you nod anyway. You haven’t done anything wrong.

Somehow, you feel like nothing you do can appease him, because the next moment, he’s heaving a deep sigh, getting up and sitting himself in Sae’s seat, flipping his iPad open and scrolling through something on the screen.

What he shows you next makes your heart sink to your ass.

It’s a picture of when you met Reo last, before you went to Korea, when you were confiding in him about Mirin. There’s nothing wrong with meeting him, you know that. In fact, your parents keep a good relationship with his for a reason. They just never pushed you to marry Reo because there are bigger fish; namely, the Itoshis. But what’s wrong with it is the angle from which it was taken; it’s from behind Reo, and the way he’s leaning forward and your eyes happen to be closed, it looks like you’re kissing him.

You can tell your father a thousand times that that’s not what’s going on and that the angle is misleading, but you know that’s not what he’s nitpicking about. It’s about how you carry yourself, you can recall from those lessons he tried to instil in you as a child. It’s about not giving anyone else anything to say anything about.

“We were just having—”

“I don’t care, Y/N,” your father sighs, rubbing his temples, entirely frustrated for god knows what reason. “I don’t care if you want to be a fucking tramp and fool around with someone else when you’re already married. But if you do so, you better make fucking sure no one sees you.”

There must be an art to how he can say words so cruel, filled with toxin and yet his face remains so straight. There must also be an art on how to not give two fucks because your mother’s in her original seat, sipping on her tea as though this is a normal evening as any.

“Dad, I’m not doing anything wrong with—”

“Do you know how hard it was for us to convince the Itoshis that you’d make an excellent wife?” He cuts you off once again, spitting words that could break your bones. “And here you are, flaunting around town with that Mikage boy.”

Is it bad to say you’ve lost all will to fight when you realise your parents don’t care one bit if you’re in the right or wrong? You want to ask how they managed to get such a picture too, but you doubt they’d entertain anything from you right now.

“You know, we thought you were finally useful after all this time,” your father ponders out loud, eyes fixed on the marble tabletop instead of at his own daughter. “But here you go again, making a mess of everything.”

You’re about to speak, but this time it’s your mother that cuts you off.

“Honey, I don’t think you realise the gravity of the situation,” she says, her voice silky smooth and calm even though what she’s saying is quite the opposite. “This marriage marked a wonderful partnership with the Itoshi company, the merger is almost finished and we don’t want you to ruin it all by wasting your time with some second-rate boy.”

That must be the first time you feel the anger bubbling up and threatening to burst where all other times you’d feel scared. To call Reo second-rate is uncalled for, and your fist clenches, ready to argue, when you hear your father chuckling beside you.

“Looks like this girl can’t control her temper either,” he says, as though you aren’t even here. “That Mikage boy aside, looks like our poor girl here can’t even control her finances.”

“What?”

By now you’re more than just a little confused. You’re used to them having a say in everything when you still lived with them. But now that you’ve already moved out, you’re already used to the freedom that came with not having to worry about them criticising your every move. Turns out, that was premature. Even after moving out, they still make sure to keep track of every single thing.

“Tell me why there’s barely any money left in your account,” your father demands, tone lacking any sort of sympathy and choosing to go full on accusatory. “Did you just go insane and spend it all? Did we bring you up to be a spoiled brat, is that it?”

There’s a dagger to your heart with every single syllable. Finally coming to terms with the fact that your parents never loved you nor cared about your wellbeing hits harder than you expected. They didn’t miss their daughter nor did they care about her happiness in the marriage. It was only ever about them them them.

“I didn’t—”

“Honestly, after all this time you still haven’t learned to control yourself. First it’s with Mikage and now it’s with money—”

“I’m afraid that was my doing, actually.” Sae cuts your father off, stepping in for you, reappearing at the kitchen doorway. His teal eyes are cold, staring straight at your father. “I told her to move it to a joint account since we’ll be sharing finances.”

Your father narrows his gaze, shifting his attention to your husband, your hands shaking under the table. Why does it feel like some bad confrontation is going to happen? One thing’s for sure: your father doesn’t like that rebellious tone of his.

“And what makes you think you qualify for that? What if you try to swindle my dearest daughter out of all her money? As her father I’m sure you can understand why I have my concerns.”

For the most part, it looks like Sae is unfazed, and why wouldn’t he be? From what you gather, it doesn’t look like he’s had such an easy childhood either.

“Then as her father, I’m pretty sure you’d want the best for your daughter, right?” Sae asks, more taunting than anything. “She’s chosen to put her trust in me, so I’m handling it. She doesn’t have to worry. Sounds like a good deal, no?”

Sensing the defiance oozing out of Sae, your father goes back to his favourite target: you.

“Is that right? You trust your husband over your father’s words now?”

The threat in his eyes is real. They’re daring you to go against him, like they just know you’re way too scared to. But then you catch the pair of eyes behind him—the teal ones that look at you gentler than they’ve ever been—and suddenly, it doesn’t seem so scary.

A single nod of affirmation from Sae is enough to give you that pump of courage that you need.

“I trust Sae a hundred percent,” is all you say, deciding that’s enough to get your point across.

But maybe you’d been obedient a little too long, and you’d been spared from how harsh your father could be for too many seasons that you didn’t see it coming. You’d forgotten how cruel he can be, both mentally and physically.

With his hand raised, you watch it go up the same angle like it always did back then, and you’re reminded now of just how much force is behind one of his slaps. You remember the way your little sister cried as she hugged her teddy bear, watching you take the blame for her mistakes and bearing the brunt of your father’s anger. Your eyes squeeze shut, the fear taking over. 

You wait for it to land, but it doesn’t. 

When your eyes open, Sae’s there, his hand around your father’s wrist, a vein appearing on his forehead as he stares him down. 

“You may be her father, but I’ll have to tell you this: don’t you dare hit my wife.” Sae’s more menacing than you thought he could be. His knuckles are white, your father feeling the force before yanking his own hand away.

As always, he’ll look at you with all the hatred he can muster, unwilling to back down. “You ungrateful little bitch—” His words still hurt, but you catch sight of the pot of tea he’s thrusting towards you and you squeal, instinctively cowering backwards. Either way, either the scalding hot tea or the porcelain with which it’s made is going to hit you.

But once again, you’re proven right to trust Sae, because he’s in front of you in a heartbeat, shielding your body from any harm, letting the pot hit the floor, breaking into countless little pieces, some tea splattering onto your arm and you can’t even imagine how badly Sae got hit.

Still, he doesn’t wince even a little bit. He’s still staring at your father, but with his back facing you, you can’t really see him.

“Mr L/N, this is the last time I’m going to tell you nicely. If you dare to hurt Y/N again, I’ll personally stop the dealings myself.”

Your father bursts out laughing at Sae’s declaration, as if he doesn’t believe that Sae has that sort of authority. In all honesty, you’re not sure if he has. But you appreciate the thought. You’re still a little shaken up, eyeing all the little sharp pieces of glass all around the floor.

“Honey.” Your mother’s voice is soft but firm, and she’s only glaring at your father. It’s a look that tells him he needs to back off. It’s a warning, only because she’s his only anchor. She doesn’t care about any of this that’s going on, only at the fact that offending Sae might put their relationship with the Itoshis at risk.

Clicking his tongue, your father rolls his eyes and gets up and you can’t even wish for him to accidentally step on a piece of glass because he’s wearing his shoes in the house. Always prepared.

“Suit yourself,” is his last parting words before he strolls out of the apartment, banging the door shut behind him and leaving you two to the mess.

The first thing you do after they leave is get up and make sure Sae’s okay—although you’re quick to realise he’s not, because his pants are soaked with the tea and there are cuts on his feet and ankles, none too deep but they are still the result of your father’s temper and you feel only guilt. He got into this shit because he was trying to defend you.

But you find out that you’re always underestimating Sae when you feel his strong grip around your arm, preventing you from moving even more.

“Hey, careful, you’ll get hurt,” he tells you, harshly but only because he cares.

You manage a weak smile, “says the one who’s already hurt.”

Sae chuckles, ruffling your hair. “It’s fine, just some small cuts. But you really weren’t lying about your parents. Real piece of work.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are sitting on the couch, Sae letting you tend to his wounds. You have the first aid kit out, and the mess in the dining room is long gone, both you and Sae’s date night ruined because of it.

“Sorry about him. He’s… always been like that.”

There’s a sombre mood in the air, but Sae sighs and flicks you on the forehead. “It’s not your fault, don’t apologise.”

You smile at him, a quiet understanding falling into place. You don’t need to explain your father’s temper and Sae doesn’t need your apologies.

“For what it’s worth, thank you.”

Sae nods, though he feels there’s nothing to thank him for. It may have taken him a while, but he’s figuring this out slowly. If anything, he’s sorry it’s taking him so long. It’s just that since the longest time, there was only one person he’d thought of marrying and now… there’s you.

Your hand reaches out to his feet, dabbing alcohol lightly on the cuts, and Sae doesn’t even flinch. You slowly reach the cuts on his ankle until you freeze.

“It won’t hurt so don’t worry,” Sae tells you, as if you’re the one that needs consoling.

You furrow your brows, unsure, though you heed his words and dab on it lightly. There’s a big scar lining his ankles, and now that he’s changed out into his shorts, you see a similar one lining his knees. All on the right side.

“You can ask if you want to.”

Trust it to Sae to figure out what’s going on in your head.

“How did you get it?”

Sae smiles, but it’s filled with more melancholy than mirth. His eyes seem like they’re gazing into thin air. “Your father seems to use his own physicality when he’s unhappy with something,” Sae ponders, eyes focusing back on your face. “Mine tends to leave me alone. Until I leave him with no other choice but to hire other people to do the hurting.”

You listen to him as you tend to all the cuts, trying to be gentler with the red on his skin, burned slightly from the tea.

“I told you I wanted to do something else right?”

You nod.

“I was dead set on a soccer career instead of taking over the business.”

“You mean, like Rin is now?”

Sae nods. “Yep. Exactly like Rin. Taught that little guy everything he knew.” He chuckles a little, and you can see how fond he is of his little brother, even if he doesn’t express it all that much. “But once they found out both of us wanted nothing to do with their business, that’s when things got ugly. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say they have a certain vision that they wanted me to uphold, and this—” he gestures to the scars on his leg—“was a warning of what would happen to Rin if I refused.”

As an older sibling yourself, you guess you can understand why Sae quit. But going so far as to hurt your own children like that—both your father and his seem to be assholes in their own rights.

“Can you still play at all?” You ask, out of genuine curiosity.

Sae sighs, pondering. “Yeah, but I get tackled once and that’s probably it for me,” he says, trying to lighten the mood with a laugh. “Why? Wanna watch me play that bad?”

You grin. “Depends, is my dear husband gonna let me?”

Sae’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh, someone’s getting comfortable,” he points out, and you can’t stop grinning, earning a shake of his head. “Maybe next time, stupid. We still got dinner.”

“Okay since you’re hurt, I’m gonna cook, okay?”

“I got a few cuts, I’m not a cripple.”

“La la la can’t hear you,” you hum, winking at him before skipping over to the kitchen, intent on saving date night by at least cooking a decent dinner. 

Back at the couch, Sae suppresses a smile as he looks at you, and he wonders what is it about you that he can’t shake off, that he can’t help but let in. He tilts his head in wonder; maybe it’s your adamant nature. In how you’re always nice no matter how much of an asshole he is.

After seeing what your father is like, he feels the guilt building up from the back of his head. If that’s what you had to endure everyday as a child, he doesn’t find your demeanour now to be all that weird.

Before he can even think of anything else, he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket.

Fuck, it’s Mirin. It’s Mirin who he’d promised to go find because whatever it is she’s going through, it sounds like a lot and she’s sobbing her guts out, apparently. And now he doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

“Do you want spicy or garlicky?”

It’s something so small, so tiny—just your voice from the kitchen, the clanging of pans as you hurry to cook a dish for him, and the fact that he knows you’d let him go if he told you he has somewhere to be.

Just like that, the answer isn’t so complicated anymore.

He rejects the call and opens up her message thread, typing in a won’t make it tonight, sorry before he switches off his phone.

“Mmm, garlicky,” he says the moment he reaches you, standing behind you as he watches you mix the sauce together.

You bring a spoonful up to your lips, tasting it. “Think it needs some salt, what about you?” You ask, offering him the small concoction in your saucer pan.

But Sae doesn’t take it, instead he leans forward and presses his lips against yours, his tongue savouring every single inch of you he can taste, his hand on your waist, pulling you close.

When he pulls away, you can’t help but stare at him blankly, in a daze because is this really happening? Sae can tell what’s going on in your head, but he throws you a bone by not teasing you about it.

“I think it’s perfect.”

By the next time you see Sumi in the office, she can sense the radiant glow from your face, hurriedly rushing over to your desk.

“Wow, I take it date night went well?”

You nod, not being able to contain your surprise. “Very well.”

Sumi asks for the details, and you divulge, since at this point, Sumi’s the one you trust the most. Even if she’s a little loud most of the time, you’re sure that you can call her a good friend.

“I’m so jealous, your marriage sounds like a dream,” she gushes while the two of you are having lunch.

You hesitate a little, the mention of it makes you think back to the Mirin issue. So far, you haven’t seen anything else that are any red flags, so at least that’s a step in the right direction… right?

“Uh oh, I know that look, tell me!”

So you give her the bare minimum, about how Sae had an ex-girlfriend who he seemingly can’t get over, about her calling him during the honeymoon and your little stalking spree. Sumi immediately does the same, typing in her phone before scrolling through her posts, unimpressed.

“She looks like she’s trouble,” Sumi remarks offhandedly, thumb pressing on the story that she apparently just uploaded five minutes ago and you completely freeze up. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

Her story seems completely innocent until you realise you can tell exactly where she is: in your own house, at your own kitchen, taking a picture where Sae’s hand is barely visible, no doubt in a bid to make it seem mysterious.

“She’s in my fucking house.”

taglist: @kimvmarvel @mxplesyrvp @yuzurins @futuristicxie @kiopanxp @k0z3me @y-sabell-a @sae1toshilover @xoxojisu @karmatiz @sagejin @minnieminnie00-got7 @hearts4heidi @shiinobu-x @n1uh @prepchuu @leeyzhuo @shidouryusm @tsukishiro-yue2402 @kaiserkisser @pookiebearcave @dcvilxswish @saeskiss @whtflrr @arminseas @raphsimp @saharei @danibxe @lectris00 @comet-kun @ishitam67 @gskill @sweet2wthsblog @astruoise @scaraslover @beaniedoodz @bersuadikotatua @idk-bro-gay @etoiile @sanzu-sanzu-sanzu @yourstrulyharu **bolded: means i can’t tag you guys because of your settings >_<

[leighsartworks216]

Death Bed

Julian Devorak x gn!Reader/Apprentice

I transcribed almost an entire chapter of Julain's route just for this 💀 I want the Apprentice to react more when they find out they died. Like, THEY DIED let them cry about it

Title from "death bed (ft. beabadoobee)" by Powfu

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, crying, mental breakdown, coming to terms with dying, death, spoilers for Julian's route

Word Count: 1,395

Masterlist

AO3

“So… um, so.” Julian shifts a book in line with the rest, fiddles with the fraying edge of the spine, and slides it back out to shift the order around some more. “Well, it worked. I met the Hanged Man, got the rest of my memories back, got my cure, and…” 

He scratches mindlessly at the pressed together pages, brow furrowing. It’s like he wants to look over, but knows doing so would make what he wants to say even harder.

“Listen, uh, just stay calm and listen to me, okay? I found out that… that…”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, before he bites his lip.

You take in a quiet breath. “That you knew me… and I died?”

His head whips up in a flash. Wide eyes stare at you. “Wh… How did…? I was psyching myself up to tell you that and you already knew?”

You could almost laugh at his shock. At the look on his face.

But a waver at the back of your throat prevented anything as joyful as that from forming. You swallowed before saying, “I didn’t know. Not until today.”

He blinks cluelessly at you.

“I saw you, in the Hanged Man’s realm. I couldn’t call out to you, I couldn’t reach you, but… I heard everything.”

You can see the realization dawn on his face, in the way his eyes widen and soften with sympathy. “Are you… are you okay?”

Your mind spins.

Are you okay?

This morning, maybe you could say you were. Even as Julian was being carted away to be hanged, as his eyes gaze across the crowd and locked onto you. As his body fell out from under him. You could have bit your cheek, sucked it up for a moment more, clinging to the hope his plan would work.

You could watch him die, and still hold on just enough to reassure Portia that he would be okay.

But this?

Every time the thought reaches the forefront of your mind, your head spins. A headache presses at your temples, your stomach churns, your heart feels off-beat. How… How can you be okay?

You shake your head weakly, eyes falling from his face, vision unfocused as hot tears begin pooling too quickly to try stopping them. “No. I… no, I’m not.”

His words sound distant. All you’re aware of is his cool hand touching your shoulder, guiding you down to the ratty old cot taking up space in the small cell. The way his hands glide around you, pulling you into his chest.

And all at once, you finally break.

Harsh sobs shake you to your core as you hug him back. The fabric of his shirt becomes a prisoner in your tight grip, tugging desperately to pull him closer and closer.

His hand cups the back of your head, guiding your face to his neck. He whispers reassurances - mindless platitudes to try distracting your mind from the terrible truth to your missing memories. Kisses planted sweetly at your temple and hairline.

“Who-” You have to gasp for air. Your lungs burn with the next sob, especially as you try to stifle it down against his skin. “Who was I?”

He stiffens under you, and squeezes you tighter in his hold.

That person you used to be… You’d never know them. When at one time, all you knew was yourself, suddenly that rug has been ripped out from under you. Is who you are now- are you even you? Would your past self have become this? Were you them anymore? Did you share anything with them anymore?

And all those memories. All those days, all that time spent living just… gone. Did you used to think of your parents on holidays? Were you even close enough to them to think of them? Were they even alive? You know your shop belonged to your aunt, but you don’t even remember her anymore.

How many childhood memories bathed in golden nostalgia are lost now? How many friends did you used to have, now faded into obscurity?

God, friends. You tried so hard to be kind to all of the vendors at the market, but they all stared at you so warily. No matter what you tried, they were always on edge, always whispering behind your back. Even the baker had his moments of unease toward the beginning of your newest memories. Asra was the only friend you had. For so long. Who else had come before him?

And Julian! You’d known him! Worked as his apprentice! Were you friends then? Did you drink Salty Bitters at the Rowdy Raven together back then? Did you share secrets late in the night? Did you welcome him at work with a cup of coffee? Or did you drift through life back then, too? Keeping a practical distance between you both, staying professional, never anything deeper than that.

You press your face further into his shoulder. You can’t imagine it. You can’t imagine not being as close to Julian as you are now. All the adventures and laughter and love…

But you wish you could remember it. Just for a moment.

Julian brushes your hair back, humming a song out of tune by your ear. You wonder how long he’s been humming for, you didn’t even notice when it began. You focus on the melody, however butchered it may be from years of singing shanties with pirates. If you listen carefully, imagining what it should sound like, you think it may be a lullaby.

The more you listen, the more aware of your body you become. Your skin is warm where he rubs up and down your back. His other hand is gloveless, though you don’t know when he removed it. It tangles softly in your hair, scratching gently at your scalp, sending tingles that mix with your trembling body to form goosebumps along your arms.

His chest rumbles as he hums. You’re pressed close enough to feel it vibrate through you, too. When the song pauses and he inhales, you feel it, too. You can hear it by your ear, the sharp intake of breath.

You remember the sight of him dangling by the neck. You couldn’t tear your eyes away when they waited for him to die.

But he’s not dead now.

You bring a hand around to rest on his chest. He pauses briefly, head shifting as he tries to see what you’re doing, but he doesn’t completely stop. His skin isn’t cold as death, it’s just cool. Underneath, you can feel the powerful beating of his heart. Its steady rhythm is persistent.

Your tears slow, until the leftover drops stick to your eyelashes. Your body stops shaking with the force of your despair. His hand slows to a stop on your back, melody petering off to welcome the silence of the dungeon once more. He kisses your temple.

“Are you alright?” he whispers hesitantly.

Are you?

You take a deep breath. The lingering smell of coffee and the sea greets you.

You nod slightly. Your voice is crackly and raspy as you speak, fragile. “I think so.”

He lets you pull away when you’re ready. You can’t stand the thought of leaving too wide of a gap, though. So your hand remains on his chest, over his heart. There’s a kind understanding in his eye as he covers it with his own.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you back then,” he apologizes. “You needed me and I wasn’t there. I failed you.”

You shake your head, cutting him off. “You’re here for me now.” You muster up a weak smile. “That’s what matters.”

His shoulders sag a little with relief. He lets go of your hand to cup your cheek, wiping away the drying tears with his thumb, before drawing you forward and kissing your forehead once more. It’s easy to close your eyes and sink into the affection. Knowing how close you have both been to dying for good, it feels precious. It is precious.

But it’s all too soon when he pulls away, brows taught with seriousness. Too many questions are left unanswered. Too many things hinge on Lucio not coming back. For as much as you want nothing more than to linger in stolen moments forever, it will have to wait.

You won’t let this plague come back.

You can’t.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Hunt x Nesta - Chapter 8

The sounds of the shower roused Hunt from sleep. Since Nesta had discovered that her cell could access music at any moment, she was unstoppable. A symphony blasted through the wall; violins were reaching their crescendo alongside a barrage of brass instruments that were accompanied by a flurry of percussion. Then the cannons came as she turned off the shower.

Releasing a groan, he rolled onto his side to check his cell. Eight messages. All from Nesta at various points in the morning whilst he still slept. Each one made him laugh.

‘Hey, when you text, you don’t need to write an address line or a sign off. I know it’s from you because I have your contact saved,’ he explained as she entered with a towel wrapped around her body.

‘What do you mean?’

Hunt motioned for her cell that was churning out another classical song. ‘What am I saved as?’

Nesta paused the music. ‘I don’t know. Plus five zero five eight two-’

He yelped like he’d been shot and threw himself down. ‘You didn’t even save my number? Do I mean nothing?’

‘I don’t know how.’

With Ruhn’s number, he showed Nesta how to save it. He pulled a photo from the web of Ruhn being arrested before he was legal to drink – of course, his daddy had the charges scrubbed but the photo remained – and saved him as the Prince of Pricks.

‘There, now try with me.’

A devious smile flitted over her lovely face as she stood in the middle of the room typing at the speed of a snail.

‘That index finger is getting quite a workout,’ he commented.

Surprising him, she raised her middle finger.

For the second time that morning, Hunt collapsed back onto the pillows, laughter rumbling out of him. ‘Who the Hel taught you that?’

‘We have that in my world.’ She flashed the phone towards him.

His contact name had been updated to Orion Athalar – my favourite angel along with as many emojis as the name would allow. The picture was of him shirtless with ridiculously fluffy wings.

‘You said you’d deleted those, liar.’

‘I’m leaving today. I need a memory to keep.’

‘You’re taking the cell with you to plug in where exactly?’

Nesta shrugged and pressed it to her chest. ‘I will invent electricity in my world so I can always look at these photographs.’

There was no doubt in his mind that Nesta could do anything that she set her mind to. He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person she’d be if she stayed in Lunathion. They’d stayed up late in each other’s arms talking for hours; Nesta had wanted to know everything about him and the land she was leaving behind. They’d talked about university for over an hour with Nesta needing to know what could be studied, what the fees were, who could study, when it could be studied, and what happened upon graduation. Hunt had listened to her talk about Prythian but most of it left him seething. Nesta couldn’t tell him anything about the place she lived because they stuck her in a fucking house and cut off her funds so that she was entirely dependent on the king and his lackey. That one, Cassian, he’d quite like to meet so he could knock him into next week. She’d grown upset when she talked of her sister whose pregnancy would cause her death. Beyond kidnapping a couple of surgeons and a midwife, Hunt didn’t know what to do to help. The male, Cassian, who forced her on a hike as punishment for telling her sister the truth deserved to be punched. He didn’t like any of these fae males, but this one sounded like the worst.

He'd even come clean about Micah and the awful things he did to inch towards freedom. In a way, Hunt wanted her to be repulsed or to pull away then at least it would soften the blow of her departure. But this damn female just said that she understood why he did it and held him a little tighter.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

Nesta snickered. ‘Don’t tempt me, Hunt.’

It wouldn’t be that hard to adjust. He’d grown up in a time when technology was near enough non-existent then emerged from a dungeon and everybody had cell phones or were driving cars. He’d cope again going backwards. Anything was possible with her at his side. But maybe Hunt would cause a few too many fights with the fae that ruled her.

‘Just stop letting them put you in danger and using you. Or I’ll fly all the way there and kick their asses.’

Hunt sat her down on the edge of the bed to start drying her hair. She was nervous about him doing it although he thought he did a fabulous job of his own. Truly, he was desperate to do it. Nesta was leaving back to a world where the male that she was tangled with didn’t seem to care for her at all. He needed to show her that males could be gentle – that it was a choice not to be caring. He wanted to dry her hair and take care of her because that was a male’s duty – not fucking her then leaving with his seed still dripping from her.

Vik was expecting them when Hunt took Nesta through a private entrance into the Comitium that was strictly for workers only. Worker was laughable. The slave’s entrance was a better name for it.

‘The sword and the Harp as promised. And I don’t need to remind either of you that it would be a good idea for Nesta to return today, do I?’

‘No, mom,’ Hunt replied, kicking her boot lightly.  

‘And I needn’t advise you that walking through Lunathion with a sword will likely have you arrested.’

Hunt frowned. ‘Danika Fendyr and Ruhn Danaan do it.’

‘They’re leaders of the aux and will be the heads of their species one day,’ Vik said.

Sensing Hunt was about to argue with Vik, Nesta rested a hand on his forearm. ‘I’d rather spend my last hours here with you rather than in an interrogation room.’

‘I’d still be there. We can play cops and robbers.’

‘Gross,’ muttered Vik before she turned back to her computer.

For once, Nesta had left most of her hair down. She’d pulled it from her temples with a twist and a couple of hair pins. Paired with a pale blue summer dress, she was utterly stunning. But his dreams of strolling through Lunathion with her again hit a snag when Micah’s name flashed on his cell.

‘You should answer that,’ she said, peering at the name.

‘I want this day with you.’

Nesta pushed the phone towards him. ‘I’d be glad for time with my thoughts. Answer that. Do whatever it is you need to do. We can meet later.’

‘I’ll fly those to the hotel,’ he said, gesturing to her returned items.

Nesta kissed his fingers then strode into the sun, hips swaying as she went.

***

How many different ways could Nesta try to convince Hunt to leave with her – or for him to ask her to stay. She didn’t want to impose. She’d done that enough already on his life. But if Hunt asked her to stay… No, she couldn’t. Feyre was dying. What sort of sister would she be if she left her in those final moments?

Nesta sighed.

The same sister they all believed her to be; worthless, spoilt, and needing redemption.

A shadow bumped into her arm then a figure took up the seat beside her on the bench. Ruhn Danaan wore his typical black jeans and t-shirt with a pair of sunglasses to protect his hungover eyes from the bright sunlight.

‘It’s very loud,’ he said, wincing.

Children were playing at the park where Nesta’s feet had taken her to. Their squeals and joy made her think of the children who never stood a chance in Prythian; the ones who were exposed to war, Illyrian girls who were clipped and beaten.

‘I didn’t think you would come.’

‘And miss the chance to say goodbye?’

Following Hunt’s advice, Nesta had sent a text that merely asked Ruhn to meet her – and she received a reply asking who it was in return. Then another saying if they had once had a date, he wasn’t the sort of guy to want to settle down and he was sorry.

‘I need to return this.’ Nesta held out Tristan Flynn’s credit card. ‘I’d like to keep the cell phone. If that’s alright.’

‘Of course you can. Flynn will be devastated you gave this to me and not him.’

A messenger otter scurried along then stopped in front of Ruhn, brandishing a letter. Nesta couldn’t stop her fawning.

‘Tharion Ketos. What a weasel,’ he muttered, pocketing the letter.

‘I wish we had those.’

‘Mer?’

Nesta tutted. ‘Otters. We have otters, but not ones that wear little jackets and deliver letters.’

Ruhn gave a slight laugh then folded his arms over his chest. He looked at her, really looked at her. ‘You don’t want to go back, do you?’

Everything suddenly felt hot and painful. Nesta tipped her face upwards, blinking as quickly as she could to keep from crying. Ruhn stroked her bare arm.

‘I can’t sugar coat it. My father will not stop until he finds out who you are. You’re technically under his jurisdiction as one of the fae. Hunt is a slave – there isn’t much he can do for you. If Micah sells his ass to Sandriel, he won’t be here.’ Ruhn winced. ‘Is it really better here for you than there?’

Yes, she thought. Because I can be somebody here. I can study and learn and be my own person without history trailing me. And I’d have Hunt.

‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I know I have to.’

‘Let me walk you back to your hotel at least.’

Despite the beauty of the day, Nesta had gone cold and hollow with every step closer to the hotel.

Nesta steeled her wounded heart. She held the pieces together even if they felt like they would shatter from the force. It wasn’t fair.

‘How much would it cost to buy Hunt?’

Ruhn let out a whistle. ‘The Umbra Mortis?’

‘What if I offered my Harp or my sword?’

‘It might sweeten the deal but Hunt Athalar is one of a kind.’

Visions of her putting on the Mask or Crown and forcing Micah to release Hunt to her came to Nesta. It was a bad idea, but a tempting one. There had to be some way for them to be together. Maybe destiny was forged by their own hands.

‘That Harp of yours,’ Ruhn said. ‘It wouldn’t be related to the Horn, would it?’

‘Why would it be?’

Ruhn shrugged. ‘It’s just that the Horn went missing the other day. I came to see you just afterwards and you looked pretty panicked. Then Athalar appeared looking sweaty just after there was a freak lightning storm at Luna’s Temple.’

‘How odd.’

‘Odd indeed.’

On an instinct, Ruhn grabbed the strap of her dress with two fingers at the edge of a busy road without a crossing. Nesta hadn’t quite mastered it yet, but she knew not to walk out now – but his care was appreciated.

‘I heard it’s broken anyway,’ Nesta said with an airy tone. ‘It wouldn’t be any use to the person who now has it.’

‘Unless they knew how to create Made items like a magic sword that doesn’t like me.’

‘What would it mean if there was somebody in Lunathion who could create Made items – theoretically, Ruhn?’

The hotel came into view and they slowed their pace to finish their theoretical conversation. Ruhn pretended to stroke an imaginary beard then slung an arm around her as they walk so he could lean towards her ear and speak in a whisper.  

‘If the Asteri knew there was somebody with those powers in Lunathion, they’d be the public’s most wanted. And Hunt Athalar would be ordered to bring them in dead or alive. I don’t think that theoretical person would want the Umbra Mortis in that situation, would they?’

There was no telling if Hunt could disobey direct orders although she knew he’d try. For her, he’d try. And she couldn’t do that to him.

At the doors to the hotel, they stopped opposite each other. Amidst the vibrant colours of his tattoos, Nesta could make out damaged, scarred skin.

‘I’m sorry that it can’t be the way you want it.’

Nesta offered a half-smile that felt like a veneer slapped over a rotting foundation. ‘Do any of us ever get what we deserve?’

‘Maybe in another life.’

This was her other life, her other chance. When Ruhn embraced her, she didn’t know how to respond because the males here treated her with kindness without expectation.

‘I’ll tell Flynn you love him. He can peddle that story about unrequited love to simpering females.’

‘Goodbye Ruhn.’

***

Five names. Five names for him to kill.

Hunt felt sick from it. Sick with himself. Because five on one night was more names than he usually had in half a year. He shouldn’t rejoice in death, but it would shave off a little more of his debt.

He was wrong for it. Wrong for being glad that he could exchange a life for his debt.

Nesta deserved better than that. Better than a slave. A killer. A worthless male.

When he met her in the hotel room, he didn’t mention that he could smell Ruhn Danaan on her clothes despite her desire to spend time alone. He’d let her keep that secret if he could keep his. She might have held him last night and waved away his debt to Micah as something he couldn’t control, but it was Hunt’s action that led him to this point. Nobody forced him to lead a rebellion. And it wasn’t just killing. A single bullet to the head was merciful; the sorts of death Micah had him enact would send Nesta running from him.

Hunt bundled up his grief and disgust. He could hold it back for a few hours. Give her a good few hours before she returned. Let Nesta go home beneath a golden sky rather than his storm.

‘I did something. I think.’

Nesta held out the Horn to him which was glowing with an iridescent light. Faintly, he could feel a thrum of magic through his core.

‘How?’

‘The sword is a Made item. Made by me. I was Made by the Cauldron then took its power.’ Nesta swallowed then looked at him. ‘I fixed it Hunt. It can open to new worlds. It’s a safer bet than the Harp. I fixed it.’

‘If anybody could fix a relic that is thousands of years old, it would be you,’ he said, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone.

Every now and then, a silver flame would skitter across the instrument that she clutched in her hands. The Harp would hum in unison with it. Whoever – whatever – Nesta was, Hunt didn’t care.

‘Are you going to blow it?’

Despite her nod, Nesta didn’t move for a while, just stared at him with wide eyes.

‘It’s alright if you’re scared. I’ll be with you.’ He kissed her forehead and the Horn buzzed between them like a hornet. ‘I’m talking to Nesta, not you.’

*** ‘Ready?’ She wanted Hunt to call it off, to tell her to stay at his side until the stars fell. No matter his warnings about the Asteri or Micah or the Autumn King, none of it could be as bad as what was waiting for her in Prythian. A vengeful queen, a sister who was to die, and a high lord who only wanted her to suffer. It didn’t matter what danger she faced in Lunathion because with Hunt at her side, anything was possible. There was no storm they couldn’t weather together.

Hunt squeezed her knee. ‘Ready. To the stars.’

Pursing her lips, Nesta touched the horn to her lips and blew.

A pathetic, raspberry echoed through the horn.

She glanced at Hunt, heat building in her cheeks, and saw that he was screwing his face up. After a moment, he burst into riotous laughter.

‘What was that?’ He asked between his booming laugh.

She found herself laughing in answer, infected by his merriment. ‘I’ve never blown a horn before. I don’t know how to do it.’

Hunt slapped his thigh, trying to right himself. ‘Not like that!’

The pair of them lost it. Whatever tension had been clinging to the room soon evaporated as Nesta tried again and again to put her lips towards the horn. Each time she pouted or made a trumpeting noise, Hunt roared with laughter, setting her off too.

‘Stop looking at me because you’re putting me off.’

Tears rolled down Hunt’s cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut although a large grin spread across his handsome face.

Nesta pulled out her phone and searched how to blow a horn. In a world where knowledge was at her fingertips, it seemed terribly wasteful not to utilise it.

‘Maybe the Horn is still broken, Starlight.’

But it couldn’t be because her magic had been drawn to it and the Horn had been buzzing with possibilities since.

‘I can do it,’ she insisted.

‘I know you can,’ he replied, touching her leg again. ‘Not looking again.’

Easing out a breath, Nesta formed her lips in the shape her cell phone told her to. A low, well-held note emitted from the top of the horn.

Hunt whispered her name.

Near the wall, a great portal had opened, its edges rimmed with her silver flames. Rather than offering a view of Crescent City, Nesta saw into the library in the House of Wind. There was her favoured arm chair with the foot rest pulled close by. A little stack of books that she’d pulled out a couple of weeks earlier was upon the three-legged table.

‘You did it,’ he praised, stroking her cheek. ‘Is there anything you can’t do, you wonderful girl?’

Nesta grasped for him, too emotional to speak. Her hands reached for his face, pulling it to hers to kiss one final time. Strands of his hair fell onto her cheek as they kissed and she stretched out a hand to brush the inside of his wing one last time.

‘Mother above, what the fuck.’

She leapt away from Hunt, startled by the voice.

Lucien Vanserra stood in the library opposite them, peering into the hotel room, a full cup and saucer held in his hand.

Hunt braced his legs then lightning wreathed his body.

‘No,’ Nesta urged. ‘This is my sister’s mate.’

His voice took on a lethal edge. ‘This is Rhysand?’

‘Definitely not,’ called Lucien.

‘Elain’s mate. The eye.’

‘The eye,’ confirmed Hunt, finally taking in the golden eye and the scar rippling down Lucien’s face which was paler than usual.

‘We thought you were dead or kidnapped or trapped in the Prison.’

‘Surprise,’ Hunt said drily.

They passed the bag through first to test it. Lucien, baffled and muttering to himself, waited on the Prythian side to accept it. Maybe it was odd to keep all of the clothes from Lunathion as they’d have no place, but Nesta didn’t want to part with anything from her week there. Everything was taken from her in the war, so she wanted to keep this.

When the Harp and Atraxia were passed through safely, she said it was her turn.

The portal was too high for her step through easily so Hunt lifted her over it and Lucien, gingerly, accepted her on the other side, lowering her to the floor as if she was a sack of potatoes.

‘I think if I blow the Horn again, it will close it.’

She lifted it near to her lips. ‘Don’t make me laugh this time.’

‘It’s my last chance. I have to,’ Hunt insisted, brown eyes sparkling with joy.

But when Nesta did press the Horn closer, the amusement drained from Hunt’s expression, accepting it was the end.

A single note emitted and the flames collapsed in on themselves, leaving Nesta with a view of the tall windows in the library. She dropped the Horn then sank to her knees and wept.

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn's Shadow: Chapter 9

Azriel x Eris (Azriel POV)

Summary: A covert meeting between Azriel and Eris to exchange valuable intel leaves Azriel reeling—and questioning everything he has ever felt for the Heir of Autumn. Azriel finds himself inexorably drawn to Eris, unable to resist his captivating allure. With the threat of Koschei and Beron looming ever closer, can their forbidden love endure in the face of such danger?

a/n: Not really sure how many miles into the continent the lake is, but for this fic just assume its tucked away in a remote location. Just a reminder that I took out the scene from acosf where Cassian and Azriel speak to Koschei. Assume this scene is their first encounter with him. Named one of Eris's brothers Alix. Kinda doing my own thing with Koschei. Did not find him to be very scary in acosf so I'm trying to make him into something entirely different. Just go with it!

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Full Chapter List

Chapter 9:

Azriel drifted between thick, dark clouds, his wings beaded with icy droplets of water from the storm gathering around him. Cassian flew several dozen yards to his left, eyes trained on the terrain far below. Between the gaps in the clouds, miles down, Azriel could make out the dark stretch of water churning and rippling restlessly, like the surface of a vast cauldron. The lake was a brooding, gray expanse, its waters dark and uninviting under the overcast sky. The jagged shoreline was bordered by dense forests and barren stretches of rocky terrain that sloped up into steep cliffs, some partially shrouded in mist. 

 Eris had alerted him to Beron’s departure only hours ago and Azriel had winnowed himself and Cassian to the edge of the continent. They had been circling for over an hour now, waiting for Beron to appear, but the dark shores of the lake remained empty and desolate.

Two mornings ago Azriel had woken up beside Eris, warm and blissfully happy, more so than he’d been in his entire life. The last thing he’d wanted to do was return to this cursed place. 

The cold wind sliced Azriel to the bone, and not even his winter leathers could keep away the chill, or prevent his skin from pebbling uncomfortably under its steady assault. Though it was only partially due to the frigid temperatures. The wrongness of the lake made him uneasy, and reminded him of the ancient magic of the Middle. 

As Azriel circled back around from the east, his eyes scanned the small temple situated atop the eddying waves. There was nothing remarkable about it. Smooth, white stone, seemingly untouched by the years it had weathered against wind and rain and snow, sat perched on a slab of glistening black rock. The arched door to the temple was adorned with swirling symbols and markings, all wholly unfamiliar to Azriel. He wondered what Eris would make of it—if it was perhaps one of the languages he had mastered during his tutelage as heir.

The lake’s ominous presence seemed to taunt Azriel. He had sworn he’d heard faint whispering echoing against the cliffs, but whenever he angled his head to listen the wind swept them away. 

The last time Azriel had been here he’d been distracted—his mind entirely consumed by thoughts of Eris. Not much had changed on that front, though now he was fully aware of the stakes should something go wrong. He prayed that whatever they learned here today could give Eris the upper hand against his father—and give all of them the upper hand against Koschei.

Azriel had done his best to keep his shadows at bay, tucking them close behind his wings and wrapping himself tightly in a pulsing blue siphon shield that clung to him like a second skin. It was all he could think to do, for his shadows never truly left him. That is, until the last time he’d been here, when they’d seemingly vanished into his skin. He shivered at the memory. Cassian’s presence was a comfort, regardless of the fact that he was hardly speaking to him after his fight with Eris. For now, he had more important things to worry about. 

They’d waited long enough.

He gave Cassian the signal and they dove quickly towards the muddy shore on the western side of the lake, wings tucked in tight. Azriel held his breath as his feet hit the damp soil—waited for the assault on his shadows and the screeching in his head to begin. But seconds passed and nothing happened. Azriel examined the stone temple where it rested around a hundred yards from where they’d landed, his Fae eyesight allowing him to see it as if it were mere inches away. He stood silently, eyes focused across the water. 

Azriel’s breath curled in the cold air like puffs of smoke. There was no life here. No twittering of birds or chirping of insects. The murky water was black and endless and some primal sense warned Azriel not to touch it—that to do so would be a grave, possibly fatal, mistake. That it might truly drag him under if he got too close. Cassian was motionless beside him as he, too, gazed out across the stretch of gray. 

By Rhysand’s orders, they were to get close enough to observe, but nothing more. He had warned them not to approach the temple for any reason, and to only speak if spoken to. And so they waited. Minutes ticked by and the air grew colder. The wind howled eerily across the water and whispered through the branches of the trees behind them, like a desperate song from the souls forever trapped beneath the lake’s surface. Azriel tucked his wings in tighter and rested his hand on the hilt of Truth Teller where it was sheathed at his thigh. His eyes burned from the icy wind that lashed at his face. 

And then it all stopped—the water went still as glass and the air seemed to thicken and slow, pressing against his skin and muffling the sounds of the earth around them. All he could hear now was the rapid thump of his racing heart.

He glanced warily at Cassian and by the unnerved look on his brother’s face he knew he’d felt the change as well. Azriel’s breath came faster as the uneasiness within him grew. The water lapped softly against the shore. He was hit with a sudden certainty that they shouldn’t have come here. This place spoke of only death and pain and despair. They needed to leave now, while they still could—

It was like he’d been dropped in a pool of ice cold water. Azriel’s entire body went rigid as some oily, dark power slid across his skin and seized everything that he was. He tried to move, to escape, but his body refused to obey, wholly ensnared by the dark magic that shot across the black water, wrapped itself around him and squeezed. It was as if the very blood in his veins no longer belonged to him. 

Azriel’s eyes were wide and unblinking as his vision tunneled—until all he could see was that floating mass of darkness above the water. The shadow warped and twisted and grew until he was looking at a large, cloaked figure, draped in black so dark it was painful to behold. The figure spoke in a low, slithering hiss, cold and ancient and horrible.

“I’ve seen your heart, shadowsinger.” The voice snaked along his bones and echoed loudly in his ears. “I’ve felt it burn.” 

Koschei’s face was hidden beneath a black hood and his shapeless, cloaked body hovered eerily above the lake. Inky shadows frothed and writhed around him like crashing water. Azriel stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. All he could do was stare, wide-eyed, at the death-lord who now held him in his grasp.

Koschei's voice dripped with sinister amusement as he spoke again. "The shadows whisper many secrets, Azriel. Even those hidden in the most forbidden places find their way to my ears. Did you think you were the only one who spoke their language?” His laugh was a chilling, hollow sound that echoed out of the darkness and skated painfully along Azriel’s bones. “How does it feel, Prince of Darkness, to play with fire?" 

In that moment, time seemed to stretch, every second a lifetime of terror as his mind reeled at the meaning behind the words. Eris. Somehow this death-lord had been watching them—had been listening, even confined to this remote and forgotten corner of the continent. How? How had he seen? 

Koschei sniffed, and the air around him hissed and warped in response. The death-lord’s laugh felt like sharp claws against his spine. “I can smell the ancient past on your skin. How long I have waited.” The figure shivered in excitement. “Tell me, shadowsinger. What would he do to keep you?” 

Azriel stood frozen to the spot, fear a tightening noose around his neck. The creature lifted its head and the hood shifted. Where Koschei’s face should have been, there was only infinite darkness—a yawning abyss that devoured all light and warmth. The void seemed to pull Azriel in, and he would have screamed in terror if he had control of his tongue. The scene in front of him disappeared.

He wasn't seeing Koschei or the lake at all, but fire—vast, unearthly, world-ending fire that tore across the land, consuming everything in its wake. Screams echoed through the inferno—pained, wretched screaming that seemed to come from every direction. Azriel watched as the sky was ripped apart and darkness spilled in through the cracks, unleashing horrors beyond anything he could ever imagine. Masses of teeth and claws and scales—shadows and inky darkness. Wide, lidless blue eyes bored into him hungrily. Prythian burned—the world burned, as war raged around him. Excruciating pain tore through him as Fae, human, and animal alike turned to ash. And then he saw Autumn ablaze with that unearthly fire. The rivers ran red with with blood and all the while, a slithering, hissing laugh echoed loudly in his ears, drowning out the chaos and searing itself into his mind—

Then it all stopped, like a tether between them had snapped. Azriel was sucked back into his own body and collapsed to his knees. His stomach heaved and he wretched into the damp soil, his body trembling with horror at what he had seen—real?

“I’ll see you both soon,” the voice hissed, edged with horrible, wicked delight. 

The last thing Azriel saw was Cassian’s terrified face before the darkness consumed him and everything went black.

***

Azriel sat limply in one of the plush armchairs in the living room of the river manor and stared vacantly at the floor. Cassian had flown with him on his back until they were within range of Rhys, who had winnowed them both directly to his estate.

Now, Rhys leaned against the fireplace, stone-faced and wary, while Amren paced in front of it, pausing occasionally to glance at Azriel skeptically. Feyre sat in the chair beside him, brows furrowed in concern. Cassian had been the one to relay Koschei’s words, as Azriel was too disturbed to speak.

“Are you going to tell us what this all means?” Cassian demanded. Beneath the anger, Azriel saw his own fear mirrored back at him on his brother’s pale face. Cassian had beheld the cloaked figure, had felt the air warp and freeze, and had listened to the words that slithered out from beneath that black hood. But his brother had not been snared by that dark, otherworldly power. No, only Azriel had been affected, had fallen into some kind of trance—one he couldn’t break free from until Koschei had released him. Cassian had been unable to do anything but stand there uselessly. 

Azriel averted his gaze and kept his mouth shut, in part to avoid answering their questions, but mostly to prevent himself from emptying his stomach onto the rich carpet beneath his boots. Rhys mercifully spoke up instead.

“It would seem that Koschei is now well aware of our alliance with Eris,” Rhys said smoothly. Azriel could’ve kissed him for redirecting the conversation. “What he intends to do with that information will likely not be good for any of us, especially Eris,” he continued darkly. Azriel’s stomach clenched with dread. How does it feel to play with fire? He closed his eyes and swallowed his nausea, but the image of Autumn burning was like a brand on the insides of his eyelids. 

“Then we have to warn him,” Feyre said firmly. “He said it himself that Beron’s been paranoid. Koschei’s likely the one who’s been whispering in his ear all this time.” Her voice was tight as she addressed them all.

Azriel could only nod. He sensed he was missing something crucial, but couldn’t put a finger on what exactly that was. All he knew was that he needed to see for himself that Eris was safe before panic smothered him entirely.

“If Koschei is aware of Eris’s betrayal, and informs Beron, what exactly can we do to protect him? Are we prepared to go after Beron ourselves?” Cassian asked with a glance at Azriel. “Is Eris worth the risk of stirring up the other courts and potentially igniting another war?” Though Azriel knew the questions were fair, each one only added to his mounting horror and he wanted to roar at his brother for daring to ask them. Instead, he remained silent and kept his eyes on the flickering fire so as to hide how close he was to falling apart completely.

“That remains to be seen,” Rhys said evenly. “But he’s risked a great deal in allying with us. As Feyre said, the least we can do is warn him.” 

Azriel nodded again, still beyond words. He accepted the glass of liquor Cassian handed him but didn’t take a sip. 

“What about the vision?” His own voice sounded gravelly and foreign in his ears. When no one responded he dragged his gaze away from the flames. They were all looking at him with varying degrees of alarm.

“What vision?” Cassian asked, brows drawn together in confusion.

“You didn’t see it?” Azriel rasped. Had Koschei shown it only to him?

“See what?” Cassian demanded at the same time Rhys said, “Show me.” Azriel’s stomach rebelled at the idea of recalling the images he’d been forced to witness, but when he felt that dark, silken hand brush against his mind in request, he relented and dropped his shields.

Azriel watched the blood drain from Rhysand’s face until his skin was the color of ash. Rhys looked at Azriel with such terror in his eyes that he felt guilty for opening his mouth in the first place. His brother had only just recovered from the recent horror of nearly losing his mate and son, and now they were all in severe danger yet again. Feyre stood and walked to Rhys, wrapped her arms around his waist. 

“Show me?” A silent conversation passed between them and seconds later Feyre whispered that she needed to be with Nyx and left the room. Rhys watched her go, his normally bright eyes dark and pained.

 “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Cassian ground out. Amren stepped forward as well. They both went still as they, too, watched Koschei’s vision unfold. Amren cursed viciously.

“This is a clear warning,” Amren said to all of them. “Of the devastation he intends to unleash when he is free to roam the world once more.” Cassian shivered at the ominous words. The conversation continued on but Azriel could barely hear it over the memory of those agonized screams echoing loudly in his head. 

It had been a very long time since Azriel had been afraid of the dark. He’d long since learned to thrive in it, to speak its language, until the shadows had become a comforting embrace. But when he thought of the darkness beneath that hood—that yawning chasm of endless black and despair—fear unsheathed its claws, wrapped them slowly around his neck and squeezed. Death-lord indeed. He shivered and tossed back the liquid, savoring the burn as it went down. 

***

It was over an hour before everyone left, until only Azriel and Rhysand remained in the darkened sitting room. Amren and Rhys had debated back and forth as to how Koschei might free himself and open what Amren described as a rip in the fabric of the world, with Cassian occasionally chiming in with his own thoughts. Azriel hadn’t spoken a word. Couldn’t speak. He needed to get up, but his legs felt like lead and he knew he owed Rhys an explanation for his behavior.

Rhys didn’t waste any time. “What is going on between you and Eris?”

The last thing Azriel wanted to do was talk about his feelings, but the secrecy had been weighing on him heavily, and now that Eris’s life was in danger, even more so than usual…hiding in the shadows no longer mattered. Not here, at least.

“We’re…together,” Azriel said lamely. That was about all of the detail he was inclined to offer.

“Together how?” Azriel leveled Rhys with an icy look. Rhysand ducked his head but not before Azriel saw the small smile on his face, and his temper rose sharply.

“Is something funny?” The words were a soft snarl. 

Rhys snapped his head up, eyes wide with alarm at Azriel’s dark tone. “No. No, Az, I’m not—it’s just amusing how things work out. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” Azriel relaxed at the sincerity he beheld on his brother’s face. Rhys went on, “So this was a warning for all of us, but more specifically for you. That he knows about the two of you. And you’re worried he means to tell Beron.” Azriel nodded, jaw clenched too tightly to speak.

“Do the other words mean anything to you? ‘The ancient past’? The vision?” Rhys pressed him.

“No,” Azriel bit out. He was currently being eaten alive by his fear for Eris. He needed to contact him immediately, and said as much to Rhys.

“Fine, go, warn him. Just be careful,” Rhys said warily. “We’re not done discussing this.” He looked like he wanted to add more, but held his tongue. Azriel was out the door and traveling across Velaris before Rhys could bid him farewell.

***

A full day had passed and Azriel had still not heard from Eris. Yes, he had warned Azriel that he’d have to be more discreet, so the delayed response wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary, but Azriel was itching to do something, anything, to make sure he was okay. He’d give him one more day, and then…he’d decide what to do. One more day. 

He was going out of his mind with worry, living in a constant state of terror that something horrible had happened to him and that Azriel would never know. Or maybe Eris was being hurt right now, and Azriel was sitting on his ass uselessly.

The thought had him on his feet, desperate for a distraction from the gnawing dread. Azriel flew up to the House and landed on the edge of the sparring ring that had become a permanent fixture over the last few months. Nesta and Cassian were in the ring while Gwyn and Emerie watched on with interest. Their eyes all found Azriel as he stepped out of the shadows. Nesta and Cassian paused their sparring to greet him.

“Finally tired of being out of shape?” Cassian taunted. “When’s the last time you trained?” The words were meant as a dig, but they held a degree of truth. It had been a while. Nesta eyed him knowingly and Azriel stared back at her. Her hair, damp with sweat, curled at the nape of her neck, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. She looked much better than the last time he’d seen her, and Azriel’s chest lightened ever so slightly at the realization.

“I need a break,” Nesta announced and walked out of the ring to the water station beside her friends, seemingly aware that Azriel needed to work off some steam and that Cassian was the only opponent who could match his skill. 

Cassian’s face was guarded, and Azriel’s usual guilt returned and settled like a rock in his stomach. He’d been unfair to Cassian—shutting him out completely, making little to no attempts to bridge the gap that had formed between them since Azriel began spending all of his spare time with Eris. 

Cassian had been spooked by Azriel’s reaction to Koschei and it hadn’t helped that he’d refused to elaborate on any of it. The tense set of his shoulders said as much. He wondered if it was now clear to Cassian that what Azriel and Eris had was more than friendship. He didn’t ask.

Azriel stepped into the chalk-lined circle, rolling his neck and stretching out the tightness in his shoulders. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, striding to the middle of the ring and stopping a few feet from Cassian. He took up a fighting stance and Azriel mimicked him.

At Cassian’s nod, they began. Azriel kept his eyes on his brother as they slowly circled one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Azriel’s thoughts quieted and he let himself slip into the focused calm he always found when sparring. He desperately needed this release, and Cassian was happy to provide it.

“Well?” Cassian needled. “Feeling a little rusty?” Azriel didn’t take the bait and kept his attention focused.

A second later, Cassian lunged. Azriel blocked the fist that flew at his face and returned with a jab to Cassian’s stomach. He dodged the hit and aimed a punch at Azriel’s ribs and their dance began. Azriel tried to get lost in the movements, tried to maintain the calm silence in his head as he ducked and weaved around Cassian’s assault. He aimed a blow at his brother’s ribs and turned at the last second to avoid a punch to the mouth. They were both panting and glistening with sweat as they moved. Their bodies were honed into fierce weapons only centuries of training could achieve. They each knew the other’s weaknesses well and were evenly matched. Kick, punch, hit, step—the maneuvers were as natural to them as breathing.

The thought of Eris sparring flitted across Azriel’s mind and he wondered if the male would be able to hold his own in a fight. The brief distraction cost him as Cassian drove his fist straight into Azriel’s gut. The air left him in a whoosh and he staggered, wheezing painfully.

“Something on your mind, Az?” Cassian’s teeth were bared in a vicious grin. Azriel snarled as he righted himself and charged. Cassian ducked under his arm and returned with a counterattack. Their dance picked up speed, the blows coming harder and with greater force as they each tried to gain the upper hand. “Talking might help,” Cassian panted as he sidestepped the sweep of Azriel’s leg.

“I’m fine,” Az ground out. His fist snapped out in a blur that would’ve put lesser males on the ground, but Cassian blocked it easily.

“Spare me the bullshit, Az,” Cassian shot back as his arm swung wide in an attempt to clap Azriel on the side of the head. He ducked and drove his fist up and it finally connected with Cassian’s ribs. He grunted in pain but didn’t slow. On and on it went until Azriel’s breath was sawing out of him. Cassian feinted left and then drove his elbow up into Azriel’s face. He turned his head at the last second to avoid a broken nose, but in the same breath Cassian hooked a leg around his ankle and jerked his leg back. 

Azriel landed on his back with a thud and his body bleated in pain. He groaned and wiped the sweat from his eyes, the bright sun near blinding as it beat down on him. And then a shadow blocked the light and he met Cassian’s hazel eyes, lit with amusement.

“When you decide to trust me again, I’m here,” he said, quietly enough that only Azriel could hear. Azriel dropped his gaze, shame pooling in his gut. But when Cassian held out his hand, Azriel grasped it and let himself be hauled to his feet. His entire body ached.

“My turn,” Nesta called from behind him and Azriel turned to face her. Her smile was bright and her eyes glittered with excitement and challenge. 

He could use a few more hours of distraction, he supposed. He grinned back at Nesta and took up the fighting stance once again.

***

The respite offered by the sparring lasted all of one minute upon returning to his apartment. Alone with his thoughts once more, the fear and dread slowly crept back up like twisting vines curling around his limbs and choking off his air supply. 

He tossed and turned all night, only managing a few minutes of sleep despite his exhaustion. The following day passed in a blur and by the late afternoon he had little memory of anything he’d done since he’d left his apartment that morning.

It had now been two full days since Azriel had contacted Eris and all he’d received in return was deafening silence. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he could barely breathe, and he was damn near close to pulling his own hair out. He needed to do something.

Seconds later, Azriel took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway of Rhys’s large office. He found his brother kneeling before a bookcase in the corner of the room.

“I need to talk to you,” Azriel said forcibly. Rhys jumped at the sound, banging his head loudly on a shelf in the process. He turned to Azriel with a glare. 

“Gods Azriel, don’t do that. Have you ever heard of knocking?” Rhys complained, rubbing the top of his head gingerly as he stood. “This is going to bruise,” he grumbled.

Azriel ignored him and stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. Rhys took in the frantic look on Azriel’s face and sobered up immediately.

“What happened?” Azriel swallowed once. Twice. Dragged his hands through his hair and sat in the chair before Rhys’s desk.

“Nothing. I’ve heard nothing,” Azriel rasped. “I think he’s in trouble. I’m only here to tell you I’m going after him.” Rhys’s eyes flared with shock and his mouth fell open in disbelief.

“Are you out of your mind?” Rhys asked incredulously. Azriel didn’t respond and Rhys paled at whatever he saw in his face. “Tell me you’re not that stupid,” he said darkly. Azriel ground his teeth together to prevent the retort from slipping out. Rhys held his stare, those violet eyes flickering with fury as he realized Azriel was indeed serious. “Let me make this very clear,” he snarled softly. “Under no circumstances are you to step one foot into Autumn. Not even a shadow will cross that border.” His High Lord’s rage was palpable, the gleam in his eyes one of pure threat as he willed Azriel to obey.

Azriel was relieved to be sitting as that volatile power rippled through the room like a dark cloud and settled on his shoulders. He was certain his knees would’ve given out if he’d been standing. He said nothing. 

“I want to hear you say it. Do not go looking for Eris,” Rhys snarled. Azriel glared back at him, bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood in his mouth. He fought against the raw dominance in the command, threw every ounce of defiance he could muster back at his High Lord even as his shoulders bowed slightly under the force of it. “Azriel.” 

“You expect me to do nothing?” he bit out. He gripped the armrests so hard the wood groaned and splintered under his hands.

“You’ll get yourself and Eris killed just by going there! He knew the risks in allying with us.” Azriel jerked back at the words. He didn’t care if they were true, they made him want to tear Rhys apart.

They glowered at each other. “You will remain in Velaris until he contacts you,” Rhys said, the words dangerously soft. “That’s an order. Do you understand?” Azriel stiffened, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he resisted. Finally, Azriel nodded. 

“Get out. Go home and stay there,” Rhys snapped.

Azriel left as quickly as he had come, winnowing back to his apartment to begin gathering his weapons, anything he might need to protect himself and Eris once he got to Autumn. He rolled his neck and shook off the lingering effects of Rhysand’s power. 

He’d never actually agreed to anything, had only nodded in understanding. His brother could piss off. Not even an order from his High Lord would keep him from Eris. 

What if Beron already knew? Eris could be locked in a dungeon somewhere in the Forest House. Or worse. He cut off the thought before it could sprout and grow like poison in his blood. His hands trembled as he grabbed Truth Teller to strap to his back—

As if conjured by Azriel’s panicked thoughts, Eris winnowed directly into Azriel’s living room. Azriel whipped around and choked in relief. He was across the room and hauling Eris against his chest in a blink. He breathed in his intoxicating scent of cider and warm spice and let it wash over him. 

“Azriel? What happened?” Azriel didn’t answer. He gripped Eris tighter. 

Eris winced. The pained sound had Azriel stiffening instantly. He pulled back to look at Eris’s face and froze. 

His beautiful face was marred with purple and black bruises all along his jaw and cheekbones. His right eye was black and so swollen it was nearly sealed shut. Azriel gaped at Eris in shock and fury. A vicious snarl escaped his throat before he could choke it down and his entire body spasmed with rage. Carefully, with a trembling hand, Azriel lifted Eris’s shirt. His blood began roaring in his ears. 

Ghastly black and yellow bruises trailed up the right side of Eris’s torso. His ribs had evidently been broken mere hours ago and had only just begun to heal. Azriel couldn’t see or hear over the primal wrath coursing through his veins. 

“Who.” The word was low and promised violence. His shadows writhed and skittered around him as he slipped into a cold killing calm. 

“Who do you think?” Eris’s tone was light, unconcerned. Azriel stared and stared at those bruises. “Azriel.” Eris said his name softly. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’ll be healed by tomorrow.” Eris lifted Azriel’s chin with his fingers so their eyes met. That haunted look was back—his amber eyes were shadowed and dull. Azriel let his shirt fall back into place, feeling murderous at the sight of that beautiful skin so harshly marred.

“It’s not nothing, Eris,” Azriel growled. Eris flinched and Azriel’s fury deflated. Gods, he was an idiot. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. What happened?” Azriel tried to slow his heart and took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

“I made the mistake of inquiring after my father's absence from court as of late. He didn't take well to being questioned,” Eris said wryly. At Azriel’s bewildered face, he sniffed and added, “Even I have my moments.”

Azriel could barely see the room around him through the red haze now coating his vision. He wanted to peel the skin from Beron’s bones, slowly, over the course of several weeks so he would be begging for death by the end. He’d snap every bone in his body until he was nothing more than saggy, bruised flesh. Or maybe a death by a thousand well-placed cuts, and then he’d remove his head from his body for good measure. He tried and failed to reign in his low growl.

“Easy,” Eris said. Azriel took another deep breath. He let the violent fantasies soothe him as he unclenched his fists. Eris arched the brow above his uninjured eye. “Do I even want to know what you’re thinking about?” he asked dryly. Azriel glared at him, unamused, and slumped onto the couch. Eris sat down beside him.

“Don’t joke about this,” Azriel ground out. “It’s taking all of my self control not to winnow to Autumn right now and slit his throat.” He met Eris’s eyes again and knew instantly that he was holding something back. “What else?” Azriel pressed, more gently this time. Eris glanced down at the floor. He swallowed thickly before speaking, hands trembling as he clenched them tightly in his lap.

“Things in Autumn have been…uneasy,” Eris started. “With each passing day Beron grows more paranoid and more violent. He’s convinced there are traitors in his court.” Azriel stiffened at the words, but Eris went on. “He demanded my brothers and I root them out, and deliver them to him for questioning.” His voice wobbled slightly and he paused for several seconds. “I had just gotten back from a hunt with Alix when we were both summoned to the throne room. My father had apprehended two snakes, he’d said. Two lords who have served Autumn for over 100 years. Good males.” Eris’s voice was a hoarse whisper now, and Azriel’s stomach sank as he suspected where this story was headed. “He had me execute one, Alix the other, right there in the throne room for all to bear witness. I did it. I—” He pressed his lips together, unable to continue, and looked away. Azriel reached out and turned his face. His amber eyes were rimmed with tears and the sight of them cracked something in Azriel’s heart. 

“You had no choice,” Azriel said, and meant it. To disobey Beron might’ve meant Eris’s own death. Azriel would let a thousand Autumn Court lords die if it ensured Eris’s safety. 

“They were good males,” he whispered again, miserably. “And yet all I could think about as I did it was what if it had been you? What if you—” Eris’s voice caught and his eyes were so full of agony and self loathing that Azriel’s heart splintered in his chest. He knew the feeling all too well. He gently pulled Eris against him, mindful of the bruises, and curled a wing around them both. As Eris cried out his anger, and misery, and guilt, perhaps his pain too, Azriel weathered it with him and did not let go.

***

When Eris had finally calmed down, he remembered that Azriel had called him there for something urgent. 

“Cassian and I went to the lake as planned. We…saw Koschei. He spoke to me.” And then the words were spilling out of him and Eris listened intently, his face paling further with each word from Azriel’s mouth until his skin was the color of fresh snow. When he spoke of the destruction he’d been shown, the fire that had raged through Autumn, Eris looked like he was going to be sick. When Azriel was finished, neither of them spoke for several minutes.

“You think this was a vision? Of what shall befall us all if Koschei is set free?” Eris asked. Azriel nodded. “The ancient past…” Eris murmured to himself, eyes distant and unfocused. Azriel let him ponder it. If anyone could decipher Koschei’s riddles it would be Eris. “I think…Koschei’s curse is tied to Autumn, but how, I can’t be sure. And I don’t think Beron is aware of it either,” Eris said darkly.

“What does it have to do with us, though?” Azriel asked. Or had Koschei merely been taunting him for his own amusement? “And why does it feel like he’s on the verge of breaking free? What’s changed?” 

“I don’t know,” Eris whispered, his eyes fixed on the floor. He reached out and took Azriel’s scarred hand in his, both of them falling silent once again. Azriel was afraid. “I can’t stay long,” Eris sighed. Azriel jerked his head up, hoping he’d misheard him.

“Eris, you can’t go back.” Now it was Eris’s turn to look at him in disbelief.

“I have to. There are people counting on me. People I need to protect.”

“And what about you? Who protects you?” Azriel’s panic was building again. Beron could be informed of Eris’s betrayal at any moment, and then he would be alone in facing his father’s wrath. Azriel couldn’t stomach it.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Eris said hoarsely. Azriel ground his teeth in frustration. There was no reason for Eris to waste time worrying about him. After all, he wasn’t the one in constant danger, and he could take care of himself. Eris didn’t seem to notice his anger. His eyes were distant and haunted again, his mind far away.

“I should go.” He made to get up but Azriel wouldn’t release his hand.    

“Not yet, please.” He wasn’t above begging at this point. “I thought you were dead. Give me a few minutes to appreciate that you’re not.” Their time together was never enough, and every time Eris left it was like a piece of Azriel went with him. 

Eris’s gaze softened and he smiled faintly. Azriel pressed a kiss against that small smile, the touch feather light, and Eris melted into him. He gently guided Eris onto his back and brushed his lips softly against each bruise, willed them to heal quickly so Eris wouldn’t be in pain. And then Azriel worshipped every inch of his body, took him deep in his mouth until he was panting and trembling with pleasure. It wasn’t nearly enough, but he’d take anything Eris would give him. 

Hours after he’d left, Azriel could still taste the male on his tongue. He sat alone in the dark gloom of his apartment, his chest empty and hollow. His heart was miles away with Eris. As he laid down for the night and tried to sleep, Azriel sent a silent prayer to the Mother, pleading for Eris’s protection. He hoped with everything he was that it would be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter

Tag list: @unanswered-stars @futurehunt @christeareads @jules-writes-stories

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 6

Astarion x gn!reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: You learn your place in Calthir and what that means for your future. An unexpected conversation is overheard, and it changes everything.

Warnings: Threats of suicide/self-harm, very brief suicidal ideation, mentions of blood and death.

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, you have no idea how much I appreciate you! Your comments on each chapter are so inspiring and I've been having so much fun working on this fic. There sadly isn't as much Astarion interaction in this chapter, but there'll be plenty of that to come. I hope you enjoy! And thank you once again to @aerynwrites for brainstorming over this chapter with me and making the lovely header image!

It’s the harsh light of the morning sun that pulls you from a lovely dream, scalding into the sensitive skin of your eyelids and searing at your skin. Even through the tent, it’s unbearable. Or, perhaps, it’s the memories that accompany it that you can’t stand. 

Within seconds, the dream is gone - a sweet, fleeting picture lost to a bitter reality - and you’re left laying on your side, aching in every part of yourself. Mind, body, and soul.

All your anger at Cal has seeped out of you and left something else entirely: numbness. Gods, you feel absolutely nothing. Or - no, that’s not quite right. You feel hollowed out. It’s as though every muscle of yours has been filled with lead. You can’t find it in yourself to get up.

Astarion isn’t at your side, but when you force yourself to shift a little, you see he’s still in the tent - very clearly eavesdropping on a conversation taking place outside. His head is tilted toward the sound and his shoulders are tensed: ready to leap out of the way should he hear someone coming. He’s nimble enough, surely.

For a moment, you stare at him, the half-view of his form that you’re able to see from your bedroll. Pinched brows, a deep frown, dark eyelashes that meet his cheek when he looks down, lost in whatever he’s listening to. 

What is he thinking? What’s caught his interest so keenly? And, gods, there’s something softened about his features that you’ve never really seen. It takes you a moment to connect why.

This is Astarion as he really is. No show to put on. No royal mask, no seductive charm. Just himself, almost alone in this tent, sitting under the sun and listening to something he shouldn’t. The only thing comparable to this is when you’d caught him sunbathing at the palace, lost in the feeling of the warmth of his skin. 

Even after last night, it’s clear he still hasn’t let his guard down around you. Given everything that’s happened, it’s not difficult to guess why. With time, perhaps. But, for now, you need to stop staring at him. 

Sit up, you instruct yourself. You need to sit up. 

Your body doesn’t budge at first, but you’ll be damned if one measly betrayal is going to rob you of your motivation. You force yourself up, wincing at the stiffness of your joints, shaking away the fog that’s overtaken your head.

Upright as you are, the anger slowly returns. You like it. You thrive on it. It’s something to feed off of, something to fuel you. The numbness hadn’t worked like that. It had been so - empty. You’ll take anger any day.

Astarion still hasn’t moved.

“Hearing anything interesting?” you ask softly, and though he doesn’t turn to look at you, his head tilts ever so slightly in your direction, letting you know he’d heard you.

“That Aris has just arrived,” he says. “I’m sure it won’t be long before they all darken our door.”

“Lovely.” You fold your arms around your knees, stomach suddenly churning. “Freedom was nice while it lasted, I suppose.”

“It was,” he agrees. “A shame. Just when I was almost enjoying it, too.”

Your smile falls weak on your lips, but he can’t see it. You know you should eat, but you doubt that you’d be able to stomach anything. Instead, you pull out one of the bottles of water in your pack and take a tentative sip, praying that it won’t disturb your stomach.

After a moment, Astarion finally moves to get dressed for the day, and you catch a brief flash of the scar on his neck before it’s covered up. Two puncture wounds. The mark of the bite that turned him, marred into his flesh. It doesn’t pass your notice that he chooses a high-collared shirt. 

You wonder if he knows that you’ll die before exposing him to these people.

Maybe, if Cal hadn’t betrayed you, Calthir would feel like an extension of you. Your kingdom. Your people. Instead, it’s just another prison. These soldiers mulling the camp are strangers, and you have no loyalty to them. You certainly won’t be what they’d expected of you.

What the hells did they do to you, Cal had asked. Are you the one who is different, or is he? You don’t feel different. Yes, you care about Astarion now. Yes, you’re on the run - or, you had been. But had that shifted you so much? Are you so changed? 

It occurs to you that Cal may not have ever known you at all. 

You scramble into a change of clothes before the leader can arrive, and when you hear the approach of footsteps, your throat tightens. The tent is pulled open without warning, and the sun that streams in burns your eyes. You hold your arm to your face, attempting to block some of it out, but you still can barely see the figures standing before you.

“Come on,” a voice says. “Out.”

You make your way to your feet, keeping your shoulders squared and your back straight. They won’t break you. Your fists are gearing for a fight. Your teeth are ready to draw blood.

Astarion follows after you without so much as a word, and the two of you find yourself in front of a group of armored soldiers. Aris is clear from the moment you see her: her composure says enough, and so does the anxious way her men stand behind her. A high elf. Long, dark hair, braided into a neat updo. Piercing green eyes. 

“My, my,” she says. “It’s not every day that the ruler of Calthir walks straight into my camp.” 

Is that what Cal had told her? He’s nowhere to be seen.

Her glance skates next to you, and when it lands on Astarion, she frowns. “And who is this?”

She really doesn’t know? 

“This is Lirien,” you answer quickly, subtly shifting your right hand over your left to hide your wedding ring. “He helped me escape.”

Aris quirks a brow, cocking her head and folding her arms across her chest. “How interesting,” she says. “You see, I got a report last night that one of Queen Erelin’s carriages was attacked not two days ago. The two occupants inside are now missing, but presumably still alive. Occupants who happen to match your description.” She pauses, keeping her eyes locked on you. “One of whom was her son.”

The blood slowly drains from your face, but you hold her gaze. “That’s strange,” you reply, pasting on a smile. “I’d love to meet these doppelgängers.”

Behind you, Astarion lets out a loud sigh. 

You turn to look at him, staring in sheer disbelief. “Really? You could try to play along!”

“Er - yes,” Astarion says flatly. “I’m Lirien.”

Aris shakes her head, clearly unimpressed. “Had enough?” she asks, framing her hands on her hips. “You brought an Ancunín with you. The heir to our enemy kingdom. I… I’m appalled. I really am. I don’t know whether to call you a fool or thank you for delivering him to us. In any case…” She turns toward Astarion, eyes scanning over him, and something like admiration forms in her gaze. “My deepest apologies, pretty boy. Your death is a necessary sacrifice for Calthir. ”

She makes a gesture toward her guards, crooking two of her fingers, but you act before they can. Your hand flashes out to the side - or more precisely, toward the dagger you know is in Astarion’s belt. It’s removed and pressed to your neck in an instant, the chill of the blade kissing the delicate skin of your throat.

Aris jumps, holding out her hand. “Wait-!”

“What in the hells?” Astarion exclaims, staring at you as though you’re crazy. And, well, maybe you are. But you’ve played your fair share of card games. This isn’t much different.

“Let’s be honest with each other, shall we?” you ask, facing Aris. “I admit it: this is Astarion Ancunín. But you’re not going to lay a hand on him, or I’ll cut my throat here and now, and you’ll be without your precious ruler.”

Aris stares at you, raising a brow. She’s disturbingly calm. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” you ask, pressing the blade further in. It stings, but doesn’t quite pierce the skin. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t exactly have much to live for. If I stay, I’m either a pawn for you, or a pawn for Erelin. Astarion is the only thing I have going for me. Leave him alive, let him stay with me, and I’ll go with you. Do so much as lay a finger on him, and I’ll become very intimate with this blade very quickly.”

“Go ahead, then,” Aris urges, her voice steely. “We don’t need you.”

“Oh, really?” you ask. “So that’s why you’ve spent so long looking for me, wasting - what was it - hundreds of men?”

Her jaw clenches almost imperceptibly. “And who the hells told you that?” she bites out.

“Cal,” you answer. “He raised me, remember? He rubs his neck when he lies. I know he was telling the truth.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking,” Aris tells you, her tone almost pleading. “I can’t let him live.”

“In that case,” you sigh, pressing even deeper. The stinging sensation increases. A drop or two of warm blood streams down your neck, and fear finally enters her eyes. At your side, Astarion goes tense.

“Fine!” Aris says. “Bloody hells. Fine! Just put the fucking blade down!”

You keep it where it is. “Give me your word.”

“What?”

“Give me your word that he’ll go unharmed. Mentally, emotionally, physically.”

“Hells, I’ll put it in fucking writing!” she exclaims. “Just put the knife down, will you?”

You don’t remotely trust her, but you don’t have much other choice. You gently remove the dagger from your neck, reaching over to slide it back into Astarion’s sheath. He just scowls at you, looking shaken. His eyes linger on the blood on your neck for a moment, then snap back to face.

In response to his expression, you flash a smile at him. You’ve just saved his life, after all. He could at least be a little grateful. 

“Can we agree that you’ll never do that again?” he hisses, leaning in close so his voice spills into your ear. He pulls a loose rag out from his shirt pocket, hastily wiping the blood away from your skin. His hands are shaking.

“Astarion,” you say softly, teasingly. “Was that concern I heard in your voice?”

He scoffs. “Just - warn me next time, will you?”

“If there is a next time,” you start, “I promise I’ll warn you in advance.”

Aris is watching you with no small amount of distaste. “If you’ll come with me,” she says stiffly, “I’ll lay down the terms of this… agreement.”

You follow after her, keeping Astarion close to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, and you wonder if it’s part of the little display the two of you are setting up. You know how this must look to them: that you’d fallen for Astarion, and brought him to this camp like a fool. That Astarion is a spy for Erelin.

And - well, one part of that thought is true. You’ve fallen for Astarion. His touch, though cold, seems to scald you even through your clothes. You’re no fool, though. You certainly hadn’t come here of your own accord, waltzing into camp. And, if Astarion is a spy, he’s doing a terrible job of it. He’d wanted to leave the moment the two of you laid eyes on this place. 

You follow Aris into a tent that’s clearly used for planning. There’s a large, sprawling map of Faerûn spread over a table. Lanceboard pieces are being used to showcase all of Erelin’s forces, as well as some Calthirian outposts. There’s more of Calthir than you’d thought - some along the mountain pass, some along the borders of the city. The battle plans are scribbled hastily along the side, and it looks like there’s some disagreement about them, given how much of the text has been crossed out. It’s illegible, for the most part.

“Here,” Aris announces, scrawling down some words on the parchment in front of her. “I, Aris Alderfate, swear on my life that Astarion Anucnin will come to no harm: whether it be mentally, physically, or emotionally, by myself or anyone under my command. Satisfied?”

“How do I know that your soldiers won’t harm him?”

She clicks her tongue. “Disobeying orders is a death sentence. He’ll not suffer a scratch.”

You stare at her, trying to find any sense of deceit in her eyes, but there’s none. Her gaze is bright, and her face is open - inquisitive. “Alright,” you finally agree. Fear stirs in your stomach, thinking about how trapped you are. How cornered in, with only your life to barter. “What now?”

“Now,” she says, “your handsome prince leaves us. This is private business.”

You shake your head. “He stays.”

“You are asking me to trust the son of our enemy,” Aris hisses, placing her hands flat on the table set in front of her. “The only child of the woman who dethroned your parents. I cannot and will not trust him. I’ve spared his life, as you’ve asked, but he will not be a part of this. Do you understand?”

You can tell that she won’t budge, but it unsettles you to have Astarion out of sight. Out of sight, they can do anything to him. She may have signed that document, but you’re desperately outnumbered, and you don’t have a dagger in your hand as a bargaining chip anymore.

Seeing your face, Aris lets out a quick rush of air. “If any of this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me. This entire operation is built off of intelligence and trust.” She reaches forward, placing a hand on yours. “Trust me when I say that I have your best interests at heart. And, when this discussion is over, you’ll return to your tent and find Astarion just as he is now.”

You glance at him. He gives a light shrug, but you can see the tension etched into the crease of his brow, the squaring of his shoulders. After a long moment of internal debate, you nod. 

Two guards step forward, lining themselves on either side of Astarion. “Come with us,” they instruct. 

He’s led out of the tent, and a pit digs into your stomach.

“Relax,” Aris says. “I’ve given you my word. I’ll hand it to you - you’re stubborn. An idiot, maybe, but stubborn.”

You give her a half-hearted smile. “Is this how you address all your rulers?”

She straightens, letting out a sigh as she walks along the table, trailing her fingers over the map. “No,” she says. “But I don’t sugarcoat my words. Whatever you think he is to you, it’s not true. He’s trying to get you on his side. Cal was adamant you’d be too smart for that, but here we are.”

You lean forward, observing the sight in front of you. “Agree to disagree, I suppose.”

Frustration flashes over her face. “Well,” she says. “You’re a mascot, Highness. An image for the people, and that is all you’ll be. We have the forces. I have the plans. You have the royal blood. None will work without the other.”

“Alright,” you agree. “What, then?”

“We take the throne,” Aris says. “Erelin dies. This is non-negotiable. You take your rightful place as heir, and the kingdom of Calthir returns to her former glory.”

“And?” you ask. “Will I actually have a say in how I lead, or will I just be another pawn to you?”

Her expression tightens. “You’ll have a council that assists you in your decision-making,” she says, but it’s clear enough what she means. You’re nothing more than a face, a sack of precious blood. “Your marriage will be dissolved, and you’ll be settled with someone else.”

Your spine runs cold. “What?”

Her eyes pierce into you like a knife. “You’re married to the enemy’s son. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that’s a problem. Having Astarion in any position of power is a problem. You can keep him around if you like, have your fun with him, but the marriage cannot stay.”

She really does think you’re an idiot, fooling around with a handsome prince. “And who would be replacing him?” you ask. 

“Duke Ravengard has proposed his son,” Aris says. “Wyll is a good man. He’ll be kind to you.”

You flinch at the suggestion. “I know Wyll,” you answer. “He’s an old friend.”

“Then you know he’d treat you with the utmost respect.”

“I do. And I also know he’d hate to be a pawn in your game,” you snap back. 

Aris sighs. “If he refuses, then we have other options. First, we need to take the kingdom. Your suitors are less of a priority.”

“Then tell me how you’re planning to do it!” you exclaim. “What am I here for?”

Gods, you’re tired of her, and it hasn’t even been five minutes. If it’s going to be a lifetime of her breathing down your neck, maybe you really should run that dagger through your throat.

“That’s easy,” she replies evenly. “For you, at least. We’ll write you speeches. You’ll rally the soldiers. For the most part, you’ll sit pretty.”

“Sit pretty?” you ask, unable to hide the disgust in your voice. “I’m your ruler, and you want me to sit pretty?”

“Yes,” she says, “I do. Like I said, you have the royal blood. You’re the symbol - important only because of your image, nothing else. I’ve worked all my life to get to where I am, and I won’t let anything compromise that. So you are going to live a life of luxury, be the face of our revolution, and be fucking grateful for it!”

She takes in a deep breath, collecting herself. “You can go,” she says. “We’ll retrieve you when you’re needed. The guards will lead you back to your tent.”

Just like they had with Astarion, they cage themselves around you. It’s suffocating. The cool breeze in the air does nothing to stop the feeling.

They lead you to the same tent the two of you had been in last night, and when you crawl through the flap, you find Astarion in one piece. Unharmed, just as she’d said. The guards all leave, and you know exactly why. Cal’s spell is still there. You can almost feel it, still hot on your skin.

You pull the flap shut, absurdly angry, planting yourself at Astarion’s side. You need to hit something. Or scream, maybe.

“That bad, darling?” he asks. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Will she find us here?”

He blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Erelin. You said she’d never stop looking for us. Will she come for us, if she finds out the two of us are in this place?”

“Yes,” Astarion answers. “She’ll stop at nothing.” He tilts his head. “Betraying your own people?” he asks softly, though admiration lights his eyes. “That’s low, darling, even for you.”

“I’m not betraying them,” you answer. “But if she is what you say, then she’s going to find us sooner or later, isn’t she?” You pick at the edge of your shirt, hesitating. “Who do you think will win? Be honest. Just between you and me - who will win?”

He inhales sharply. “My mother’s no fool,” he says. “She married you off for a reason. She knew that Calthir was a threat. But…” He shakes his head. “Even if all of their camps are as impressive as this one, I’d place my bets on her. These Calthirian ‘recruits’ are untrained. I doubt they’ve ever seen battle. Even if they do have more men, our experience would overrule the numbers.”

You’re silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Which is worse - being under Erelin’s thumb again, never given the opportunity for freedom? Being nothing more than an image, married off to Wyll? 

Gods, something isn’t right. If they’re having you marry Wyll, then they’d never let you keep Astarion at your side, even if they dissolved the marriage. No - something here is rotten. Unfortunately, since you can’t do a thing about it, that knowledge is pointless.

“Then I suppose we’d better wait for her,” you finally say. “And see what happens.”

There’s not much else of a choice.

The tent falls silent as you think, that pit of anger rising and ebbing as your thoughts pull at you one by one. You need them to go away; you need some peace, for once.

“Did you know your father?” you suddenly ask. “I know he died when you were young, but… do you remember him?”

“No,” Astarion answers. “I… don’t remember much of my past. Before Cazador.” He leans back, propping an arm behind himself to support him. “And you? Your real parents, I mean.”

You shake your head. “They died just after I was born. They fell ill, apparently. Cal is all I’ve ever known.” A bitter smile twists itself on your lips. “I used to think… I didn’t need anything else. He loved me, cared for me. He was as much my father as the one dead in the ground, his blood running through my veins.”

Your voice hitches, and you swallow hard. “All a lie, though.”

Astarion stares at you, his brows pinching. When he speaks, his voice is hushed. “When my mother - rescued me,” he starts, shifting, “I was… different than before. She kept trying to get me back - to normal,” he says. He smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “She didn’t want a vampire for a son. Most days, she could barely stand to look at me. I…”

He pauses, giving a light, loose gesture, then turns his gaze to an empty spot of the tent. “I really thought she cared about me until then. How kind of her to open my eyes.”

Your hands clench into the pillow under you. You force them to relax. “It sounds like she wanted a trophy rather than a son,” you tell him. “You deserve better than that.”

He tuts. “Bleeding heart, spouse of mine,” he responds, leaning toward you. “Come here, darling.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, and the outside world melts away.

When you finally gather the strength to emerge from your tent that evening, Cal is waiting for you. 

The sight of him carves a fresh, bleeding stab of pain into your chest. You keep your eyes very pointedly on the empty space in front of you, and he sighs.

“So this is it, then?” he asks. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

You whirl around on him, hands clenching into fists. “And what would you have me do, Cal? Jump for joy at the sight of you, after what you did? I’ve just heard your kingdom’s wonderful plans for me, and I’m supposed to - what? Be thankful that you’re imprisoning me? You lot are worse than Erelin!”

He flinches at the mention of the queen, but his shoulders square. “Gods below,” he says. “I know you’re upset, but if you’d just listen-”

“-Listen to what?” you ask. “To you, somehow making this better?”

“To reason!” Cal snaps. “For the sake of the gods. Listen to reason, child.”

When you don’t respond, trying to keep yourself from losing it all, he steps closer and lays his hands on your shoulders, giving them a light squeeze. “I know how Aris can be,” he says gently. “I know how you must feel. She is our leader, yes, but only out of necessity. She knows what must be done and is willing to do it. She’s not your parents, or their legacy.”

He shakes his head, continuing softly. “She wants to feel in control, you understand. But it’s you - you’re the one the soldiers are here for. Not her. If she loses you, she’ll have nothing. We’ve worked so hard - and the gods know I’ve tried my best with you. Keeping you safe, keeping you shielded from what you are: it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

He steps a little closer, and the familiar scent of him, cinnamon and sandalwood, is making you want to fling yourself in his arms. When you were small, he used to wrap those arms around you and squeeze, claiming he was squeezing away all your sadness. What you wouldn’t give to feel such comfort again.

“Don’t confuse Aris with Calthir,” he says. “She’s intense, but she alone does not signify what this kingdom stands for.”

“And what does it stand for?” you ask. “Holding a ruler against their will? Sham marriages? Fake governments?”

“It stands for goodness,” Cal says. “How many times have you felt dissatisfied with this world? How many times has an unfair ruling been laid down by the queen?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you bite out. “I won’t even be laying down the new rulings. You’re using me for power, and I’m not getting even a taste of it.”

“Or so you’ve been told,” Cal replies. “Aris doesn’t trust you. How can she, when you brought an Ancunín with you? Gods, even I was wary, and I raised you! I - I still don’t understand your attachment to him!” 

You just stare at him, giving a slight shrug. “Erelin makes him suffer as much as the rest of us, Cal,” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, choked. “You don’t understand.”

He takes in a long inhale. “You have a good head on your shoulders,” he says. “I want to trust you on that. It’s not like you to be swayed by a pretty face, but… gods, I don’t know.”

“Try to trust me, then?” you ask. “I’d appreciate that, considering that no one will even be trusting me to rule. I won’t even have a say in my own kingdom.”

His brows pinch. “That’s not true. You’ll be on a council of ruling. Multiple people in power. And, no matter what Aris says, you’d have your vote on that.”

He takes another step forward, and his hands seem to scorch through your clothes, warming you from the outside in. “You could do so much good,” he says. “Give it time. Aris will soften. She’ll see who you are, just like I see you.”

“And what do you see?” you ask weakly.

He smiles. “Someone strong. Who does the right thing, when it comes down to it. Someone fit to rule.”

You look in his clear, grey eyes and wonder when exactly it was that he stopped actually seeing you. 

You gently ease out of his grip, heading toward the edge of the camp, but you can feel him watching you. You can feel that damned spell of his still present on your skin. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, no doubt. It’s the complex so many have: that in order to succeed, things must be compromised, precious things sacrificed. 

You’d just never thought that it would be you on the table, a lamb up for slaughter. 

The next few weeks consist of the same progression of events, over and over again, played like a hellish retelling of the same story. You and Astarion are escorted around, but given no real freedom. Even the woods seem like an upgrade - at least you’d been able to choose the direction you were walking in. Such a brief taste of it, before it had been robbed from you. 

You’re taken to and from meetings. You’re provided with books to keep yourself entertained. You’re provided with decent rations, clean clothes, and the occasional bath. These are the luxuries your life consists of. 

You and Astarion lightly chat at night, but there’s nothing more than the occasional kiss, a brief touch of his thumb over your cheek. A shared bedroll. The circumstances of your situation are off putting enough, but it’s the soldiers and their constant, loud conversations through the night that ruin the mood for anything else.

As for the camp, there’s something unmistakably brewing in the air. 

You hadn’t been able to feel it at first, but as you and Astarion spend more and more time in this place, it’s immediately clear that something is happening. You hear whispers, bits and pieces of things you can’t make out, but something is clear: there’s a restlessness to the place, like something held in chains but waiting to break free.

You may hate Erelin, but you at least admire her intelligence, her cunning. Aris, you despise through and through. 

She treats you like a puppet. For the few, brief meetings you’re permitted to attend, she speaks over you, ignoring you when you chip in, not even looking you in the eye. It’s very clear that you are nothing more than your title to her, and at night, you dream of setting fire to her precious battle plans and watching the smug look on her face fall flat.

Astarion plays more bored than anything else, but you see the occasional slip of anxiety in his shoulders, the restless way he paces about. Wherever Erelin is, how will she know you’re here? Will she really use your blood to track you, like he’d told you in the carriage all that time ago? 

Cal, meanwhile, has taken to following you around. It seems that he thinks, with enough time, you’ll forgive him. You don’t even look at him. If he’d ever agreed to you living like this, then he really couldn’t give a shit about you. You’re determined to mirror that feeling back to him.

Three weeks in, the camp begins its march. From what you’re hearing, Aris is joining forces with another post outside the city, but what it means for you is that you and Astarion are dragged along with the soldiers, forced by day to endure the burning sun, and given a barren tent to rest in at night.

It’s a long journey, consisting of aching feet and sweat-stained clothing and the faint brushes of relief under the shade. There must be a thousand times your eyes flit to the trees, aching to break free from this hell, but you know it’s useless. Cal puts a new tracking spell on you each morning to ensure it doesn’t expire. You shoot daggers at him through your eyes and hope he knows you hate him.

When the group finally, mercifully arrives, there’s so much chaos that you can barely think. You can’t even rest. There are so many soldiers milling around that you can’t possibly imagine how the city doesn’t realize they’re there - or maybe they do, and just don’t care.

Baldur’s Gate in of itself has no resources for war. Erelin might, and she has control over the city, but it’s not so simple. War means planning and resources and death. War means defending your actions to your people. If Calthir hasn’t attacked any major sections, then any preventative action Erelin might take will come off as dealing the first blow. 

Even with the spell on you, you’re tempted to run. You’re not sure how accurate the tracking is, but in the city, you could blend in with the crowd. It’s hectic enough here to get away without anyone noticing, likely not for hours. You could hide with someone you trust. Someone who knows magic well.

But you don’t dare to risk it. If they catch you and Astarion, who knows what will happen to him. Instead, you stick by his side for the most part, wandering about long after the sun has set and the night has brought in her velvet skies. He retreats to your assigned tent once it’s dark, but you don’t follow him.

As you stroll along your new boundaries, passing by a small, inconspicuous tent, a raised voice catches your attention. Cal’s raised voice. It stops you in your tracks. You’ve seen him devastated, frustrated, determined. This is none of those. This is pure rage like you’ve never seen, bellowed anger that you’re not supposed to overhear.

“-cannot stand for this,” he’s saying. “I know you hate the boy, but this? This is not who we are!”

“This is who we must be,” comes a voice that can only be Aris. “We don’t stand a chance by ourselves. Alliances must be formed, and we cannot be stingy about our choices. Rebellions require sacrifices, Cal! If we let every moral dilemma stop us, we’d be nowhere!”

“Morals are the entire gods damned reason we’re doing this!” Cal protests. “Or have you lost sight of why we’re truly here? What we’re fighting for?”

“We’re fighting to win,” Aris replies. “Everything else is secondary. I thought you understood that.”

There’s a long, cutting silence. Your heart pounds erratically in your chest.

“They’ll never trust you after this,” Cal says. His voice sounds thick, strangled. “I hope you know that. You’ll ruin every chance of them cooperating.”

“If that’s the price that must be paid, so be it,” Aris replies.

You hear footsteps approaching and instantly duck behind the tent, waiting for the sound to fade until you’re sure they’re both gone. Alliances, she’d said. The word itches at your mind, burying itself within your distrust. Alliances with whom? What are they planning?

As carefully as you can, you sneak into the tent they’d been in. It’s small and dark, with only the barest bit of light from a torch outside spilling inside. It takes a bit of digging to find anything behind basic battle plans and lists of stations, but when you do, your heart sinks down to your stomach. Something sick and nauseating flows under your skin.

It’s simply a letter, accepting an unspecified plan. Bring what I ask for, it says, and I will fight at your side. What’s most important, though - what’s sickeningly relevant - is not the contents, but rather, the person it’s from.

In a neat, cursive scrawl at the bottom of the page is the undeniable signature of Lord Cazador Szarr.

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi @g0retash

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Fireleaf (Part Twenty-One)

Hiiii! Hope you’re all well! Sorry this one took a bit longer to get out. This week has been a mad one, and this is another long-awaited chapter that @greeneyedivy and I have been discussing for agessss, so I wanted to get it just right! We hope you enjoy! 🫶🏻

Warnings: Violence. Bit of blood and gore.

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The old orchard — that was where Lucien and Tamlin would meet them. Once a place that held memories of boyhood. Chasing each other amongst the trees, the air tinged with the sticky-sweet smell of apples. Eris didn’t feel quite so light as he once had. And the air — the air now smelled like—

The oldest Vanserra came to an abrupt stop, his entire body turning horribly, deathly cold.

Smoke was swallowing up the horizon.

Black, rippling smoke as thick as fog, commanding the sky and painting it night-dark. 

There was only one place that that smoke could possibly be pouring from. 

“No.” Eris breathed — barely. “Mother above, no.”

Linden slowed to a stop beside him, clutching hard at his horse’s reins. “What the—”

“That’s the manor. That’s…you need to go. Quickly. Now.”

“But—”

“Listen to me. Lucien sent Y/N back to the manor to wait things out with our mother. There’s a chance they’re in there.”

Something fierce and feral sparked in Linden’s dark gaze. Horrific understanding passed between them, left unspoken.

“I’ll go get Lucien.” Eris announced. 

Linden merely nodded, digging his heels into his horse’s sides and taking off without a word. 

Smoke. Fire. Eris could barely keep up with the thunderous pace of his thoughts. What had his father done? What had he finally, finally done?

The old orchard wasn’t far from here. Lucien and Tamlin would be winnowing there any minute. Would see the smoke—

He reached the orchard at lightning speed, the fact that he’d arrived first the only small mercy. He needed to be there for his brother, to calm him, to…to brace him. For whatever they were walking into. Perhaps not walking out of. 

Eris strode through the lining of trees, leaving his horse grazing behind him. There was barely a breath between him passing through the leafy archway, and Lucien and Tamlin appearing out of nowhere. 

Lucien didn’t need to glimpse the smoke eating up the sky. He need only take one look at Eris’s ashen face to know.

“What.” Was all the younger brother managed to gasp out. Even Tamlin had paled beside him. 

“Fire.” Eris shook his head, somewhat dazed. “I—I think he’s set the godsdamn place on fire.” 

Those words were all it took for the three of them to become nothing but a smoke-choked breeze as they winnowed straight home. 

What had once been their home.

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Lucien stumbled to a stop on the front lawn. The place was…chaos.

For a split second, it was all he could do to gawk up at the manor, now completely engulfed. Great, evil flames seemed to spit from every direction, reaching up and out. His eyes scanned the lawn — dotted with servants and staff who had escaped — in search of Y/N. Just one glimpse to know she was okay.

He could find none. 

The stifling heat, the churning smoke…it was too much. Too much. He couldn’t think.

“Mother.” Eris yelled from behind him. 

Lucien spun around to find his brother running towards Catrin, sat up and hunched over on the lawn, blood dried to her head and face, a maidservant at her side. His legs were suddenly moving him in the same direction. He’d told Y/N to stay with Catrin—surely…surely she would know where she might be. 

“What happened?” Eris dropped to his knees, gently grasping their mother’s face and tilting it up.

“The place just…caught fire.” The maidservant answered for her. “The Lady wasn’t inside. Nor the High Lord. He came running in to help us, get us all out. I overheard someone saying this is payback — from the villagers.

“Where is Y/N.” Lucien said too quietly. None of them seemed to hear him.

“And where is the High Lord now?” Eris asked.

“Where,” Lucien repeated, louder, “is Y/N?”

Only then did Catrin look up — as though the mention of the female had reminded her of her existence. She blinked up at her son. “I…I don’t know. Your father sent me to the market. I came back to find the place on fire. He—”

Lucien didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the sentence. He had no control over the noise of utter despair that broke from his throat. Nor over the way his legs began to carry him in a sprint, towards the heart of the smoke and the heat that breathed out at him. He would go into that blaze — would run through flames to find her. 

But he only made it to the bottom step at the front of the manor when a figure came stumbling out of the door, hauling something — someone — with him. 

He saw nothing — nothing — besides the limp body of his mate. Not the strong, muscled male that carried her out of the building or the destruction that they escaped from. How close the flames were to claiming them. 

His legs threatened to give out from beneath him as he tripped up those steps and collapsed at the same time that the male — Linden — gently laid Y/N down on the front veranda, before he could no longer hold off the coughs that were choking him.

“Y/N?” With trembling hands, Lucien gently turned her face, his palms becoming coated with blood. Nothing. Not a flinch. “Y/N?”

No, no, no. He tugged on that golden cord between them, their bond, begged for her tug back. But she was so limp, so still—

Lucien didn’t even realise the screaming was coming from him until heads began to turn in his direction. And then Tamlin was running over. Eris, too, with Catrin clinging to him.

“She’s alive.” Linden panted around his coughs. “She’s—she’s alive. Her head—”

“Somebody get a healer, now!” Lucien bellowed, the words tumbling into sobs. He paid no mind to the chaos around him as he clutched Y/N to him, resting her bloodied head in his lap. “My love. My love. Open your damn eyes.”

A strong hand touched his shoulder. “A healer is coming, Lucien.” Tamlin. “We need to move Y/N out of the way so the fire can be dealt with.”

No words were making sense. He couldn’t move, could do nothing but cling to her and cry. 

“Come, brother.” Eris said gently. He reached for Y/N, pausing at the growl that ripped from Lucien’s throat. “…no one’s going to hurt her, Lucien. We need to help her.”

Yes, somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew that. He forced himself to push to his feet, not once letting go of his mate, even as his body tried to buckle and fall. 

They could barely withstand the heat that pulsed out at them. And from inside — popping and creaking. Wood was starting to give way. 

Catrin hovered beside Lucien as he stumbled down the steps, just able to lay Y/N down on the lawn before he collapsed once more. And still he didn’t let go. Didn’t acknowledge anything but the female — his love — in his arms, even as people began arriving, the thunderous clopping of horses’ hooves growing closer and closer. Some to help heal, others to help with the fire. 

Eris turned to Linden, studying every inch of the male for any sign of injury. “…were—are there any casualties?”

Linden’s face was grave as he gave a single nod. “A couple of maids I couldn’t save.”

“Did you see the High Lord?” Eris had studied the chaos once, twice, three times, searching for any glimpse of his father. His father, who had allegedly run towards the danger to help. 

He’d found none. 

Linden shook his head. “The High Lord isn’t in there. I can tell you that for certain.”

And if he wasn’t in there and wasn’t out here—

He’d set the fire. Played the hero. And got far, far away before anyone could find him.

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It was like waking up with a mouthful of ash, so painfully arid that you choked around the sensation. You couldn’t get enough air down, couldn’t godsdamn breathe. You lifted a hand, clawing at your throat as though the action would somehow help you—

“Oh no you don’t.” A cold, withered hand enclosed around yours, tugging it away from the assault it was committing. “Don’t add to the injuries you already have, girl.”

Your eyes flew open. You didn’t know that voice, and the unfamiliarity frightened you. Your gaze found nothing but a canvas ceiling above you. A tent — a healer’s tent. The air was unbearably thick, stung with the smell of smoke and burning. 

“What—” you tried to speak; it only served to bring about another outburst of coughs, and they were painful, splintering through your body like shards of glass. You tried again, weakly, “what happened?”

“The manor caught fire.” The healer stopped at your bedside; a severe-looking woman who reminded you of your old school mistress. “The worst of your injuries is the gash on your head. I’m assuming you were hit by something falling in the fire.”

You stared back at her as though she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. And like the mention of your injury brought your memories to the surface, you were pelted with images in your brain; flashes of the last thing you remembered. Beron dragging you into a room, the two of you exchanging sharp words, him grabbing you by the throat and lifting something above your head—

And then blackness.

And then…what? He’d set the manor on fire?

He’d actually tried to kill you. Had actually crossed that line.

“It’s alright if you can’t remember.” The healer patted your hand. “All you need to focus on, now, is recovering.”

Indeed, the ache that was rapidly beginning to rip through your head was almost unbearable. There were so many things you wanted to think of, to ask, and yet the only thing that stopped you screaming in pain was closing your eyes. You lay still, trying to ignore the panic that was rising in you. 

“I’m going to fetch some more supplies. A tonic that will help with that pain.” The healer announced. “Do not move.”

There was no danger of that. You could barely breathe without the ache worsening.

And yet, as you listened to the sounds of the healer pushing out of the tent flaps, and the deep lull of an approaching voice, you found yourself on high alert. All you knew was that you were in a healer’s tent — still closeby to whatever wreck the manor was in, going by the smells in the air and the sounds; dripping water and hissing cinders. But…nothing else. You knew nothing of what might exist — or not — outside of that tent.

“I need to get some more supplies.” The healer repeated to somebody. “You’ll need to stand guard and make sure that nobody tries to enter. I won’t be long.”

“Of course.” A male voice responded — Eris. “...how is she? Will she—will she be alright?”

“She’s regaining consciousness. Although, I wager she’ll want to be knocked right back out, with the headache she’s bound to have. The most severe injury is the wound to her head. But yes, she’ll be fine. Provided that your brother doesn’t bother her when he wakes.”

“I’m sorry,” Eris said. “Truly. I apologise, on his behalf, for his rudeness. He’ll be mortified. He’s just…she’s his mate. He thought she…”

The words trailed off, but you didn’t need Eris to finish the sentence to know what he was thinking. Which meant Lucien was here…somewhere. Lucien had seen you, the state you’d been found in, and had assumed the worst. The thought made your heart twist inside your chest. You wanted to get up, to find him, but you couldn’t make your body move.

“Believe me, boy, I understand.” The healer said. “But if he causes another scene, I’ll have no problem sedating him again. His mate cannot heal while he screams and cries outside the tent.”

He’d done that? How had you not woken up? You must have been out cold. The thought of him crying out for you, and you not responding—

You sunk further down into the cot, wincing at your worsening headache. So much, too much, had happened too fast. And if Beron had set fire to the manor in his attempts to wipe you out, had he harmed others? Staff and servants and Catrin…

You forced your eyes open. Tried to push yourself up. You needed to find out the breadth of the destruction for yourself — damn resting and healing. 

But movement limned your periphery, and turning your head, grasping the figure that had appeared out of air and shadow, had every part of you locking up.

It was as though the mere thought of Beron had summoned him. He stood a mere few strides away, studying you with what you could only assume was uncontainable rage.

Because he’d failed. He’d tried to get rid of you — his little problem — and he’d failed.

Was he here to make another attempt? The crazed flash in his eyes made it seem like a distinct possibility. You weakly tried to move back, tried to open your mouth and scream—

“I wouldn’t bother.” He said. “I’ve cast a silencing glamour.” 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A pathetic whimper was the only sound you could produce as you tried to push up onto your elbows.

“You’re not an easy person to get rid of, I’ll grant you that.” The High Lord strode closer, stopping just beside the cot. That smell of smoke and fire grew stronger, almost suffocating you as he lowered a hand and pushed you down into the hard mattress. “Shh, shh. There’s no need to make a fuss.”

“Get the fuck away from me.” You choked. You resented the tears that sprung in your eyes, but you were so weak, so defeated. You wouldn’t be able to fight anymore, not like this. 

Beron had the power. Had always had the power, and the control. And now he would exact it, and Lucien’s worst fears would come true. There would be no future, no other side to this nightmare. You’d be one of many killings Beron Vanserra had made — and would make — in his reign as High Lord. You would be a name one day forgotten. 

And your father would have to live with the fact that he’d contributed to that. That he’d mixed you up in all of this. Your blood was as much on his hands as it was on Beron’s. Had your mother known, also? What would your sisters think? Would they miss you? Was Willow still alive to miss you, after whatever had happened in Rask?

“You know, Y/N,” Beron’s hand moved up, up to your neck, the skin still sore from his last assault, “despite the bad feeling between us, do not think that I don’t admire your efforts. Truly, I do. You have a rare determination.” Dirt-crusted nails grazed your skin. “You would even have fit well amongst my courtiers, if you’d played on the right side of the game. But alas, you were hindered by weaknesses. Morals and conscience. As you can probably tell, I despise both.”

“You’re incapable of both.” You spat. 

His lips twitched. “You’re not wrong. And you’re incapable of keeping your mouth shut. Your father sent you here to marry my son and be a quiet, docile female like your air-headed sisters. Such a shame that you couldn’t honour that arrangement. Instead, you had to go snooping in my business and fooling around with the wrong son. Lucien—”

“Lucien,” you cut him off through gritted teeth, “is my mate. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

His face flickered. Darkened. And gods, it became abundantly clear how viscerally he hated such a fact. Lucien was your mate. You were his. A bond even Beron couldn’t overrule—

“No, you’re right.” His mouth lifted into a sneer. “I cannot change that such a bond exists between you. Even I don’t have that power.” His fingertips dug in, just slightly, to the skin of your throat. “But the issue, dear Y/N, is not whether or not my son is your mate. The issue is that you are his. That as long as you are around, you pose a threat to me. Do you see what I’m getting at?” 

“That you can burn all the evidence you want, but you still have a great many people who know who — what — you are, and what you’ve done—”

Your words fell short as he grabbed your neck in an ironclad grip and squeezed. “And you’re the loudest of them all. Like a damn wasp that won’t stop buzzing around and getting in my way. A silly little girl who thinks she’s smart enough to play my games and not receive the consequences.” 

He squeezed tighter, tighter, and you were thrashing, your pain taking a backseat as you fought to claw at his hands. 

“But do not worry, little wasp.” He barely budged through your pathetic fighting. The air was leaching from you, try as you might to gasp. Your head pounded, your vision faltering— “Your death will not be in vain. It’ll send a message to anyone who’s willing to try crossing me. They won’t win. You. Will. Not—

It all happened so fast. So, so fast. 

For a split second, you were aware of nothing but the relief of being able to breathe. Swallowing huge gulps of air and—

Something else. Something else sprayed your face, coated your tongue. Warm and metallic. Beron’s eyes widened, a gruff noise huffing from his throat. He was gasping, just as you had been gasping, gurgling…

And then slumping over. He collapsed forward, his body toppling onto you, hot, sticky blood immediately soaking through the sheet, your clothes, covering your skin. 

And behind him stood Eris. Eris, holding a blood-soaked sword. Eris, who was wide-eyed and trembling. 

Who had just stabbed his father through the heart. Who had just killed the High Lord. 

The sword fell from Eris’s hand, clattering to the ground. He opened and closed his mouth, not a single word escaping his lips. His skin had turned so incredibly pale.

You didn’t know how he’d found out about Beron being in here. Whether it had just been a sheer fluke…whether he…you didn’t know, couldn’t think.

All you did know was that Beron Vanserra was bleeding out on top of you. A deathly pallor had already taken over his face. His blood was warm, and you were cold, and—

You screamed. Screamed to the high heavens. Your throat felt like it had been sliced to ribbons, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself screaming, couldn’t stop your weak body trying to push Beron off of you.

“Gethimoffgethimoffgethimoff—” You screeched. Cried. Sobbed. You were soaked with blood, and in pain, and—

Eris seemed to jerk into action. He blinked out of his shock, lugging Beron away from you. The High Lord slumped to the floor. And didn’t move. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” Eris was pulling you to him, his own body trembling so hard, he couldn’t keep hold of you. He didn’t stop you as you leaned over the side of the bed and vomited through your sobs, spitting blood onto the floor. 

And what had happened…what Eris had done…it must have severed the silencing glamour that Beron had cast. Your screams and cries must have been heard for miles and miles. You were vaguely aware of people pushing into the tent, a frenzied panic filling the small space. There were voices, their volumes raising as their owners beheld what was in front of them.

“...He’s dead...” Someone spoke. The voice was familiar, warm and comforting, but you couldn’t place it. “The High Lord is dead.”

You passed out again before you could hear anything else.

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The daylight was weak and watery, pouring into the tent in dull hues of grey.

But you would not let the healer — Ornella, her name was — close the entry flaps. Even as the rain came, pouring down and making the view even bleaker.

Not that it could get much bleaker than the burned and sodden ruins of the Vanserra manor. But...you needed to look. To remind yourself of what had happened. 

There had been no brief moment of clarity upon awakening. It had been the early hours of the morning, and you’d jerked into a sitting position, despite every part of your body protesting the movement. You’d checked for the pool of blood that was soaking you, the dead body of the High Lord on the floor—

All you’d found was a clean bed shift covering your body. No traces of what had happened. No body and not a single speck of blood. And at the end of your bed — your mate. Lucien had been waiting for you to wake up. 

He’d held you while you’d cried. Rocked you and stroked your hair and promised you that never, ever would Beron be able to hurt you again. And when your exhausted body had begun to weaken again, your eyes growing heavy once more, he’d laid you down and held you. Stayed with you while you slept. 

He was catching up on his sleep, now. The cot was too small for the two of you to sprawl out, so he’d curled himself up in a chair by your bed. His hand was still in yours, his breathing deep and even. His braid hung down by his face, and you reached out, pressing it between your fingers.

There was too much to think about.

Eris…Eris had killed Beron. The High Lord of the Autumn Court was dead. He’d killed him to save your life, and now he…he would be High Lord.

“He hasn’t left your side once since he managed to get in here.” 

You jumped at the intrusion of a deep, smoky voice. A voice you knew by heart. The lingering accent of a Montesere native who had spent a long, long time away from home. Your heart skipped a bit in your chest.

You sat up — and there, in the entrance, stood Linden. 

Just as you remembered him. His wonderful face and sure, confident figure. The warmth of his eyes. His braids.

You opened your mouth to say…something. But it was only a strangled cry that came out.

Lucien was immediately jolting awake, throwing himself in front of you and looking around for a potential threat. Linden snorted softly. 

“Down, boy.” He said to your mate, a lick of fondness in his tone. “It’s just me.” 

Lucien relaxed, turning to face you. His hands gripped your face, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Calm, my fireling. You’re still healing.” 

Linden strolled further into the room, a smirk on his lips. “Am I truly so hideous that you cry upon seeing me?” 

“I’m happy, you ass.” You managed to choke — causing both males to laugh. “I’ve missed you.” 

Your friend’s face softened. “And I’ve missed you.” He perched on the end of the cot. “How are you feeling?” 

“...Shocked, I suppose. Sore. I can’t…is the High Lord really…”

“He’s dead.” Lucien answered coldly. “And may he burn in hell for eternity.”

Indeed. It seemed his father’s death didn’t aggrieve him in the slightest. Nothing but fury — laced with hard satisfaction — lay on his face. He turned that face to you, his eyes immediately softening. 

“If Eris hadn’t killed him,” he said, “I would have done so myself.”

“And I would have damn well helped.” Linden added. 

You stared between them; knew they both meant the declaration without a lick of doubt. Not just for your sake, but the sakes, also, of everyone who had ever been caught up in Beron’s games.

“The fire…” you breathed, the thought suddenly dawning on you. “Was anyone hurt? Catrin…”

“My mother wasn’t in there, thankfully.” Lucien brushed your hair out of your face. “But there were a couple of maids who sadly perished.”

“I wasn’t able to save them.” Linden’s voice quietened. “I couldn’t…once I’d gotten you out, it was too dangerous to go back—”

“You did everything you could.” Lucien cut him off softly, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. “My father is to blame, not you. We’ll be having a memorial service for the lives lost, later on today.” 

Linden nodded…but you could see the regret and agony in his eyes. That this was a burden that nobody’s reassurances could lighten. You wished there was something you could do, some way to help. 

“What of Eris?” You asked, sitting up. “Is he alright? Where is he?” 

“He and my mother are getting settled into the Roselands — another Vanserra residence. It’s where we’ll be staying while the manor is rebuilt. He is…understandably shocked. He doesn’t regret what he did, but…he’s High Lord now. It’s a lot for him to take in.”

Of course it was. And he’d saved your life without thinking twice about it. You wished you could talk to him, thank him, hug him. “And Willow? Dion?” You stared at your mate, trying to tamp down on your panic.

“Are both fine.” He stroked your cheek with the back of his hand. “No harm came to them. They returned from Rask without so much as a scratch. Barric fled — I’m assuming when he heard about my father. And Jareth and Rian are being detained and interrogated. Whatever punishment Eris decides to mete out will be well-deserved.” 

“Agreed.” Linden said. He reached out, clasping your leg. “But none of these things are for you to worry about right now. You should focus on recovering.” 

You couldn’t suppress a small smile, your heart pinching at his words. Nothing had changed. He was still the same caring, fussing mother hen that you loved so much. You clasped your hands on his and squeezed.

“...How about I fetch some food?” Lucien slowly let go of you. “Give you two a chance to catch up. You must be starving.”

You were — but you knew it was ruse for him to give you and your friend some time to talk alone. You smiled gratefully up at him. “Don’t be too long.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’ll be back before you know it. I love you.” 

“And I love you.”

With a smile of pure elation, he turned and pushed out of the tent, his hair providing a little bit of colour to the grey landscape. 

And then it was just you and Linden. Your friend through so much. Someone who truly did love you unconditionally. 

“Oh,” he smiled wickedly, “the two of you are positively sickening.”

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You spent the day catching up with Linden, just…just glad to be back by his side. Even if the general mood was a solemn one, and the mark that Beron had left hung over all of your heads, it was just a comfort to have him in your company again. Lucien, too. The two of them hovered around you so much that Ornella eventually had to order them out so that she could see to your head wound and pour tonics down your throat.

She was insistent that you get more sleep, but…as the day faded into a murky evening, you knew that people were beginning to venture from all over the court for the memorial service. And you wanted to go, too.

So you’d climbed the hill on which the many gathered, Lucien and Linden supporting you at your sides. Catrin was already waiting at the top, along with Dion and Willow and staff and servants and their families that had also come. Tamlin, too, stood in the circle, staring at the faelights that lit up the hilltop. 

But no Eris. Eris was nowhere to be found.

As soon as Catrin’s warm eyes fell on you, they filled with tears. Of love…of relief…you weren’t sure. But she reached out for you, pulling you into her side. She wrapped her arms around you, as though shielding you from the brisk night air, and pressed a kiss to your head. And Dion and Willow joined, too, their scents mingling as they embraced you.

Linden came to a stop at your other side, but Lucien — Lucien stepped into the centre of the circle, amongst the flickering faelights. You knew, immediately, that he was stepping in for Eris. His hair moved gently with the breeze as he bowed his head, and silence fell amongst the gathering of people. You could only watch.

“We gather here, this eve, to commemorate Rowara and Shea — two kind, hard working females who should still be here with us. With their families.” Lucien spoke clearly, his words answered by a pained sob amongst the people. No mention of Beron, and rightfully so. “Cauldron save you. Mother hold you. Pass through the gates, and smell that immortal land of milk and honey. Fear no evil. Feel no pain.”

There were murmurings — an echo of the prayer, similar sentiments breathed through cries and whispers. And you watched, tears forming in your own eyes, as magic lifted the faelights into the skies on a phantom wind, like souls floating off to a better place.

“They are gone, but they will never, ever be lost to memory.” Lucien said, and repeated, “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.”

The words were spoken back to him, a chorus of many different tones and pitches, all bound together in the same, slicing pain that they each felt.

Lucien stepped back, and Linden made room for him. And in nothing but a heavy, eerie silence, everybody watched. Watched those faelights float and disappear into the distance. 

You stood there as night swept in. Stood there as the temperature dropped, biting at your skin. And as people began to descend the hill once more, you still stood, held by both Catrin and Lucien. You wished Eris was here. Wish he could feel their embrace, too.

Finally, you loosened your arms, straightening yourself out. You wiped your eyes as you turned to Catrin. “Why did Eris not come?” 

“He couldn’t face it just yet.” She gently clasped your cheek. “He stayed behind, at Roselands.”

You needed to see him, to talk to him. You turned to Lucien, your determination the only thing keeping your tired eyes peeled. “Will you take me there?” 

“Aren’t you ready to rest?” Lucien tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You look exhausted. You’ll see Eris soon—”

You shook your head. “Please. Just—please. He saved my life. He did…what he did, for me. I need to see him.”

It was only a second longer that he studied you, before he nodded and took your hand in his, winnowing you off that hilltop. And as you ripped through air and nothingness, you didn’t care that you were tired and freezing cold. You needed to see him. Your friend. Your brother.

The two of you staggered to a stop on the gravel front of a much smaller residence — though still large. And the sea of different-coloured roses was where, you supposed, the house had got its name from. 

The place was quiet and in darkness, but you could almost feel pain pulsing out of it. Bleakness. 

You turned to Lucien at the front steps, and he seemed to just know what you needed without you saying a word. 

“Just tug on the bond, when you’re ready.” He said, and you felt the strange sensation of a cord being pulled, deep in your gut. “I’ll come get you.”

You nodded, pushing up on your toes to kiss him. And then he was gone.

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No lights had been lit indoors. 

You felt strangely bare and vulnerable as you slowly made your way through the house, searching for Eris. You weren’t sure where he might be; asleep in bed, or drowning his sorrows, or—

It was on the second floor, down a narrow corridor, that you heard a splash of water come from a room at the very end. Its door was cracked open, and a sliver of dim lighting peeked out. You strode over slowly, raising your hand to gently rap on the door. 

“Eris?” You called. 

A pause, and then another ripple of moving water. A raw, rough voice called out to you. “In here.” 

It was permission enough, you pushed your way in, your eyes immediately landing on the bathtub. Eris sat within it, hunched over, his knees pulled into his chest, his chin resting atop of them. His hair hung limply around him. 

He looked…haunted. Tortured. 

You used the single, winking faelight in the corner to guide you across the room, until you were coming to a stop beside the tub. Beside Eris’s hunched body. 

“Hey…” You whispered, kneeling down.

He shook, shivered, and you dipped your hand into the water — still pretty warm. And yet goosebumps covered his skin. Goosebumps and—

And scars. All over. Some big, some small. Some a silver-white, others pinker, newer. And three great, old scars that crossed his back. Faded with age, and yet still clear as day. The scars of a lashing, with a whip or a rope, or…something. Something barbarous. It knotted your stomach as your eyes caught on them.

“He did that to me when I was just a boy.” Eris croaked. You didn’t need to ask to know he was talking about Beron. “He’d taken me with him into a village he was visiting, and I shared my food with a boy there. When we got home, he made an example of me. I couldn’t move for three days after.”

You flinched, slowly raising a hand to brush your fingers over those scars. He seemed to tense for a split second at the contact, and then relaxed, exhaling a shaky breath as you gently traced his skin. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered. “For all that he did to you. I’m so sorry.”

You knew, from the way his shoulders shuddered, that he’d choked out a silent sob. And you didn’t know how to help him, what to say. There was nothing, no words, that could possibly make any of this better.

“Eris, I…what you did for me…” You swallowed. “I would have died if not for you. I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“I’d never expect you to.”

No, he wouldn’t. You knew that. Because he was good; the complete opposite of his father. A true High Lord.

But right now…right now, titles were the least important thing. Because he seemed so small, so vulnerable, curled up like that. Like a scared, lonely child. 

You couldn’t bear it. 

You needed him to know that you were here with him. Would always be.

You reached to the side of the bath for a washcloth, and Eris made no protest as you dipped it into the water, lathered it with soap, and began gently washing his skin with it. He was still covered in blood and dirt; still marked by the events that had passed.

But you cleaned every bit of it away, and he let you. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment. You were taking care of him, and though he trembled and cried and curled in tight, he allowed it. Appreciated it.

You washed his hair, massaged his head, kneaded his shoulder muscles. And when you moved down to clean his hands, to scrub the dirt and grime away from his nails, only then did he grab hold of you. Your eyes shot to his to find them already staring at you. 

“I’d do it again.” He rasped, the bleakness in his eyes utterly heartbreaking. “I—I would. A thousand times over.” 

“I know.” You whispered. 

Tears spilled over, rolling down his cheeks. “I killed him.” 

Your eyes shuttered. “I know.”

“How—how am I supposed to be a High Lord, Y/N? How can I—”

“Hey.” You cut him off. Allowed the washcloth to drop into the water as you grasped his face in both of your hands and forced him to look at you. “You have always been a High Lord, Eris. Always. Because you’ve always been what a High Lord should be. Your father is — was — an abomination.  But you…you are kind. You’re noble and real and honest and thoughtful. You fight for what’s right. You’re good. And I will be honoured to call you my High Lord. Even more so to call you my brother.”

He stared at you, that last little tether on his emotions snapping. It all began hitting him full-force, and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a small sob.

“But none of that needs to matter right now,” you continued quietly. “It does not need to matter now, or tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that. It can matter whenever you’re ready. Because right now, you’re just Eris. You’re my friend, and my brother, and I love you. And I will forever be thankful for what you did for me.” 

Pressing his forehead against the lip of the tub, Eris cried. You soothed him through it. Stroked his hair and held his hand. Let him know that you were there, and always would be. Not his subject or courtier. Not a pawn in a game. A friend — a true one. 

It seemed like hours before his sobs lessened into the occasional snivel. But you didn’t force him to speak or move before he was ready. 

The water turned from lukewarm to cold, and finally he looked up at you through red-rimmed eyes. 

“Thank you for coming.” He whispered. It was clear that the act of crying, of being soothed, had lessened some of the weight on his shoulders. He was a little bit brighter as he reached out and tugged your braid once. “I love you, too.”

“Thank you for coming.” You murmured back. “I wouldn’t still be here if you hadn’t.” 

“Life would be very, very boring without my favourite little shit around.” 

You gaped at him — and then smiled. And it felt good to do so. Even better as he gave a quiet laugh. 

You joined in, the laughter a little hollow, a little strained, but still there. And when Eris relaxed once more, he was still smiling. Somewhat.

“...are you alright?” You asked him.

His eyes met yours. “Better now. After being bathed by you.”

So he wasn’t too upset to tease. You rolled your eyes, but nothing besides relief filled you as you pushed to your feet. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time thing.” 

“Shame. Are you leaving?”

“Just to get you a towel.” 

You stepped forward — but his hand was grasping yours again. Stopping you. You glanced over your shoulder.

“Seriously…thank you.” He swallowed. “Thank you for coming here. I…it was you I needed to see.”

You dipped your chin, shoving down the emotion that climbed up your throat. “Of course.”

With a soft smile, he squeezed your hand once and let go. You strode over to the door in search of a towel—

“Y/N?” He called after you.

You turned again…and the slight glint in his eyes told you that the Eris you knew and loved still lurked beneath the pain somewhere. 

“I promise not to tell Lucien about you ogling my cock.”

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lucien tags: @brekkershadowsinger @sillycrownlady @ruler-of-hades @lectoradefics @lucyysthings @littlemoonashes @janzquu @carmelalikestoread @cathyac @tasha2627 @elkessecretplace @inkyvelvet @acourtofthought @zazite95 @antisocialcookie16 @sehalpha25 @fuckthatfeeling @adamgetawaydriver @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @lostpirateinwonderland @scrunklybunny @owllover123 @vangoghsbaby @goodbyemilkyway @babyimagangsta2 @cynicalpotato95 @draguta @pee-stachio @rem-ie

[cheesus-doodles]

Toman finds out y/n is rich like crazy rich, her family are a bunch of millionaires or billionaires. I wanna their reaction to this new information about her.

‎‎Recommended Readings: A Friend In Me Chapter 1 | 2

Masterlist

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i think their most drastic reaction would probably be utter confusion at learning that you were from old money - first off, don't you know how much more dangerous the street was if anyone knew how rich your family is?? Who let you walk around without an entire army of guards (though no doubt the Toman founders think that their protection is a lot better) ? How is it your parents haven't already locked you up in some mansion for your own safety? You were just too naive, too sweet, too innocent to be left wandering the streets alone, like you had before meeting Mikey and Baji by coincidence.

And two, if you were rich beyond the average person’s wildest imaginations, then why in the world were you hanging out with delinquents like them? You had the means to do anything, go anywhere, yet here you were, staying in a modest house in a average neighbourhood, attending a normal (albeit more prestigious school), cooking them lunch with you own two hands - the boys aren’t quite sure what to make of the news. But you can be sure none of them dare ask should you actually start to consider a life away from them. Worse still, these two thoughts only help to churn more nightmarish what-ifs in the minds of your overthinking friends: imagine if you had met someone that was worse or nastier than them, that decided to take advantage of you instead of caring for you like they did; Mikey and Kazutora had to each spend a whole night cuddled with you just to banish the horrid thoughts.

Of course they were glad that your family didn’t think the same way they did, given that meant you would have never entered their lives, but someone had to be prioritising your wellbeing. They won’t change the way they are around you in the slightest though, given you were still you - you having money meant little to them. Though if you were still working for some reason, I would think that your friends would 100% make you stop for good this time, or if you refused, force the business to fire you, maybe by storming the store every time you were on shift and taking up all your time, or just threatening the customers and staff behind your back. After all, you could obviously afford to hang out with them, afford the groceries to cook their favourites, and still live a comfortable lifestyle without ever having to lift a finger, and the lesser you were outdoors and interacting with people that weren’t them, the lesser risk you were exposed to to begin with. Didn’t matter if you were rich or not, your Toman boys would have always had this line of thought, except now they have an actual reason to put it into effect.

If they could convince you to stop attending school as well, they would absolutely do that as well, though your sudden absence would most definitely raise a lot of eyebrows and attract unwanted attention; instead, what the boys decided on was to start “guarding” you more, making sure one of them was by your side at every time of day you were outside your house, taking shifts to accompany you to school and then after school. You, not knowing their true intention, just try to do your best to keep your jumpier boys nice and calm when they decide to join you for the day - allowing Mikey and Kazutora to cuddle and huddle as much as they like in your lap to turn their thoughts away from trying to fight every last schoolmate you had, bribing them with snacks and promises of affection. No, your desk mate was not “looking at you suspiciously”, and you certainly didn’t think your teacher was “attempting to kidnap” you. Even Pah was more difficult to handle during lessons, with the bored boy itching for a reason to do something other than listen and learn (you have no idea why he even wants to be here). You had to admit that you much preferred the company of your calmer friends, Draken and Mitsuya for one who are mostly content being seated beside you working on their own books and shooting a stink eye at anyone who dares to wander too close, and surprisingly Baji, who generally falls asleep on your lap or face first on your desk the moment your teacher starts speaking.

Depending on how they found out about your family’s wealth, their reaction to the news would also vary slightly. If you were the source of them information, you would get a few owlishly blinks at first as the news of your wealthy background settled in, before Mitsuya would come over and lightly smack you on the back of your head, scolding you about how you shouldn’t go about telling people this sort of information. Draken and Mikey teaming up to insist you tell them exactly who you had told this to over and over again once they had snapped out of their stupor, clamping onto you and refusing to let you go until you had promised and crossed your heart that you had never disclosed this. However if one of the Toman boys, maybe Pah, given his family’s connection to the real estate market, had found out through other means, oh boy. They would jump you as soon as you can, dragging you straight back to your house, insisting that you were in grave danger, that somehow now “everyone except them was out to get you”. And that you weren’t safe, that you had to stick with only them now, and they would cross their heart keep you safe. Kazutora balling his eyes out at the mere thought of you being threatened, Baji refusing to get up from the ground or let go of your arm, Mikey clung to your legs. You would have a long comfort session ahead of you consisting of handmade snacks, a full hearty meal, and a lot of promises just to get your friends to calm down and reassure them that no, no one else knew who you were.

One thing your Toman founders wouldn’t do unless in an absolute emergency would be to approach your family - you were safer with them than anywhere else, and the boys were so hesitant to change the working status quo. Oh no, imagine if your parents disapprove of your friendship with them, imagine if your parents decide to force you to leave them and go home (wherever that was; a brainwashing attempt, your home was with them). The Toman founders aren’t quite sure what they would do to stop you from leaving them - they didn’t want to have to break your legs or hurt you or lie to you to get you to stay - but there was no life without you there. Money could do many things, but no amount of money would be enough to replace what you were to them, and none of your nervous neighbours or delinquents were quite eager to find out what the boys would get up to if you weren’t there to reign them in.

[capnmachete]

The Man in the Mirror A Tommy x Alfie/Sholomons short fic Chapter 2: The Letters

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR An Alfie x Tommy short fic in 5 parts Alfie Solomons' Jewish air of absolute certainty falters in the wake of the shooting at Margate (Slight amendment -- actually a short fic in 5 parts, not 4. I cannot count LOL) Thank you for reading! Tags by request: @justrainandcoffee; @loricasquamata; @hoodeddreams13 Part 1 here.

Chapter 2 The Letters There's an art to everything, even turning away. How eventually even hunger can become a space to live in. -- Carl Phillips, Civilization

The house in Margate was pleasant enough -- stuffed with books and comfortable chairs and an array of eclectic personal items, with a veranda that overlooked the sea. In the parlor, where Alfie spent most of his waking hours, a Victor Talking Machine with a scalloped brass horn stood in one corner, and a radio in another; a pair of low, broad velvet armchairs sat on a Turkish rug.  Stuffed and mounted ravens, owls and hawks -- the only kinds of birds Alfie tolerated, those that had already snuffed it and had been properly taxidermied -- presided over the room, perched on the mantelpiece and atop the bookshelves.  Next to Alfie's favorite chair, an end table held a half-finished Tolstoy novel, a gilded wooden box of Cuban cigars, and a pair of binoculars. On the mantlepiece stood a pair of ornate silver Shabbat candlesticks, and a small pile of letters, unopened and destined for the fireplace. Alfie had been living the life of a recluse ever since his release from the hospital -- rarely leaving the house, seeing no-one but Chana, the maidservant who tended to him and kept the place in order during his long convalescence.  He refused all but a select few visitors, and spurned phone calls.  Maintaining a life of seclusion was relatively easy.  Very few people knocked on the door anyway. And the phone rarely rang, since damn near everyone thought Alfie was dead and buried, killed on the beach after betraying the Shelbys once too often.

Sometimes -- in low moments, more often than he cared to admit -- he wished that Tommy had succeeded, that the bullet had found its proper mark.   But that was life, yeah?  The universe didn't give a flying fuck what you wanted; whatever happened happened, and things just kept churning along.  So there he remained, cloistered, spending his days listening to music and reading, watching ships pass by on the sea, no two of them the same.  And taking occasional potshots at seagulls -- fucking flying rats, noisy and shitting everywhere, no good for anything.

Chana bustled in, all busy energy, a string bag hung over her arm.  "Going out to the market, Mr. Solomons.  Are you sure you don't want to come with?  Fresh air and a little stroll would do you good," she added hopefully, although she already knew the answer.

Alfie cleared his throat, gaze never leaving the book in his hands.  "Dead men don't go out to the fucking market, do they, Chana?"

She paused, gazing at him for a long moment.  Mr. Solomons wasn't an entirely unpleasant man -- not especially demanding -- but he was difficult and moody, stubborn as an ox.  "You could, though.  It's not so bad, you know," she told him, finally.  "Not anymore."  Alfie's damaged face -- once livid and raw and shocking -- had never especially disturbed Chana.  She'd worked in a field hospital during the war, had seen far worse.  And it did look a great deal better now -- the wounds healed to scars now, swelling and stitches gone, the lashes and brow of the blind eye grown back in.

Not that any of it mattered to Alfie.  He leveled a one-eyed green-gray gaze at her over the top rim of his spectacles, said nothing.  A brief staring match ensued, and eventually Chana gave up.  "Alright then, fine; never mind.  I'll be back in a tick.  There's sandwiches in the scullery."  

Hearing the door close, Alfie breathed a sigh of relief.  She meant well.  And the truth was, he could easily have gone to the market with her, or for a walk on the beach, or any number of other things.  His legs still worked, after all; despite the occasional bout of sciatica he wasn't a fucking cripple.  And it was fucking Margate, yeah?  Hours away from London, and Camden, and Birmingham; nobody here knew who he was, the likelihood of being recognized was near nil.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it, unwilling to show himself in public. Oy gotenyu, he could still barely stand the sight of himself -- the scars, the twisted and rutted flesh, the milky blue unseeing eye.  Had only just allowed Chana to turn up the dim lights in the house, and uncover the mirrors.  Even that had been a minor battle of wills; the accidental sight of his own reflection was still jarring. A short while later, Chana returned, calling out a cheery greeting from the front door.  She bustled into the parlor, carrying the shopping and the mail.  "Two letters," she explained, holding the mail out to Alfie.  "One from New York, the other from a Mr. Shelby."

"First one," he grunted, holding out a gold-ringed hand.  "The second one goes in the pile on the mantel."

He tore the first open and scanned it -- just a hallo, a note from Rivka and Ollie.  All was well, inquiries as to his health, blah blah.  That was good.  As soon as Alfie had been lucid enough to do so, he'd given Ollie and Rivka each a small fortune, then put them on an ocean liner to America -- out of harm's way, far beyond the reach of anyone who might use them to get at Alfie's remaining assets.  It had been a wise choice; they sounded happy, appeared to be doing well.

And the one from Tommy… Alfie sighed and heaved himself out of his chair, then went to the hearth to stoke the fire.  He picked up the small pile of letters from the mantel and tossed them into the flames one by one, watching as they caught and burned to ashes.

He missed Tommy terribly.  Fucking ridiculous, right, given all that had occurred, but there was no denying it.  Before the shootout on the beach -- before the trail of events that had led up to it -- they had become close, first as business associates, then as friends.  Then -- after the Russians, after Charlie's kidnapping and safe return -- close friends, trusted friends.  And then more than friends, much to Alfie’s pleased surprise.  Had spent a handful of stolen evenings together, touching and grappling and rutting against each other, the rigid tent in Thomas’ trousers and the fingernail scratches down Alfie’s back a welcome assurance that the attraction was indeed mutual.

And then everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.  Partly his own fault, yeah? And partly just the nature of the wicked business they’d both chosen to pursue; they’d become each other’s Judases, over and over.  One time too many. Alfie held the letter from Tommy briefly, rubbing it between finger and thumb.  He missed the camaraderie, the verbal jousting matches, the business deals, Tommy’s often-acid wit.  The quiet moments over tea -- Tommy smoking, bundled in one of Alfie’s oversize sweaters, Alfie reading.  Most of all, the taste of Tommy's mouth, the feel of his hands, the press of their bodies.  The promise of more, maybe even some sort of life together, down the road.

But that was all gone, swept away.  Alfie had been pleasantly surprised that someone like Tommy -- who could have anyone he chose, yeah? -- had responded to his advances in the first place, even when he was younger and whole and healthy, at the height of his powers.  Why the fuck would Thomas want him now? Being seen this way – older, disfigured, half-blind – was more than Alfie’s pride would allow. The thought of seeing horror – or infinitely worse, pity – in Thomas’ lovely blue eyes was unthinkable.

It was far easier to simply live out his life in solitude.  So he burned letters without reading them, spurned phone calls. Wept in the night, secretly, once or twice, dreaming of walking on the beach with Thomas and Cyril, or visiting Paris and Rome and the Holy Land.  Of fucking Tommy again, breathless and lost in his tight heat, both thin wrists pinioned to the mattress in one of his own big hands.   

With a sigh, he fed the letter from Thomas, unopened, into the fire.

[concreteburialplot]

Intertwined // 04

04 - Snapped Neck

pairing: noah sebastian x nicholas ruffilo

masterlists: here | crossposted: ao3 | word count: 5.1k

warnings; VERY SAD 🥲, mild yelling/verbal abuse?, hints at past abuse, reference to past character death, noah is a devastated horrible depressed mess, short time skips, don’t say i didn’t warn you - sorry in advance, don’t hate me 🥲

reminder; THIS IS AU, nothing is meant to be accurate, including family history/events/dynamics/members/names !!

a/n: don't like it don't read it. don’t be mean for no reason & let others enjoy things thnx :)

i’d like to offer a small playlist for this chapter:

seven - taylor swift

matilda - harry styles

winner - conan gray

hard times - ethel cain

anything 4 u - LANY

if it keeps you up at night - the swoons

-NOAH-

After much-needed water bottles, I’m finally starting to feel somewhat normal again. Folio’s asleep in bed next to me while I lay on a laughably thin blanket on the floor. My eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and all I’m focused on is the popcorn ceiling and counting each plaster peak.

The party rages on the other side of the room and I wonder if anyone out there is sober enough to take me home. It’s almost 1 am and the party hasn’t slowed down. I sigh roughly and roll over to wrap the thin pillow around my head to cover both ears. Even through the cotton I can still vaguely hear the music and a song starts that Nicholas and I were obsessed with a couple months ago.

I chuckle quietly at the lyrics,

“That’s my best friend, she a real bad bitch…”

Such a silly song, even though it’s nothing like what we play or what we regularly listen to – we somehow always get the same pop-y songs stuck in our heads at the same time, then end up loving them unironically.

I shake my head with a stupid grin, thinking about the time we were in the kitchen doing a proper, ridiculous performance while we blasted it through a Google speaker. It started with that song but then snowballed into an entire concert at 2 am – all while his little sister just made fun of us, until she eventually caved in and joined our set.

We were all mic-ed up: me a dustpan, Nicholas a broom, and Stella a spatula.

I dig my front teeth into my bottom lip to stifle a laugh that would definitely wake up Folio.

The memory makes the ground below me that much more rigid.

I’ve already tried sleeping every which way on this god-forsaken carpet, but I can’t seem to get comfy.

The hard floor must be the reason I can’t fall asleep.

I flip back to lay flat.

I don’t really understand why Nick got so upset, but it’s been a long night, so I guess I get it. I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled about getting in the lake. Fucking Folio.

And I know he doesn’t like parties.

I don’t really like them either. I think? Maybe I do now? I don’t know.

But I didn’t want to do this without him.

And I just let him leave like that…

God why did I let him leave.

I want to go home.

I need to go home.

There’s a sharp twist in my stomach when I unlock my dying phone and find no texts from him.

I open my bank app to check my balance. $33.87.

I exit and click on the Uber app, put in our address to see the price. $27.59.

I hit request.

I get home after an Uber ride from a questionable middle-aged man with ridiculous combover.

I fumble with my keys at the front door only to find that it’s not locked. I press my weight against the creaky wooden door to push it open. The house is quiet, if Nick’s car wasn’t in the driveway, I’d think the house was completely empty.

I quietly set my keys down on the wooden dining table across from the kitchen. The bedroom door in the hallway is closed, which I expected. I cross the linoleum and very gently twist the doorknob to peer inside. The small room is illuminated solely by moonlight beaming in through the large window by the bed. I step into the room and click the door closed behind me. When I walk over to the bed, the shimmering white light acts like a spotlight on his face and what I notice churns something deep in my chest. Dried streaks coat his face and look almost like rivers from puffy red eyes.

Surely, he didn’t come home that upset because of the argument we had, right?

I tug at my lip and very gently slip into bed beside him beneath the puffy duvet. The movement causes Nicholas to stir and turn away from me. I stay completely still, not even moving a muscle until he’s completely settled then turn in the same direction as him, just inches away from his back.

If he’s that upset with me, would he even want me here?

Am I intruding?

Is it really intruding if I live here too?

Maybe I should’ve stayed on Folio’s floor.

It’s only then that it really sets in that I really moved out, well more like kicked out, and I live here now. Mostly anyway.

But just because you live somewhere doesn’t mean it’s your home. While I love living with my best friend, and I love his family, and they feel like family – they’re not. As much as they try to not make me feel like one, I am an outsider here.

Even Folio in his frat house, sure he just got hazed and whatever, but he belongs there.

I don’t belong anywhere.

The closest thing I’ve gotten to what I imagine belonging feels like, is with Nicholas. But again, he has no tie to me. We’re friends of course, but if I pissed him off and he wanted me gone… well I’d have nothing. I’d have nowhere to go.

I hate this feeling, this feeling of relying on people.

It’s weird taking up space somewhere you have to walk on eggshells because it’s not yours. Because you don’t belong.  

It’s not like I felt like I belonged at home either, not after Mom passed.

So here is better than there at least.

At least there’s no yelling or slamming doors here.

My eyes drift through the moonlit darkness to the small pile of my belongings in the corner of the room. The sight sends a chill up my spine and my heart rate noticeably rises. I’m reminded that there are still some things waiting for me at my stepdad’s.

I want the ability to truly get on my own, if I don’t want to rely on people, I need to get my stuff so that I can actually make something of myself.

I need to at least try.

And to do that, I need my guitar and my keyboard. I’m nothing without them – and I won’t be able to be anything without them.

-NICHOLAS-

My eyes shoot open when shrill screams fill my eardrums. I nearly jump out of my skin at the noise, especially since I had gone to bed alone.

I don’t have the luxury of trying to figure out how Noah got home, just that he is and he’s having another night terror.

“Fuck.” I mutter.

Because I did such a great fucking job dealing with this last time.

I tug at his freezing cold arm and shake him vigorously but of course, it didn’t do much the first time, why would it have a different result now.

I replicate what I did the last time and straddle his lap, grabbing his wrists and pinning them at his sides to restrain his jerky movements.

“NOAH!” I repeat his name with increasing volume.

He wakes up slowly after a couple times of calling his name.

“Nicholas?” He asks groggily, with furrowed brows and squinted eyes.

I sigh, “Night terror.” I state curtly and pull off him, landing beside him with my back towards him.

“Oh.” He says softly and his eyes falter. “Sorry.”

There’s a twist of guilt in my gut because I should be softer with him after his terror, but I just don’t have it in me tonight. The teary soreness in my eyes reminds me just how much I don’t have it in me. I tug the sheets closer to my body.

He rustles around a bit trying to get comfortable, but I fall back asleep quickly. For a bit.

It’s not long after, maybe an hour or two, that I’m awoken once again but this time to a bunch of noise and the overhead light on at full brightness.

“What the fuck.” I mumble, sitting up and rubbing one eye while keeping the other mostly shut.

I turn to find Noah sitting on folded knees, manically rummaging through the couple bags he moved in with. He’s ripping through each one, tossing pieces of clothing out left and right, shaking out the empty bags as if they have hidden compartments.

“What the fuck are you doing Noah.” I ask, my tone soaked in annoyance, exhaustion, and anger.

“I can’t find some of my shirts. I need to get the rest of my shit out. Today.” He replies, his words rushed.

My brows knit together at his sudden – and poorly timed – bout of bravery and motivation. He’d been putting this off and avoiding it for weeks. And now he’s tearing apart his stuff, throwing shit all over our room at 4:30 in the morning… after a night of drinking?

I yawn and shake my head in confusion, “Wait, wait, wait, how did you even get home?”

“Uber.” He replies simply, his gaze still focused on his third bag not even looking up at me.

“You took an Uber home?” I ask somewhat skeptically, “Why didn’t you just call me?”

His rummaging movements pause with a bundle of shirts in hand, “Didn’t wanna bother you.” Then continues digging through the bag.

Normally I would go on a tangent about how I’d rather call me to pick him up instead of doing something stupid like possibly be driven home by someone inebriated – but I’m much too depleted, both physically and emotionally to do so.

“Well, you should’ve called me.” I tug the cotton sheets closer to my body and bunch the material to my chest. “What is this really about? You’re acting so strange.”

I reach over to the light switch and turn the knob to dim the white-yellow hue of the light above us.

“I just need to get my shit, Nicholas.” He huffs, seeming aggravated by my questions.

“Well, you’re gonna go alone if you keep snapping at me like that.” I retort, even though I’d never let him go alone.

He exhales and deflates with a balled-up band tee in his hands. “I just need to do it today. If I don’t do it today, I might not ever be able to.”

Honestly, this is the last thing I fucking needed after earlier tonight. I just wanted to fucking sleep. And not be around Noah.

Yet here I am, awake, around too much Noah.

“Fine.” I sigh. “Fine, we can go today – but only if you fucking wrap up whatever the fuck you’re doing and come to bed. If we’re really doing this today, you don’t need to be sleep-deprived for it.”

“Fine.” He agrees reluctantly and begins gathering the clothes to shove back into the bags. “But I probably won’t be able to sleep.”

“Well, you should at least try.” I scoot back into my left side to make room for him.

The box spring squeaks under the weight of him when slides in and immediately turns away from me. Normally I would be a tad offended, but tonight, I’m grateful.

Surprisingly, small snoozy noises escape him not long after his head hit the pillow. I lay facing him, watching the rise and fall of his ribcage like a metronome.

Concern and fear suddenly flood my bloodstream like a bad drug. Getting most of his stuff out the first time was no picnic and I just know this last time is going to be even worse. Frankly, I’m a tad worried about the things he’d left behind, I wouldn’t put it past his stepdad to throw them out.

I shake my head and try to focus on my breathing to calm me down. When that doesn’t work, I try counting.

I drift off to sleep before 30.  

My faux-leather steering wheel cover cracks under my fidgeting fingers. Noah can’t seem to sit still, running his hands up and down his thighs probably to self soothe. The anxiety is thick and tangible in the car. He would never admit it to me, but I know he’s scared shitless about going back home. Noah always tried to hide it from me, but I’m not stupid. It doesn’t matter how “anemic” or thin you are, you don’t amass that many bruises that frequently. I always wondered if that’s why he started wanting so many tattoos so suddenly. Maybe, on some level, that’s what made me want to start tattooing in the first place.

The normally 20-minute-long car ride felt like three hours, but when we arrived, I could’ve sworn it had only been 3 minutes.

I park on the curb at the end of the driveway and shut off the car. Just being on the tiny patch of lawn has my heart thumping through my chest and it’s not even my battle.

But I guess if I’m here with him,

If it’s his, it’s mine too.

As much as he wasn’t prepared to do this, neither was I. My gaze lands on the rectangular windows of the small yellow house. From the outside, it looks so normal, so happy even. It’s almost eerie how far from the truth that is.

I look over at him, just now realizing he hadn’t said a word the whole ride. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, one lanky arm wrapped around his own waist and the other stationed at his mouth. His eyes glued to the house behind me as he chews on his thumbnail.

“We can still go back home, Noah. We don’t have to do this today if you’re not ready.” I offer gently, mostly because I don’t think either of us are fully equipped to do this.  

“No. I have to do this.” His eyes finally falter away from the house and land on me.

“Okay. You sure you’re ready?” I ask quietly.

His teeth dig into his bottom lip. “No. But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I’m gonna be with you the whole time, okay?” I hold out my pinky. “Always, remember?”

He nods and hooks onto my pinky. “Always.”

As expected, I’ve landed myself in the middle of a brawl between Noah and his stepdad. I feel guilty and useless standing there as a bystander not interfering, but my feet can’t seem to move and my vocal cords have ceased to function.

Noah started off strong, full of adrenaline and blind bravery, but it didn’t take long for George to wear him down.

My heart beats loud in my ears and I can’t hear a word they’re saying. All I see is him waving around Noah’s guitar like it’s a toy, using it as an extension of his exaggerated furious expressions. Noah’s tall, but George is much taller and stronger than him, so Noah just looks like a mouse running around an elephant, scrambling trying to snatch the instrument back.

I’m not sure what they’re even screaming about but the argument escalates further than I ever expected it to. My eyes round as I witness each of George’s hands slide to either end of the guitar’s neck.

No

He wouldn’t

As if in slow motion, I watch the light pale from Noah’s face. His eyes wide and teary, and his brows curled up. I can see the heartbreak in his dark brown eyes in real time as he watches his stepdad easily snap the neck of his beloved guitar.

The break is quick and sharp and fills the room with the sound of cords plucking and wood splintering. The noise after is even louder though, just jarring silence.

Until George opens his mouth again. “Get your sad, pathetic little toys and your little boyfriend out of my goddamn house.” Rasps his deep Western accent.

He forcefully tosses the broken instrument at Noah, hitting him so hard it knocks him backwards. The livid man storms across the house and slams the master bedroom door behind him.

Noah’s knees buckle and land harshly on the carpeted floor, holding the guitar in his arms as if it’s a wounded soldier in battle. His face scrunches up around his eyes and tears just begin pouring from him. His chest hiccups with each sob that escapes. He curls the wooden pieces in his arms into his chest and rests his forehead against the curve of the guitar. His cries heave his entire body.

I’m frozen where I stand. What I just witnessed might as well have been a murder. I’ve seen Noah cry, of course, but this is something I’ve only ever seen once before. Besides that one time, I’ve never seen him this bad. At least, he’s never letme see him this bad.

I gently meet him on the floor. For some reason, I feel hesitant to touch him, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

I don’t dare even touch the arms that are gripped onto his guitar so, I rest my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t even react to my touch at all, as if he can’t even feel it.

“Noah…” I say cautiously. “Let’s just get you out of here, okay? We just need to grab your stuff and get out. We can figure this out later… later when we’re not here.”

He doesn’t respond and when I try to nudge him even a little bit, he’s solid like concrete where he’s kneeled.

“C’mon Noah we gotta go.” I stretch up to double-check that the bedroom door is still closed. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff. We just need to get you out of here.” I urge and squeeze his shoulder a bit.

His fingers dig into the instrument as he takes a deep sniffle and screws his eyes shut tight, shoving the salty tears out. He just gives me a little nod against the guitar, letting me know that he understands but doesn’t move.

“Please, Noah.” I beg and try pulling at his arm again. “Please get up. I need you to get up for me.”

He gives a little of his arm to me and not much more. But I take what I can get and use both of my arms to weakly lift him up from the floor by his underarms. I basically carry him out of the house, his body limp as I drag him backwards across the overgrown lawn. Shards of dying grass cling to our clothes and dust kicks up all over the back of his jeans.

I feebly open my back door and let him crawl into the backseat with the guitar tight in his grip. He immediately lays with it across the cushions and some boxes.

Luckily, we had gotten most of his belongings already so there was just the final sweep left to do.

Thankfully, George is still holed up in his room, though that doesn’t ease my panicked heart-pounding in my ears. Noah’s room is completely bare except for a half-filled trash bag of miscellaneous belongings. I drag the heavy bag across the stained beige carpet, but I stop at something that catches my eye.

In one cubicle of many that make up a huge bookshelf are a couple of photo albums in chronological order spanning over a few years. From the peek-through covers I can tell that they’re filled with pictures of his parents, or maybe at least his mom.

My head snaps at a stir that comes from behind the bedroom door and in a split-second decision, I scoop all the photo albums and throw them into the black trash bag. I use all my strength to heave the now extra bulky bag across the yard as I run towards the car.

I toss the bag into the trunk and slam the door before rounding the car, throwing myself so hard into the driver’s seat that I nearly tip the car over. I take a glance in my rear-view to check on Noah and find his body tightly curled around the instrument sobbing even worse than how I left him. Seeing him like this… gives me an ache in my chest that I didn’t even know could hurt so much. It’s so excruciating that I could almost vomit from it.

I quickly shift the car into drive and speed off so fast that my wheels squeal.

I’m unsure what to do or what to say. It feels like saying anything would only make things worse at risk of saying something wrong. I always feel guilty when situations like this happen with his family because I can’t imagine what he feels. I don’t know what I’d do without my family, and I can’t even fathom someone treating their child like that, especially him. Noah is the last person on earth that deserves that.

I bite my nail as I walk back and forth in the living room lost in my thoughts.

“Honey, why don’t you come sit down?” My mom suggests patting the couch cushion next to her. “Pacing around the living room isn’t going to help anything.”

I sigh and meet her on the couch, “You should’ve seen him, Mamá.” I run my fingers through my sweat-coated roots. “Oh my god, it was horrible.”

She begins rubbing small circles into my back, “I know Gatito.” She tries to soothe, using her Spanish nickname for me – she always told me I resembled a small cat. “But we know what his family is like, I’m surprised something like this hadn’t happened sooner.”

“Yeah…” I trail off, biting down hard on my thumbnail thinking of all the things we never told her his stepdad had done. If she knew the things he’d done to him – especially in front of me – who knows what she’d do. She’s a Hispanic single mother, nothing would be able to stop her – and a George vs. Mom battle royal is the last thing we need.

“I’ve just never seen anyone that… defeated before. That guitar was everything to him.” I hang my head and use both hands to cover my face.

“Well, you know, maybe we could pull together some extra money by Christmas?” She offers. “I could pick up some extra shifts at the hospital.”

“No, no, Mom, you don’t understand.” I sigh and turn my head to her against my propped palm. “His mom gave him that guitar.”

“Oh.” She replies solemnly in understanding.

“There’s a music store in town where I get my vinyls, they do repairs there.” My sister speaks up from across the room, resting on the column that separates the living room from the kitchen. “Maybe you could see if they could fix it?”

I blink blankly as I process her words and it’s like a lightbulb illuminates above my head. “You actually might have a good idea for once Stell.”

 She rolls her eyes, “I’m trying to be helpful, you don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m your brother, it’s kind of my job to be rude.”

“Whatever.” She takes a sip from her obnoxiously sized water bottle. “There’s a really cute guy that works there, I think he does most of the repairs. His name is Jolly, tell him Stella sent you.” She winks.

“Augh.” I groan in disgust and wave her boy craze away. “I’ll be sure to do that.” I add sarcastically.

A serious stillness falls over the room like everyone is equally unsure of how to proceed.

“What are you gonna do about Noah?” Stella asks softly, her voice laced with concern.

My leg bounces in anxious uncertainty as my eyes drift over to my closed bedroom door.

“I don’t know.”

I gently knock on my door and slowly creek it open. The room is pitch black with just Noah on the bed curled up around his guitar, his shoulder length hair splayed across the pillows, and the duvet wrapped around him like a cocoon. He’d been hidden away in my room like this since we got home.

“You awake?” I question timidly, readjusting the tray in my hands.

It takes a moment, but he replies with a tiny, short groan.

“I brought you soup. You know, the chicken noodle my mom makes that you like so much?”

Another brief pause followed by a slightly more intrigued grumble.

I take it as permission to enter and precariously make my way over to him. There’s a sliver of mattress left behind him, and I fit half my ass on it.

I allow him the space to be quiet with me for a bit.

“How are you doing?” I ask, even though it’s an asinine question.

He just sniffles.

“I know, I’m sorry.” I sigh quietly. “Is there anything I can do?”

He sniffles again and scooches further into the bed, onto my side.

I silently tap my index finger on the plastic tray, pondering what that could mean before I speak. “You want me to lay with you?”

He gives a small ‘mhm’ groan.

“Okay, I can do that. But can you eat for me?”

He replies with a ‘nuh-uh’ whine.  

I exhale knowing this was going to be an uphill battle. “Noah, you’ve gotta eat.”

He shakes his head in resistance again.

“C’mon, just a couple bites…for me?”

A pause before he lets out a defiant but agreeing sigh.

“You’re not gonna move, are you?”

He shakes his head.

I breathe out trying not to sound annoyed because I should be grateful that he even cooperated this much.

Maneuvering around him from behind, I hold the bowl in one hand and the spoon in the other. Thankfully, the soup had cooled down to just a bit warmer than room temperature. I scoop a spoonful of it, making sure to get a little bit of everything: noodle, chicken, and carrot – if he’s only going to take a couple bites, I have to make sure they count.  I carefully bring the spoon over to his lips, he lifts his head just a bit and takes the spoonful into his mouth. He let me give him 4 or 5 bites, which was more than I expected, before rejecting the rest.

I set the bowl on the nightstand, lift the sheets, and nestle into the space he made for me.

“Thanks for eating.” I say quietly. “I know you didn’t want to.”

He nods mutely.

I press my lips together. “I’m sorry about what happened today.”

He’s silent. Slowly but surely sniffles and sobs begin to pour from him again. I immediately feel the twist of guilt in my stomach for being the one to trigger his tears again.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I-I can leave if you want some priv–“

His hand reaches behind him and firmly captures my wrist.

“Stay.” He begs in a coarse whisper, the first thing he’s said since we came home. “Please?”

His voice is so cracked and hoarse, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was sick.

I falter a second to respond but he must’ve felt the hesitation.

“It helps.” He croaks. “Remember?”

The churn in my chest returns and there’s an ache in my heart that accompanies it. If I could somehow magically take all of this away, I would, even if it meant trading places with him. Even if it meant I’d be the one hurting instead.

I feel so fucking useless, not being able to do much for him.

But at least I can do this.

“Okay.” I respond cautiously and settle further into the bed, now essentially spooned around his body.

His grip on my wrist never left so I let our joined arms rest on his hip. I can’t seem to gather with the right words to say to him, I mean what can you really say after something like that?

So, I offer him the only words that feel suitable.

“I’m not going anywhere, Noah. You know that right?”

There’s a long quiet, so long that I think he may have fallen asleep.

But then he squeezes my wrist.

“Thank you.”

I sense the urge to do something, but I’m not sure how he’ll react. I don’t know, maybe it would help?

I tug at where his hand meets mine and he gives me an upset grumble, like he doesn’t want me to leave.

“I just… is it okay if - can I try something?” I ask shyly, suddenly very nervous, nervous enough to have my heart racing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his brows furrowing. I can tell he wants to be stubborn and keep me latched there, but curiosity always gets the best of him. He slowly loosens his grip on my wrist.

I didn’t notice that my palms were sweating until I’ve retrieved my hand. I press my lips flat and feel like my ribcage could burst open at any minute from how hard my heart beats against it.

My body is screaming at me to do it and as much as I want to fight it, I can’t.

Maybe it would help

I let my arm go where it wants to go. It slithers beneath the covers and through the space between Noah’s arm and his side. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull flush against him.

We both freeze. My ears grow warm as the hour-long seconds pass.

Maybe he’s uncomfortable

Maybe he thinks this is weird

Maybe it is weird?

Is this weird?

Maybe he doesn’t like it

Maybe I’m making it worse

Maybe–

Unexpectedly, he just melts into me. His body molds into my arms like they were made just for him.

He finds my arm and brings it to his face, pressing his damp, swollen eyes against it. Small sobs fall into my arm and his grip on me is so tight I could turn blue.

Maybe he feels safe, and maybe he just needed to feel safe to let the rest out.

My own eyes well up at the sound of him, at the feeling of his body heaving in my arms. I press my forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I’m always gonna be here.” I reassure him again through my own held-back tears.

He wipes his tears off with the collar of his shirt before pulling my arm back around his chest. He nuzzles into me, and I feel my heart swell so big it fills my entire chest.

I think I already know the answer, but I wanna hear it anyway.

“Does this help?”

He lets out a sleepy sigh as he nestles his back into my chest.

“You always help, Nicholas.”

Next Chapter -> 05 - Girl Crush*

tag list; @ladyveronikawrites @cryingabtab @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @kingdomof-omens @the-hell-i-overcame @blackveilomens @xxrainstorm [comment if you'd like to be tagged?]

a/n; I know this was a heavy one 😅 i'm sorry, i hope you were able to enjoy it regardless.

Thank you for the support on this series and on my other series, Virality. I appreciate it more than you know. I love reading your comments and asks. I am incredibly grateful for them, thank you.

[takeariskao3]

I love Already Gone so much. It’s such an interesting premise and way to view Hinny’s relationship! This might be a weird ask but I love drama and was wondering if you’ve ever thought of doing Harry’s POV of the end of chapter 3?

She vaguely registered Harry shoving back in his chair from across the table. He looked like his mouth was moving, but Ginny couldn’t hear the words.

Dizziness enveloped her, followed quickly by nausea, then her world went black.

Like yaaaasssss that’s perfection for my little dramatic heart ❤️❤️❤️

honey. you have unlocked something in me that cannot be bottled back up again. i hope you know that.

Harry slipped out the back door to find Hermione waiting for him in the shade of the porch. She didn’t bother with a greeting and instead jumped straight into inquisition mode.

“Did you tell her?”

Avoiding her gaze, he grumbled out a soft, “No.”

Hermione’s eyes went skyward in clear impatience. “Should I even ask why not?”

“No.”

Harry took off toward the garden but Hermione grabbed him by the elbow and prevented his escape.

“Harry,” she sighed. “This is getting ridiculous…”

"Is it?" he snapped, anger crackling to life in his chest. "Which bit, exactly?"

"Look, I..." Hermione's shoulders slumped. "I know this hasn't been easy, but--"

"No," Harry cut across her. "You don't know."

His bite fell flat, even to his own ears, his voice a little too shaky to truly put an end to the subject. Looking down the path, Harry's eyes followed Teddy's progress as he snuck up on a couple of garden gnomes.

Hermione stayed resolute, fidgeting with her hands while she waited for Harry to give her more of an explanation. But that was the problem, he had no idea how to explain the rolling, churning knot of agony in his stomach.

He decided to try with the bare minimum. The facts.

"I know I said I'd talk to her," he muttered, casting a glance behind him to make sure no one was around. "But she almost fainted when... when Teddy ran in the room."

Face smoothing in understanding, Hermione rocked back slightly and crossed her arms around her middle. "Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine. Pulled herself back together but--" Harry dug his fingers into his eye sockets until he saw stars. "I'm not risking it, alright?"

I'm not risking her.

Hermione huffed and shook her head. "When, then? The longer you wait the worse it's going to get."

"Just--" Harry gave her a pleading look. "Just leave it alone for today. Please?"

She didn't look happy about it, but after a few moments of contemplative silence, Hermione finally agreed.

Harry spent the next quarter of an hour helping set up chairs and making sure his godson didn't try to pocket any Apple Blossom Fairies. Andromeda and Mrs. Weasley had completely outdone themselves with the food. After sorting out the place settings, the contents of the kitchen floated out to the two long tables until they were completely laden down with roasted chicken and hams, pies of every variety, cakes and breads, and seven different kinds of potatoes.

Ginny had told him once that her mum coped by cooking. He'd never understood that more than in the last few weeks.

Everyone was quick to find a seat and no one wasted anytime dishing out their helping and passing the serving platters along.

Harry hadn't planned on it, really he hadn't, but of the two dozen places he could've ended up, he ended up right across the way from Ginny.

She was relatively quiet for most of the meal, only speaking when spoken to and listening intently to all of the toasts and stories and tributes. Meanwhile, Harry was being an absolute coward and refusing to make eye contact with anyone, but especially with her.

He wasn't avoiding her, the physical presence of Ginny and all that she meant to him. However, he was avoiding the sharp stab of loss that pierced his lungs everytime she looked at him like he was a puzzle she hadn't quite figured out yet. This was a very important distinction in his mind.

Up until this entire torment of a situation, Harry had never given much thought to how Ginny looked at him. At least, not passed the surface level familiarity of their eyes meeting from across a room, that spark of playfulness letting him know she was thinking something unforgivable, that warmth of understanding and acceptance that only came with shared history.

Now, he was left with glances that skirted past. Brows that furrowed in contemplation. Eyes that slid away, instead of sought him out.

Of all the blasted nonsensical shite he'd had to endure the last month, that had been the most unbearable.

Because hers were the eyes that gave him strength.

And he had no idea how to do this without her. He wasn't equipped for it.

About halfway down the table, George stood and cleared his throat. Harry steeled himself for the speech, for the grief. Four whole years later and it still didn't feel real...

It was instinctual, then, for his eyes to dart up and find hers. He couldn't help it. The act felt compulsive. Habitual. Addictive.

Her warm brown was glowing golden in the afternoon sun, her hair glittering copper and her cheeks slightly pink.

She looked healthy. Healthier than she had in months.

She looked like she didn't need him.

Ginny blinked and looked away first, oblivious to the swelling ache and burning moisture threatening behind Harry's eyes.

Then he registered the white knuckle grip she had around her goblet, and the slight sway of her shoulders, followed by a blink that took two beats too long.

"Ginny?" Harry asked urgently, vaguely aware he was interrupting George's speech and not caring in the slightest. "What's wrong?"

Ginny didn't seem to hear him. She blinked again. Her eyes glassed over.

"Ginny--" Harry said again, this time shoving back in his chair and readying himself to leap over the table to get to her.

Once more, she gave no indication that he'd spoken.

His entire focus narrowed to just her, Harry couldn't have said what a single other soul in the back garden was doing at that precise moment, because all he could see was Ginny--his wife, his best friend, his entire world--go limp and slump sideways out of her chair.