#just before pulling itself together again and delivering one of the most beautiful finales of musical theatre history

[starlene]

Does crying every time* Philip Jalmelid sang something during the first time I saw Så som i himmelen count as magical? Pathetic? Something in between?

In short, I have never related to any fictional character like I related to Daniel that afternoon (not in the sense that Daniel is exactly like me in every way, but in the sense that emotionally, he makes absolute sense to me. If that makes any sense at all), and no other piece of theatre has ever made me react in such a strong way, either.

Here's a good live performance of the first song of many that made me cry, and my favourite musical theatre song to this day:

Hey hop, please tell me about a magical theatre experience you've had, or about your favourite song/musical ✨️

(Or: recommend your favourite theatre-related Tumblr blogs! I need more theatre on my dash)

[deaconusdelirium]

Appreciation

Alright, what better way to come back than write a oneshot on one of favorite villains?

: Yet another oneshot of Makarov since you all are begging to have another CoD writing from me, worship, Makarov…being Makarov, appropriation:)

Warnings: slight mention of death, (of course), and our lover saying he’ll do it again

———

Makarov stood a few feet behind you, watching as the already clean house, was being cleaned once again. Different colored eyes studied your movements and the way you put whatever you carried, down soft and gently. It was quiet, a comfortable silence, he hadn’t announced his arrival back home, and he was curious what you were doing.

A smile drew across his face as he realized you did this yourself, you got yourself into this mess, his mess, all on your own. He had given you numerous times to walk out on him and leave for good, but you never faltered. He’s had a few ‘lovers’ walk out on him, maybe it was because he was too much, or the way death followed him every where he went, or maybe whenever he accidentally got too rough and hurt them?

He learned from his previous mistakes, learning and teaching himself, actually wanting to prove himself to you since he tried his very best and gave his all into the relationship. One he knew this was serious he wanted this to last forever. The man from earlier opened his eyes, helped him see from a new perspective. And in return, he let the man return to his lover, one he put of her misery.

He tilted his head, the image replayed. He couldn’t care about what happened to the mans wife, but he found amusement in the way he mourned his partner, how he cried as he held her lifeless body in his arms. Cursing at the Russian for ruining the one thing he believed and loved the most. He rambled on about the little things. That made him question his feelings for you. Were you just another woman? Or were you actually someone he wanted to spend his life with?

His question was shortly answered when he seen your back turned to him, organizing the coffee table in middle of the room. He walked closer, noticing that you dropped the flower that was made of beads, on the floor. Before you bent down to pick it up, he did, “for you, malishka” he teased, watching you playfully glare at him and take the rose, putting it back in the vase. “Welcome home love, how was work?” He couldn’t help but watch with admiration, eyes fully trained on you as you questioned how his day at work went.

“Better than yesterday” He answered, taking his jacket off, shrugging his sleeves off, then folding it. “I’ll be back”you smiled and took his jacket, probably to hang it up. You came back faster than he thought, he could only raise a brow. Undoing the buttons on his cuffs, he rolled his sleeves up, revealing both tattoos that decorated his forearms. He squeezed both fists, stretching them as his muscles flexed under his white shirt. “Why are you in a rush?” Finally asking, since you almost ran around. “You don’t remember?” He pondered, trying to remember what today was. “…our anniversary?” You hummed out a no, “a date?” “Not quite, a dinner with my parents?”

He swore he felt himself sigh on the inside, as big and bad as he was outside of the house, you scared him whenever you both were inside. He let let out a quick “oh!” And a small laugh, one that made you smile and feel warm on the inside. He watched as you shook your head, laughing along and turned to walk off. Before you could, he grabbed your arm. Making you face him, his hand reaching down to yours and bringing it up to his lips. Was this the kind and sweet lover he was looking for?

Now was his chance to actually express how much he needed you.

“There no way I deserve this” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. He tried to hint towards you, going the extra mile when he kissed down to your ring finger. He watched as your lips parted slightly, like you were going to say something, he pulled away slowly, keeping your hand in his as his other went to your hip, wanting to keep you closer.

Only then he realized, this is exactly what he wanted, “Makarov?” Your voice rang throughout his head, the kind that reminded him of distant wedding bells with a soft hum. He could almost feel it. The domestic life, one he never wanted but dreamed of, and now he had it.

The hand that held yours traced up your arm and onto the other “So beautiful” his head dipped down to your ear, whispering the words ever so lightly. He watched the man cry after his lover earlier, and now all he could think of was you. How we would tear the world apart instead of bringing it together. “If it’s not you, then it won’t do” he turned just a bit, to kiss the corner of your mouth, “my darling, I love you more than life itself,” he confessed. Both arms wrapped around you as you held his upper arms, shocked at his new found behavior.

You wanted to see where this was going, where he wanted to lead this, and how he played it out. “,and know that I would burn the world for you” he delivered a quick and loving kiss to your lips, you knew he meant it, but that wasn’t what you wanted. No, but it was definitely something to question later on. “I know, but where would you be if you did?” He smiled, seeing exactly what you were pointing out. “That’s an answer for a later doing, but for now. Let’s put on a show for your parents, shall we?”

———

Not the best since I came back, just a little warmup

Requests are open!

[havin-a-wee]

Appointment (Doctor's Orders Part 2)

read part 1 here

send me a request here

masterlist

pairing: gynecologist!harry x reader/doctor!harry x reader

word count: 4.7k

warnings: the filthiest of filth. like im serious this is basically pure smut.

its finally here! im in love with the way this turned out and i hope you guys are too! i got a few requests for this, and im actually really liking these two characters, so lemme know if you want me to make a series out of this!

Y/N's texts are in italics

Harry's texts are in bold

You felt like a kid in a candy store as you skipped out of the building, being welcomed by a setting sun. You weren’t just skipping out of excitement though, it was also because if you walked normally the shaking of your legs would be extremely noticeable. Luckily, when you arrived you had managed to find a parking spot nearby, so it didn’t take you long to make your way to the small black car that you recently purchased for yourself.

A small noise signaled when you unlocked the car, and you slipped into the driver’s seat quickly, shutting the door as you sat down.

You let yourself slouch, your back hitting the leather seat and a heavy exhale pushing through your flared nostrils. Finally, you had a moment to take in the events that just took place, and the excitement and nervousness flowed through your brain. Luckily, there was no regret swirled in with your feelings, although you were sure there wouldn’t be. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the ideal situation to have your first orgasm, but if this was how Harry would make his way into your life, you couldn’t complain. You closed your eyes and sighed, the post-orgasmic haze you’ve heard so much about finally settling in. In the darkness a smiling face appeared, and you grinned as well at the detailed picture of Harry your mind had concocted.

Suddenly, you sat up with a gasp, gripping the gear shift with your clammy hand. You had just remembered about the small piece of paper sitting in your pocket. The piece of paper with the number of the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen written on it. He had told you to text him when he got home, so obviously you had to get home as fast as possible.

Having been driving since you were 16, the motions were second nature, and the only thought you had to put into it was when you were checking to see if there was anyone in the way before you backed out of your parking spot.

Your apartment was only 10 minutes away, and you spent those 10 minutes half paying attention to the road, half thinking about the man that had his fingers inside of you. The thought in itself was causing arousal to pool in your already soiled panties. The expensive lingerie was undoubtedly going to end up in the trash, but you’d rather lose a pair of panties than lose a chance with Harry.

You pulled into your designated spot in the parking garage attached to your apartment building, and ran so quickly to the elevator that you almost tripped on your own feet. Thankfully the silver doors slid open without delay, and you swiftly stepped into the small area. Your manicured finger frantically pushed on the ‘door close’ button. The last thing you needed was someone walking into the elevator with you, seeing your bright red complexion and flushed features. Much to your relief, that didn’t happen, and the elevator lifted you up to the third floor. Objectively, the elevator was incredibly quick. However, in your needy state it felt so slow as if you were riding the shell of a turtle. The loud dinging pulled you back into reality, your mind wandering. You were thinking about what Harry’s hands felt like, and what they would feel like on the parts of your body that he hadn’t gotten to touch.

Yet.

You fumbled with your keys, attempting to grip your phone at the same time. After a bit of struggling, the rigged piece of metal slid into the slot on the doorknob, the door swinging open after you twisted the key. When you tried to remove the key from the lock, it stayed in place, pulling you backwards and almost making you fall.

You smiled at your own clumsiness, not focused enough to allow embarrassment to develop throughout you. Again jiggling the key, it slipped out of the lock and you quickly pushed the door closed using your back. You were left leaning up against the wooden door, flipping your phone screen to face you and sticking your hand in your pocket. You fished around in the small cavity, your fingers locating the small piece of paper that was making you so giddy. You punched the scribbled numbers into your contact app with haste.

Although you wanted to text him more than anything, you reasoned with yourself for a second. Instead of clicking at the keys on your screen, you picked your head up, disconnecting it from the bright touch screen in your hand.

Sucking in a deep breath, you turned back to the phone, satisfied with your attempt to calm yourself.

Hi Harry, it’s Y/N.

Instead of immediately going for something sexual, you wanted to start off the conversation normally. Also, there was the fact that you had no idea what he was actually looking for by giving you his number. His response came quicker than you could of ever expected, the typing bubble popping up seconds after the delivered sign appeared underneath your text.

Hi! I’m glad you actually texted me, because honestly I thought you wouldn’t.

Why would you think that? I would have to be pretty shitty to do something like that with you and then ditch.

I promise I don’t think you’re like that, it’s just the whole thing happened it slightly odd circumstances haha

It’s totally okay I get it, but I definitely don’t want that to be the only time something like that happens ;)

You were feeling bold, now sitting on your bed removing the heeled white boots you wore to match your outfit.

I’m glad you feel that way, because I feel the same. Just curious, when exactly would you want to do “something like that” again?

You giggled while reading his text, practically hearing the pauses of shyness that he would take if he said it in person.

As soon as you want to.

I’m sitting in my car right now about to go home, but I could make a pitstop if you asked politely..

Will you please come over and take care of me Daddy?

You cringed as soon as your finger hit the send button. Sexting was definitely not your forte, and in the heat of the moment you had forgotten that you hadn’t indulged in that kink with him the first time.

Who knew you could be so dirty love?

Send me your address. I'll be there asap.

You tapped away at the keys on your phone, sending him your information and you saw that he read it, but didn’t respond, clearly driving to you already.

Your panties were absolutely ruined at this point, and you made the decision to take them off, gliding the lacy white panties down your thighs and calves. When they fell on the floor, you picked your feet up to remove them from the leg holes, leaning over to pick up the panties with your hand. You wanted to show them to Harry, show him how messy he made you.

You clenched your thighs together, your core pulsing like a second heartbeat. A small whine slipped past your lips, and your eyes widened at your own actions. You had never been this aroused or needy in your life, and while these feelings were new, they weren’t scary like a lot of new feelings were for you. It was exciting, and just thinking about Harry rushing over to you because he wanted you so badly was sending fire through your veins. No one had ever wanted you so much, and you have never wanted someone this much. And it’s exhilarating.

After a painfully long time sitting on the edge of your bed anxiously, a loud knock on the door had you standing up in a flash, sauntering over to the door with unnatural speed. Your arousal began to drip down onto your thighs now that you were standing. The slickness between them had them sliding against one another, but the feeling was overshadowed by the rapid beating of your heart. You gripped the doorknob so tightly that your knuckles turned white, twisting your hand and pulling the door open.

“Ello love.”

He stood in the doorway with his hand resting on the top of the doorframe, towering over you. He had that sexy smirk plastered on his face and you ran your eyes up and down his figure, taking in the man before you. He was wearing a black t-shirt, which was loose but tight enough that his pecs were defined in the shirt. He had on a pair of black dress pants which the t-shirt was tucked into. There were tattoos littering his arms, which you hadn’t seen before because of the lab coat he wore during your appointment.

You thought he couldn’t get any hotter than before, but the person in front of you proved you wrong.

“Hi,” you murmured timidly, your boldness from the texting having disappeared. “Come in,” you stepped to the side, opening the door wider so he could step into your apartment. You closed the door, and against your better judgement you turned to the kitchen, trying to find that desperation that had allowed you to throw away all of your anxieties. “Do you want water or something?” You weren’t sure what to say, so you went with the default offer for a drink.

“No.”

You spun around, looking at Harry and tilting your head in confusion.

“I want you.”

He took a long stride forward and placed his large hand on the soft skin of your cheek, leaning in and connecting your lips with his. His lips were as soft as cloud, and you kissed him back with just as much vigor. The kiss was passionate, mixing moans into the drafty air. You sucked his bottom lip and bit down lightly, and a low growl bubbled up from his throat.

Your heart skipped a beat when his tongue swirled around yours. You jumped slightly at the impact of the wall on your back, Harry pushing you into the cold drywall.

Finally pulling away to allow breathing, you and Harry kept your foreheads pressing on each other, leaning some of his weight on you.

“Y’so beautiful darlin, reckon yeh the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

His hot breath hit your face when he breathed, and you were squirming underneath him.

“I could say the same for you,” you huffed out, refusing to break eye contact.

“Thank you baby,” he cooed, placing his veiny hand on your plump cheek and running his thumb across it. The tip of his finger reached your swollen lips, and he pushed his large thumb pass them. You eagerly sucked on the digit, hollowing your cheeks and treating it like you would his cock.

His free hand had found a home on your waist, but he hadn’t moved it since he initiated the kiss, and you were getting frustrated. You reached down and placed your hand atop his, looking up through your eyelashes into his emerald eyes. They’re piercing, and you knew that one stare from him would have any girl on her knees.

The tops of his cold rings touched your fingers when you peeled his hand from its strong grasp and your waist. You were looking at him with innocent doe eyes while you lifted his significantly larger hand and placed it back on your side, but this time at the same level as your breasts. He broke the deep eye contact you were sharing to look down at his hand, slowly shifting it to cup you through your thin tank top.

“M’baby girl is desperate fo me huh?” Harry teased you and you nodded frantically, whimpering in neediness. He pulled his finger from your wet mouth and in a split second he collided his lips with yours once again, but they didn’t remain there for long. He dragged his lips down your jaw, sucking and kissing down your neck. You tilted your head to give him better access, moaning when he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot.

His hand that you had moved was pulling and squeezing at your full breast, eventually rucking your tank top up to pinch at your budding nipple underneath. You had removed your bra when you got home, and a small smirk tugged at your face when he moaned at the realization. A sheen of sweat was glistening on his forehead and you lifted your arms straight in the air, giving him permission to remove your top. He pulled it over your head hastily, only breaking the kiss for a moment when the fabric covered your face. You didn’t see what he did with the top, your focus diverted to the feeling of his lower torso. You had removed the hem of his shirt from underneath his pants, only leaving the back part tucked because you couldn’t reach it.

You splayed your hands over his hardened abs, and he snaked his arm around your waist and pulled you closer in response. His head was buried in the crook of your neck, leaving hickey after hickey on the silky skin. He nipped and licked at your skin as if you were a popsicle, sweet and refreshing.

“Daddy, please -- off!” Your moans cut off your words, rendering you unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Y’want me to take my shirt off baby? Such a naughty little minx y’are.”

Despite his teasing, he pulled away from you to grab the bottom of his shirt and ripped it off in one fell swoop.

You barely had time to take in the tattoos on his chest, only being able to identify a large butterfly right in the middle before he looped his arms around your waist. “Jump.” His command was quiet, but you heard it perfectly clear.

You bent your knees and jumped up, his arms following your motions. You lifted your legs and wrapped them around his bare torso. You hugged him tightly, your arms wrapping around his neck and sinking your face into his soft brown curls. His hair smelled of expensive shampoo, and you indulged in the sweet scent. “Behind you,” you whispered, directing him to your bedroom.

Without a second of hesitation, he turned around and carried you to the bedroom. You took it upon yourself to place sloppy kisses on his neck, giving him the same hickeys he had given you.

You giggled when he bent over the bed, dropping you from about an inch off the red comforter covering your bed.

“Don’t know why y’laughin’ pet, cause m’about to fuck yeh till yeh can’t walk.” You gasped when the dirty words registered in your head, and he sported a shit-eating grin on his face. His hands grasped your thighs and he ran them up and down, getting dangerously close to your core. You were writhing under his grasp, pleas for him to do something tumbling out of your mouth. “Patience baby.” He didn’t look up at you when he spoke, instead hiking your skirt up to get a look at your sopping cunt. “Look at you, s’wet already and I’ve barely touched you.”

“All for you, only for you Daddy.” Your words were wailed, every muscle in your body aching for a release. He traced his warm fingers along the crease of your thigh, right next to the place you needed him most.

“Gonna let me have a taste baby? Wanna taste yeh so bad.” He finally looked back up at you, but only for a second before his eyes connected with your glistening pussy again.

“N-no.”

Although you greatly wanted him to put his mouth on you, there was one thing you were craving more.

“No?” His demeanor changed immediately, removing his hands from your body and sitting on his knees between your calves. He removed every source of physical contact you were sharing, and you realized that he took your words in a way you hadn’t intended.

“Still want you Daddy, just want something else.” The second part of your sentence was murmured, and you turned your head to face away from him out of embarrassment. Out of your peripheral vision, you could see him raise an eyebrow, placing his hands by your shoulders and returning to his place hovering above you.

“Look at me little girl. Y’sure yeh don’t want me to taste yeh?”

You followed his command after a beat, looking at his disheveled state.

“What do yeh want baby? M’feelin generous today.” He was speaking in pants, his curls sticking to the perspiration-slick surface of his forehead.

“Wanna taste you Daddy. Please lemme-”

You reached down to unbuckle his belt, but he caught your hand before you could.

“Thas’ what this is all about? Such a slut f’me that you’d rather taste me then lemme taste you?” His hand moved to caress your cheek, running his finger across your saliva coated lip.

“Yes, wanna suck you off so bad Daddy.” You pushed out your lip forming an adorable pout, giving him your best puppy eyes and making sure he saw the tears of desperation welling in your lust blown eyes.

“Alright, alright, how do yeh wanna do it baby?” Instead of responding, you grasped the back of his firm thighs, pulling him up towards your face. He got the hint, shifting his knees to sit by your chest. You were now face to face with his very prominent bulge, and your mouth watered at the sight. Even though you wanted to unbuckle his belt yourself, he did it for you, allowing his rock hard erection to spring free after rolling down his boxers.

He stroked himself a few times, and you lifted your head to try and get him in your mouth. He pushed your shoulder down, and made it clear that he wanted to be in control. Finally, after much anticipation he placed his cock on the tip of your tongue, which you had stuck out for him to do exactly that.

You accepted it eagerly, sucking harshing on the tip of his cock. He moaned lowly, tilting his head backwards in ecstasy. You ran your tongue along his sensitive slit, reveling in the filthy noises and expletives that spilled out of his sweet pink lips.

Once you were satisfied with your teasing, you took him in your mouth about halfway, stopping before you gagged. Your hand made its way to the base of his thick shaft, pumping the part of him that you couldn’t fit in your mouth. You bobbed your head up and down his cock, your tongue twisting and twirling around his member. You made sure to pay extra attention to his tip, giving it kitten licks when you needed to take a breather. Each time you took him back in your mouth, you pushed yourself further down, this time gagging after pushing him all the way down your throat. He stopped his groans of pleasure to look down at you, and he swore he could cum from just seeing you under him with smeared mascara and teary eyes. “Y’ok baby?” You nodded with him still in your mouth. You stilled for a moment, trying to think of a way to tell him that you wanted him to fuck your mouth. His hand was holding your hair out of your face as a makeshift hair tie, and you decided to tap on the wrist of that hand to give him permission. He looked down at you and raised his eyebrows, a silent gesture to assure you were okay with it. You nodded, his cock moving up and down with your head. He didn’t need any more instructions, pushing your head down on his shaft instantly.

You choked and gagged as he took control, moving your head up and down his thick cock. “Doin’ so well f’me baby, taking m’cock like a good little slut.” His purrs of approval were raspy, moan and gasps chopping his sentence up. Periodically, he pulled you off of him, allowing you to catch your breath before plunging back down on his member again.

The sudden pulsing of his cock inside your mouth was a wordless praise, and you were incredibly proud that you were able to bring him to his orgasm as quickly as you did.

He pulled you off of him again, and you heaved a few times as you filled your lungs back up with oxygen. But unlike before, he didn’t bring you back onto his cock, even pulling you back when you attempted to put him back in your mouth yourself. You cried out when he repositioned himself between your legs, back in the place he was when you were first on the bed.

All you wanted to do was finish him off, but he wouldn’t let you for a reason that was unknown to you.

“Daddy!” You were about to beg and whine to finish him off but his index finger on your lips kept you from your begging.

“As much as I’d love t’watch yeh swallow m’cum, I need t’feel this gorgeous cunt of yours.”

You quivered when the bands of his icy cold rings gripped the warm, supple flesh of your inner thighs. They dug into your skin, sending a pleasurable tingling sensation throughout your body, landing in your core.

If you were horny before, there wasn’t even a word to describe how utterly turned on you were now.

Your skirt was already hiked up from before, but Harry wanted it off fully. He ran his fingers across the waistband, finally finding the zipper and unzipping it faster than you could blink. “Bloody hell baby,” he grunted, taking a moment to admire your fully naked body squirming under him, begging for him to touch you. He wished he had a camera to capture you in this state, only thinking about one thing, him.

He stood up, his feet barely hitting the floor before he yanked his pants and boxers off. He was huge, and you stared at his prick in awe, even though you’ve been looking at it. His size was truly difficult to take in, because usually a big cock is either long or thick, not both. But Harry was both and some, and you were convinced that you would be content sucking on it for the rest of your life.

Distracted by your own dirty thoughts, you weren’t paying attention to what Harry was doing, only being shocked out of your haze when he ran two of his fingers across your sticky folds. He pulled his fingers away as your body jolted, surprised by the sudden contact. Strings of your arousal connected your cunt to his fingers, and he cursed under his breath. His fingers were covered in your juices and he stuck the digits in his mouth, sucking happily when he finally got to taste your sweet, sweet nectar.

He hummed constantly when he took the fingers out of his mouth. “Taste even sweeter than I imagined, baby. Could eat y’up all day long.”

You mewled and kicked your legs, tired of all of the teasing. “Daddy... just want you inside me!” He hushed you and reassured you that he would take care of you, leaning over your body and positioning himself on top of you. He lined himself up with you, his tip bumping your puffy clit. You whimpered and Harry took the message, finally pushing his rock hard cock into your soaking wet core.

“Fuck -- Daddy you’re s-so big,” you whined. He tilted forward, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

It took a minute for him to bottom out, Harry pushing in slowly to minimize the sting. There was a bit of pain as your body conformed to fit him inside of your tight little hole.

“Fuck baby, y’so fucking tight, might come just from this.” He had a silly smile on his face, but you both knew there was no joke laced between his words. He latched his darkened lips on an indent by your collar bone, nipping and licking on the skin while he waited for the approval to move.

“Move. Please move.”

The first thrust was hard and fast, he pulled almost fully out of you and then slammed him hips back up into you.

“Shit!”

Just like when you had him in your mouth, you could feel the thick veins running along his sizable shaft. He repeated the same type of movement for the next few thrusts, pounding into you and drawing back out over and over.

“So,” “Fuckin,” “Beautiful,”

Each of his words preceded a snapping of his hips, slamming into you particularly hard after calling you beautiful.

“Feels- feels so good, so good Daddy.” You were sobbing with pleasure. His thick cock filled you up so good it was like he was made for you.

“Didn’t even think it was possible f’someone t’be this tight baby. You’re takin’ meh so well sweet girl, so so well.” He found a rhythm, snapping his hips into yours, your velvety walls engulfing his cock perfectly. Watching himself disappear inside your tight hole egged Harry on even more, as well as the noises that your juices made when he rammed himself inside your pretty little cunt. His thumb was pressed against your clit, circling the overly sensitive bundle of nerves. Pleasure was coursing through your veins, the firey burning feeling better than anything you had ever felt before.

Your hands were spread across his back, nails digging crescent shaped divots into the skin. Each time your fingers dug into the expanse of his back he growled, so you did it after each thrust. His lips were everywhere, kissing and licking all of the exposed skin that he could reach.

“Daddy..”

He took your pebbled nibble into his mouth, unable to resist after watching your tits bounce when he pushed himself in and out of you.

“So good baby, s’like y’were made fo me,” he cooed, your reply dying in your throat when he pressed his lips to yours.

You bit each other’s lips and swirled tongues like you had done at the beginning of the night. After a minute of rough kisses, he pulled away, and you both gasped for air. You could tell his thrusts were getting sloppier, and his cock twitched inside of you like it had when you took him in your mouth.

“Was made for you, just you.”

“Thas’ my good girl.”

His hand instinctively reached for your throat, and you watched his cheek heat up when he realized what he had done. But you grabbed his hand and placed it back on your throat. “Please,” you croaked out, desperate for him to choke you and make you see stars.

He smirked and obliged, pressing on the sides of your throat but avoiding your windpipe. Euphoria overtook your body at the new found sensation and the knot that had formed in your stomach was threatening to come loose. The tightness in your stomach translated to your center, and you clenched tightly around Harry.

“Y’gonna come? Can feel y’squeezin me love, lets come together yeah?” You gave him a tiny nod of agreement, too weak from your impending orgasm to give him a better response. “Let go f’me baby.”

The knot in your stomach uncoiled rapidly, bursting inside of you and sending shudders throughout every inch of your body. Seconds later Harry released inside of you, his hot ropes of cum painting your walls. Your eyesight got blurry and white spots clouded your vision as Harry worked you both through your climaxes. You thought the orgasm he gave you at your appointment was strong, but this one sent you to another plane of reality.

His movements slowed and he removed his thumb from your swollen button, which you were thankful for due to your hypersensitivity.

When you finally came back to reality, Harry was above you, pulling himself out of you. You placed your hand on his cheek, diverting his green eyes to look at yours. “Stay in, please?” He simply nodded, pushing back into you fully. He was already hardening again, but who could blame him? Your face alone was enough to get him rock hard and leaking precome.

He rolled you two to your sides, cuddling into each other’s bare chests. You shared no more words, both of you drifting off to a blissful sleep within minutes. But you didn’t need to ask him to know that this was the first time you slept together, but most definitely not the last.

[wasabito]

➽ corruption collab masterlist — hosted by @ultimate-astridwriting and @bummie ♥️

➽ note: definitely gonna come back and edit this a bit more because threesomes are hard as fuck, no pun intended lmao happy v-day everyone!

➽ word count: 3.2k

➽ cw/tags: polyamory + body worship + threesome + praise kink + public sex + choking + handjobs/fingering + vaginal sex + squirting + established relationship

➽ pairing: akaashi x fem!reader x bokuto

💿 1. nasty — ariana grande || 2. come on — jhene aiko

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, it becomes rather apparent that love and romance are in the air. Storefronts are decorated in bubblegum pinks and reds. Flower shops promote their special bouquet arrangements at discounted prices. Even your favorite hole in the wall coffee shop has fallen prey to the spirit of cupid as they announce their new strawberry shortcake dessert and heart-shaped scones.

In lieu of staying home for the third night this week, your boyfriends escort you to dinner at an upscale restaurant in the city. They treat you to a five-course meal and a bottle of wine even pricier than the dinner itself. One would think, after three years of dating, you would no longer be caught unawares by their spontaneity. And yet, here they are, once again pulling the rug from underneath your four-inch heels.

Your gaze flickers from Akaashi's tranquil smile to Bokuto's wide grin.

Adjusting the napkin in your lap, you open your mouth to speak, then pause as the right words fail it come. Brain short-circuiting instead, you let out a confused, "Huh?!"

"We're taking you to Italy!" Bokuto repeats, about ready to hop out of his seat with excitement. He looks to Akaashi, "Three nights in Venice, right 'Kaashi?"

"Yes, we decided on Venice after you told us you'd always wanted to visit. Remember Koutarou's birthday last year?"

"But that was like months ago! Did you two honestly hold onto that drunk little confession this entire time?"

"Of course."

"Yup!!"

It's in moments like these when you are reminded of their history together, first as teammates playing volleyball, and eventually close friends. Not much longer after that, you'd met and fallen for Akaashi, then Bokuto, and thus began the relationship of today. While you find it a little ridiculous, it seems neither of them has any qualms about this trip.

After all, you are their lovely girlfriend. Why wouldn't they want to make your wishes come true?

Bokuto claps his hands, eyes sparkling. "Everything's already planned out, babe, so don't worry your pretty little head, okay?"

You can't argue with that. Reaching over, you take Bokuto's hand in your right and Akaashi's in your left. "Alright, since you two went to all this trouble for me, I guess I'll just sit back and enjoy it."

♥️

Venice is just as beautiful as you imagined.

It looks as if it's floating upon blue-green waters with lots of sunshine, beautiful architecture, and a vibrancy that makes it feel like the city has a life of its own. You are grateful you didn't come by yourself. There is no way you would've enjoyed it without Akaashi and Bokuto at your side.

"We're about a ten-minute walk from Piazza San Marco," Akaashi says as he taps his glasses. His sharp gaze is locked on the map in his hands, likely committing most landmarks and details to memory. "Would you like to check it out?"

"Yeah! Let's do it."

"Off we go, go, go!"

Thus, a majority of your first day in Venice is spent sightseeing.

The three of you take a gondola ride through Canale Grande, then have a peek into the Gallerie Dell'Accademia at Akaashi's insistence, though naturally, you wouldn't have come all the way to Italy and not visited at least one art museum. Afterward, the three of you go to the Le Mercerie shopping district and buy gifts for your friends before finally taking a pit stop for the most delicious gelato in the city.

The sunsets sooner than expected, casting the entire block in deep red hues. Bokuto's mood is greatly influenced by it, and the jetlag certainly doesn't help. He props himself against you, nuzzling you in a way that says he's itching for a kiss.

"Tired, Kou?"

Bokuto hums. "A little... More hungry than anything."

He leans in and pecks your lips with a sated smile. "Maybe I should eat you. I mean, how is it my girl's so damn cute? Not fair, I can't resist."

You snort at Bo's silliness but can't help shivering a little at the tiny implication of his words. He always did like to lay his head on your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses and love bites where he could.

So, the thought of him eating you out made you squeeze your thighs together.

Akaashi approaches with your frozen treats held between his long fingers; having overheard Bokuto earlier, he tucks his wallet back into his pocket.

"We'll get some dinner after we drop off these shopping bags. How does that sound?"

You eagerly take your gelato from him with a smile.

"Sounds like a plan."

Akaashi nods, standing at your other side, close enough to brush elbows though not as close as Bokuto, who was nearly hovering.

The three of you are in one of the narrow, maze-like streetways, basking in the warm, early evening glow. The sweet taste of fruit and cream on your tongue fills you with so much contentment, especially while being with your favorite people. You aren't sure if anything could top the way you currently felt, and the trip has just barely started.

Upon arriving at your temporary place of residence, a quaint little villa on the waterfront just along the shore of Punta Sabbioni Beach, Bokuto immediately kicks off his sandals, dumps the bags, and promptly falls asleep on the couch.

"It's so weird seeing Kou like this." You remark. "On any normal day, he's brimming with almost too much energy, but now he's all tired."

"Well, he did stay up an entire twelve hours on the plane. It was only a matter of time before fatigue caught up to him." Akaashi picks up Bokuto's shoes with practiced ease and places them by the others.

There is a fond smile running along the edges of his mouth as he tucks a throw around the man's larger frame. You help him adjust a spare pillow under Bo's head and then set off to explore the rest of the area.

It seemed like everything about Venice was taken straight out of a romance film, with its cobblestone paths, gothic cathedral architecture, crisp ocean waters, and authentic Italian cuisine. It is no wonder the city's known to draw hapless souls together in romance. Even you fell subject to it, and by each passing moment, you crave to be with your boyfriends.

You are standing at the balcony overlooking the beach, satisfied with your inspection of the villa when Akaashi comes to stand behind you. He holds onto the railings, caging you in his arms, and rests his chin on your shoulder.

"He was right, you know." He murmurs. "You do look good enough to eat."

Blunt as ever. Apparently, something's never change.

Though one might say that Akaashi is as he's always been after high school and college, there is no denying his boost in confidence. After all, he had landed not one but two rather attractive partners.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, before latching onto your neck.

The sun's scenic view on the horizon, reflecting upon the beach sands of gold and shimmering orange waves, makes for an excellent backdrop.

You turn to face Akaashi and pull him into a heated kiss. His lips convey a sense of devotion to you, and with each press of them against yours, you can feel just how bad he's yearning for more.

"Kei," you whisper. "Let's go inside."

In a moment, Akaashi whisks you off your feet quite similar to how Bokuto would, though you both don't even make it to the bedroom.

Your other partner had sat up on the sofa, hair flat on one side, scrubbing his eyelids.

"Guys, I'm freaking starving!" Bokuto groans. "Let's get some food or something."

He doesn't even notice how you and Akaashi are breathing heavy or how your clothes are sporting wrinkles that were not previously there. Regardless, Akaashi has food delivered while you went ahead to shower the day's journey away. There are still two days left. You'd get your chance with them at some point.

♥️

Sadly, the entirety of day two is spent indoors. Heavy sheets of rain continue to fall, muddying the shoreline. The three of you huddle on the sofa wrapped in blankets with subtitled movies playing in the background.

Even though you would've much rather been out exploring in the city, just sharing in your boyfriend's warmth would suffice for now. Akaashi hands you a steaming cup of something rich in both color and smell.

"What's this?"

"Just espresso." He takes the empty seat beside you.

You savor the taste while leaning against his shoulder. "Mm, nice."

Bokuto keeps his head on your lap, loving how you thread your fingers into his hair.

It is a tranquil kind of peace that soon lulls you to sleep.

Later, when you finally wake up, it's dark, and you're alone. A blanket had been tucked around your shoulders to shield you from the sudden chill. At some point, the television had been shut off along with every light in the room. You might've been a little scared if not for the voices coming from the second floor. Slowly, you creep up the winding staircase, dragging along the blanket around your shoulders.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Bokuto chuckles. "You're finally up!"

His hair is down, wet from his shower, and he holds a thin towel together around his waist. In his hand is a cellphone, and he doesn't hesitate to shove the screen into your face. "Say hi, Tetsu!"

"Hi Y/N, how's it going?"

You blink slowly, still trying to wake yourself up.

"Kuroo, hey… I'm well. How are you?"

"Great, just about to head out for a late lunch. I hear it's almost ten pm over there."

"Yeah, it's an eight-hour time difference."

You and Kuroo continue to chat while Bokuto towels off his hair and puts on clothes. Afterward, you let Bokuto resume his conversation and join Akaashi on the bed. The man had gone full editor-mode with his glasses propped up in his hair as he read through some work documents.

When you approach, he greets you with a kiss on the cheek. "You look well-rested."

"Is that your way of telling me I have drool on my cheek, Keiji?"

He cracks a tiny smile, eyes taking in your features, then he pokes your cheek with his index finger. "Perhaps."

You scrub the corners of your mouth with your sleeve and drape yourself over Akaashi, work be damned. This was supposed to be a special weekend for relaxing.

"I really wanted to go to the beach today." You pout.

Akaashi interlocks his fingers with yours. "Maybe we still can. It stopped raining a few hours ago."

"Really?!"

You hop off the bed and head for the window. He's right, the rain had long stopped, and the beach lay bare, lit by only the moonlight.

Maybe a short walk to the beach would do you some good.

♥️

The grains of sand feel cold against your feet without the sun to beat down on them, but you don't complain. The air is humid enough on its own that you forgo wearing actual clothes and instead wear a swimsuit along with Bokuto's old Fukurōdani windbreaker.

You walk along the shore, toes digging into the sand, letting the ocean waves lap at your feet to wash them clean again.

At first, it's so eerily quiet without a soul around except you, but even that doesn't last long. You hear Bokuto's voice bellow into the night as he jogs towards you in nothing but swim trunks. Behind him, Akaashi trails slowly after with a blanket in hand.

"We thought you might want some company." He says and spreads the cover on the sand several feet away from the water, content with just watching.

Bokuto grabs your hand and you go running to the water with him, but a second later, you both come sprinting back.

"It's freezing!"

"S-So co-co-cold!"

You collapse on top of him, fingers splayed across his bare chest. However, when you try to sit up, Bokuto has other plans. He keeps you pressed to his chest with both arms around your waist.

"Let me keep you warm, baby!"

You know he meant it in the most innocent way, but you can't help but think other thoughts. Your nerves fray at the image that blooms in your head and spreads like wildfire.

And as Akaashi strokes your back, you know he's probably read your mind.

It's the way your eyes seem to glitter with want that gives it away. Akaashi has always been rather observant, and so your silent cues are something he's always been privy to.

His nimble fingers curve around the nape of your neck, and he tilts his head to capture your lips in a kiss. This one is unlike the one from yesterday. There is no rush, no desire to quicken his haste; instead, he savors the taste of you like it's something to be thoroughly enjoyed.

Underneath you, Bokuto stirs, growing aroused at the sight of his two lovers' kiss. He can't decide whether he wants to join in or sit back and watch. But his large hand comes down to stroke your ass, resulting in a moan you breathe directly into Akaashi's mouth.

"You're not usually so forthcoming, Keiji," you whisper against his lips. "Eager, are we?"

Akaashi pulls away just enough to pepper your face in feathery kisses. "Can you blame me? When I have such a lovely girlfriend here."

As if confirming his words, he slips a hand under your jacket and cups your breast. The pads of his thumb brush along the seams of your bathing suit, caressing your nipple.

"Kou, let's show Y/N just how much we love her, yes?"

Bokuto didn't need to be told twice. He had been in entranced by you and Akaashi, completely taken by the way your lips danced upon one another. But now, he wanted more than anything to touch you, kiss you, hold you.

Bokuto cradles you in his lap, propping your legs open with his knees so Akaashi can kneel in front of you. It didn't take much for him to relieve you of your clothing, namely your swimming bottoms. But the second the air hits your bare cunt, you feel tense.

You aren't sure what it was, but the atmosphere is different. Both Akaashi and Bokuto are so focused on you, it feels like you're under a spotlight.

"You're so pretty, so beautiful," Bokuto says while squeezing your thighs. His warm breath tickles your ear as he presses his nose into your neck. Next, his lips follow suit. "Wanna fuck you, so bad baby. You'd like that, right?"

His words earn him a chuckle from Akaashi, who merely licks two of his fingers, wetting them and sliding into you. Your mouth parts, shaky breaths barely expelled from your lungs. You're hyper-aware of the fact that you're literally being fingered on a beach in the middle of the night, and you can't bring yourself to care. It feels good to be pampered by the two men you love.

For every moan, Akaashi gives you double for your efforts, thrusting his fingers just right, curving them in such a way that has your back arching off Bokuto, who has also taken to fondling your nipples. With every roll of his hips, you feel his cock against your ass, and it pushes you further into Akaashi's fingers.

Your impending orgasm sweeps by so close and yet so far away. All you can do is rock yourself faster.

"Please," you whimper. "W-Wanna come."

Akaashi crooks his fingers, pressing into the perfect spot that sends you hurtling over the edge. Your cunt spasms around his fingers, clenching in intervals you have no control over until his hand is coated with your wet, slick juices that keep coming the more you squirt all over him.

"She's so wet 'Kaashi. Look at our pretty girl."

Akaashi places a chaste kiss on your forehead with a smile.

"She's doing well, so far. Let's see if she can keep going."

Bokuto shimmies his shorts off enough to free his hard cock. He had been uncharacteristically patient until now, but that was soon to change as he lines himself up with your cunt, teasing you with just the tip.

Your whining is unintelligible, but both men understand you more or less.

"Give the pretty girl what she wants," Akaashi says. He strokes his own hard-on at the sight of Bokuto's pushing past your wet folds. "I know she can take more than that."

Bokuto has always been girthy, and it takes you more than a few seconds to adjust to his size, but when you finally do, it feels like heaven.

The position you're in gives Bokuto all the power to thrust into you like a ragdoll. But it's only when you make eye contact with Akaashi that you realize that it's, in fact, the other way around for him in particular. From where he sits, stroking his cock with flushed cheeks and choked moans, you see just how much control you have over him.

"Kiss me." You moan.

Akaashi doesn't let you repeat yourself. He kisses you long and hard even as you grip his throat with one hand and his hair with the other. He kisses you until his lips are red and bruised.

"Good boy. Both of y-you."

Bokuto groans loudly. "Say it again. Keep saying it!"

"Y-You're both so good. I-" your hips stutter against Akaashi's fingers that are rubbing circles into your clit. "Good, so good-"

That's all it takes to take Bokuto over the edge, blowing his load. "Perfect, so fucking perfect."

You can feel another orgasm swelling up inside your belly. You try to tell them but can't, too overcome by the feeling of your body tingling with desire. It's too much, overwhelmingly so; your vision blurs with unshed tears as Bokuto continues to pound into sopping pussy. Pleasure floods every fiber of your being until you're limp and every nerve in your body is set alight.

Bokuto slips out of you easily, a string of his semen following.

You can only look on in a drowsy haze as Bokuto leans over and kisses you and then Akaashi, working him over with a tight fist.

♥️

The following morning, you’re the first to wake, but only because there’s a limb jammed into your back and a heavy weight on your chest. It takes you a moment to realize, but it’s Bokuto’s elbow poking you and Akaashi’s head resting on you.

All three of you are a tangle of limbs in bed, but you aren’t sure how you’d gotten there.

“G’mornin’” Bokuto breathes. His lips caress the column of your neck.

“Morning.”

You shift into a more comfortable position. Though doing so presses Akaashi’s morning wood against your thigh.

“Keiji, you awake yet?”

“Mmm barely.” Akaashi looks up at you through his lashes, then smiles and nuzzles closer into your chest.

Bokuto, content with being your big spoon, reaches over to touch Akaashi, hands cupping his cheek. “It’s Valentine’s Day!”

“That’s true, should we do something special.”

Thinking about the previous night, you feel desire stirring in your gut. “Could we just... do it again?”

Both men look to each other then back at you, sporting matching smiles.

“Why not?”

[hercleverboy]

persistence

spencer reid x reader

summary ↠ when spencer finds out that the reader has a stalker, he is determined to not let history repeat itself. 

category ↠ angst/fluff

warnings/includes ↠ stalker-like activity, death threats, few swear words, descriptions of blood, puking, spencer being kinda emotionally manipulative

word count ↠   8.2k

“Normality is a paved road. It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow.”-- Vincent Van Gogh

Y/N stared down at the letter in her hands.  Her fingers trembled, tears blurring her vision as she reread the words over and over.  Written in an ominous red ink, a chicken-scratch-like writing filled the page. 

‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’

*

It had all started two months ago. 

First, it was the dark blue Sedan that she began noticing sat across the street from her apartment complex. Of course it easily could’ve belonged to one of the many people who lived in the complex, or perhaps even a friend of theirs. At first, it went unnoticed by her. It was only when she started taking note of the hours it was parked there that she began to get slightly concerned. 

8am to 8pm. Every single day. 

Like clockwork. 

She’d peak through her living room curtains at 8am, and watch the car pull into its usual spot. It wouldn’t move all day but as soon as it struck 8pm, it left again- only to return the next day. 

However, ever the sceptic, she didn’t want to blow the situation out of proportion. Her mind came up with countless possibilities. The owner was staying with a friend who lived close by (but then why would the car not be there overnight?), or perhaps it was an plain-clothed officer doing some form of undercover work? Honestly, there was nothing she hadn’t considered. So while the presence of the unexplainable car was a little unnerving, it wasn’t enough to make her paranoid. 

The paranoia began when sheets of paper began being posted through her letterbox. They always came between the times that the blue car was parked outside, and had only a few words on each one that was delivered. 

‘I’ve been watching you, you know.’ 

‘You’re so beautiful.’ 

‘That boyfriend of yours, does he hold you like I did?’

‘Does he touch you like I did?’

Whilst they weren’t exactly threats, they were enough to set her skin alight. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, jumpy and paranoid. 

Spencer noticed it, too. 

He’d seen the subtle change in his girlfriend’s body language, but didn’t want to push her on the matter. He had asked once, but she’d reassured him that she was fine. So he decided that he’d let her confide in him when she was ready, but that didn’t mean that this change in behaviour didn’t make his heart ache. 

He was a profiler, one of the best, he knew the behavioural tells that signalled fear. 

So what was she so afraid of?

Then the phone calls started. 

Y/N heard the buzz of her phone, assuming it was Spencer calling. He was out of state on a case, but he always called to check up on her, or to notify her he was almost home. Although they didn’t live together yet, Spencer spent most of his spare time at her apartment. (He’d joked once that it was because her place was bigger than his, but really it was because his work took him away from her so often that he wanted to spend any spare minute he could with her.)

Reaching for the device, she frowned as she saw ‘Unknown Number’ flash across the screen. 

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

and then she heard it. 

Heavy, husky breathing on the other end of the line. 

The caller didn’t speak. 

Unease filled her as she pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. She placed her phone down beside her, biting down on her bottom lip as she attempted to rationalise what’d just happened. 

Probably a butt dial, or maybe even a wrong number? 

She pushed it to the back of her mind, distracting herself so that she wouldn’t have to confirm what she already knew was true. 

The second call came two days later. 

Spencer had returned earlier that day from an exhausting but overall successful case. He hadn’t even stopped by his place after landing, instead opting to go straight to Y/N’s apartment, unable to contain his excitement of seeing her for the first time in a week. 

He let himself in with the key she’d given him for their one year anniversary, as he quietly made his way into the home. He called out her name, announcing his presence so she’d know he was home.

When she didn’t come to greet him in the hallway, or even call back to let him know she’d heard him he frowned. He slipped off his shoes before moving down the hallway, his eyes finally landing on her figure in the living room. She was stood by the large window that overlooked the street below them, her phone pressed to her ear. Spencer took in her body language, noting how her shoulders were tensed, and how the hand not holding her phone was gripping tightly onto the curtains as she peaked between them. 

The unknown caller hung up, and Y/N looked down at her phone in her hand, eyes welling with tears- still unaware of Spencer’s presence behind her.  

“Y/N?” He asked quietly, trying not to startle her but still managing to. 

She shrieked, turning around to face him, relief filling her features as she saw the familiar sight of her boyfriend. She forced a smile on her lips and pushed her worries away, wiping the tears from her cheeks quickly and hoping he hadn’t already seen them. “Spence! God, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you were home.” She chuckled. 

His frown only deepened as he moved toward her. “Is everything okay? Who was that on the phone?” 

Y/N’s breath hitched as she quickly came up with an excuse. “Oh, It was no-one.” She waved it off, hoping she’d played it off well enough to ease his worry. 

Once he reached her he put his arms around her, enveloping her in a tight hug, his arms around her waist. She sighed, hugging him back with her arms around his neck. 

He nuzzled his face into her neck, placing a kiss there that was so soft and delicate that it almost moved her to tears. “You know you can tell me anything, right? If something’s bothering you or worrying you then you don’t have to keep it to yourself. I’m here.” He whispered. 

“I know.” She whispered back, squeezing him gently to comfort herself. “Thank you.” 

Truth is, she knew she could tell Spencer what was happening. She knew that he would immediately inform his team, and with their wonderful minds and Garcia’s infinite systems, they’d have their unsub within days. So what was stopping her?

or more specifically, who was stopping her?

The answer would be Maeve, the woman that Spencer once loved, who he lost so suddenly and so tragically. She’d heard what had happened, and had comforted Spencer when he cried as he told her of the only other woman he’d ever loved, apart from Y/N. He’d confided in her about Maeve around four months into their relationship, and Y/N was grateful that Spencer trusted her enough to tell her such a thing. Losing the person you loved like that? Y/N couldn’t fathom it. Her heart ached for Spencer, and the heartbreak he’d endured.

She didn’t want to worry him over what might be nothing. After what happened with Maeve, she didn’t want to make him suffer all that again, to make him think that it was all happening again. She never wanted to be the reason for his hurt, and she knew that telling him is exactly what it would do- make him anxious, worried. She knew her boyfriend like the back of her hand. He’d go into overdrive trying to protect her, to prevent what happened to Maeve from happening to her. But still, she refused to be the one that set those events into motion. She knew it was stupid, he boyfriend was in the FBI- who are exactly the type of people you’d go to if you had a stalker. 

She had tried to tell him a few times but when she opened her mouth to say the words, nothing would come out. 

The final straw was the letters. 

The first one was pushed through her letterbox on a Friday afternoon. Spencer was at work, thankfully only on a paperwork day instead of being called for a case. There was no name or address on the front of the letter. 

She felt sick. Immediately she knew it was from him. At least she presumed it was a ‘he’, from the possessive tone of voice in the notes. 

She ripped it open, taking out the letter. It was a single sheet of paper, both sides filled with that chicken scratch writing. Her eyes skimmed over the words written before her, tears blurring her vision. It was a love letter. Her stalker even gave her a nickname, ‘Dove’. 

‘My darling dove, you were made for me.’

‘My love for you knows no bounds.’

‘You’ve got such a beautiful laugh, I’ve heard it.’

‘And your skin, so perfect, so soft looking. I’d love to run my fingers along your-’

Y/N let the letter drop to the floor as she felt the bile rise in her throat, dashing to the bathroom and throwing up her stomach contents in the toilet. 

She felt sickened. She couldn’t bring herself to read what was left of the letter, instead screwing it up and throwing it away. The words she had read haunted her, made her feel disgusting. She spent hours in the shower that night, as though she was scrubbing his filthy words off of her skin. 

The letters continued, and with each one, the comments became more and more repulsive. Instead of declaring his undying love for her, her stalker began to get enraged. With each letter he became increasingly angrier, and it shook Y/N to her core. 

‘You whore, I could hear your moaning for that little boyfriend of yours from across the street’

‘When I get my hands on you, you’ll be begging for me to show you mercy’

‘I’ve protected you, watched over you! I’ve taken care of you for months now and this is how you repay me?’

‘Fucking dirty slut. I’ll kill you for that.’

‘What a shame it would be for that pretty flesh to be torn so carelessly, but it seems I’ll have to teach you a lesson, dove.’

‘You’ve made a mistake, choosing him over me.’

All of those led to one final letter. 

Written in red ink, eight simple words with a sinister underlying message. 

‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’

*

Dropping the paper as though it had burned her, she desperately tried to slow the breaths that were increasing rapidly, willing the air to fill her lungs. 

The realisation hit her like a freight train. 

She was in danger, real danger. Now that her life had been threatened, she knew she couldn’t hide it any longer. 

No matter the consequences, she had to come clean to Spencer. 

She scrambled around her apartment, grabbing any evidence she had in the form of letters/threats and made sure she had her phone so she could show them the phone calls from an unknown number. 

She glanced out the window to the street below. It was only midday, and she could see the familiar blue Sedan parked opposite her complex. She just had to get to her car safely, which should be a relatively easy task, given the numerous people who were walking down the bustling street- the perks of living on a main road. 

She made it to her car thankfully unscathed, locking the doors behind her. She didn’t dare look across the road at the car, afraid of what, or who she would see.  As she drove to the BAU, she anxiously tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She anticipated what Spencer’s reaction was going to be- he’d be angry, definitely. Y/N was torn, she wanted to stand by the decision she’d made two months prior to not involve her boyfriend with what was going on, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a poor choice. If she’d have told Spencer earlier, things would’ve been resolved. But by telling him the truth, she couldn’t help but ponder if she was putting him or his team in danger. 

Shaking her head clear the thoughts, she pulled into the car park that was next to the building. Taking a few deep breaths, she grabbed her bag and headed toward the buildings’ entrance. Her palms were sweaty and her throat was dry. What the hell was she going to say? ‘Hey Spence, I have a stalker who’s threatening to kill me that I neglected to tell you about, how’s your day going?’

After being granted access at the front desk, she was given a visitors badge and headed up to the sixth floor of the building. As she stood alone in the elevator, she tried to take a few breaths, feeling the familiar clawing at the back of her throat that indicated she was close to breaking down. She’d been holding it together for so long, been so fucking scared for so long. 

As soon as the doors opened she was greeted with the smiling face of one Penelope Garcia. 

When Spencer and her had begun dating he brought Y/N along to one of Rossi’s pasta nights and the whole team immediately took a liking to her, especially after seeing how happy she made Spencer. However Penelope in particular absolutely adored Y/N, and the two had even hung out together a few times. 

Garcia gasped with a grin as the doors opened. “My sweet Y/N! I got the notification that you’d checked in downstairs and thought I’d come greet you!” She moved toward her, hugging Y/N tightly. “Are you here to see our boy wonder? He’s around here somewhere-” She pulled back when she noticed the tenseness in Y/N’s shoulders. When Garcia met her teary eyes she gasped at the sight. “What’s wrong?” 

Y/N finally let the tears tremble down her cheeks, reaching into her bag to grab the handfuls of threating letters from the person who’d made her life hell for two long months. She handed them to Garcia, who after years of working that job knew from the first few words what they were dealing with. 

Y/N met her worried eyes. “It’s bad, Penny. Really bad.”

Garcia nodded, shocked but still placing a comforting arm on Y/N’s back. “Reid- He never mentioned-” 

Y/N shook her head. “I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want him to worry over nothing but- this is the first time he’s threatened my life and I’m scared, Pen. I’m really scared.” 

Garcia burst into action, coaxing Y/N with gentle words to head into the bullpen. As soon as they walked through the glass doors, all of the team member���s heads turned toward them. Spencer’s eyes immediately fell on his girlfriend’s tear stained cheeks and within seconds he was by her side. 

“Y/N, what’s going on? Are you okay?” 

She shook her head, moving forward and wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, holding her to him as she cried into his chest, her shoulders shaking as she let out everything she’d buried so deep inside. 

He looked over at Garcia, bewildered. She simply walked up to Hotch’s office. The team could faintly hear Garcia presenting him with the papers Y/N had brought with her, explaining what she had told her when she arrived. 

Minutes later Hotch came out of his office, walking down into the bullpen to where the team all looked at one another, confusion on their features. 

“Y/N?” He asked as he approached her, and she pulled back from spencer to see him, wiping her tear stained cheeks. “You’re gonna need to tell us everything. You may be in immediate danger.”

Y/N nodded and Hotch headed off toward the round table room, Garcia scurrying in behind him. The rest of the team, with concerned glances to one another, followed into the room. This left Y/N and Spencer alone in the bullpen. 

She felt Spencer gripping her hand, squeezing gently. Worry laced in his tone, he moved to stand before her and locked onto her eyes. “Please tell me what’s going on.” 

Y/N nodded and cleared her throat, her voice quiet with shame as she spoke. “I have a stalker. He sends letters, calls just to breathe down the line and scare me. In his recent letter, he said he’s gonna kill me.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, his hand dropping from hers and he turning and stalked toward the board room. He had to see the evidence for himself. 

He reached the room and the groups gazes all shifted to him, but he could’ve cared less. He reached out for one of the sheets of paper, eyes quickly scanning over the threatening words as Y/N entered the room behind him. 

“When did this start, Y/N?” JJ asked, that caring, motherly tone present in her voice. 

“About two months ago.” 

“Did you notice anything odd about the neighbourhood beforehand? Cars that weren’t normally there, people stood on street corners at odd times of day?” Derek queried, his eyes scanning over some of the notes she’d received. 

She nodded. “There was a car I noticed, right at the start. I didn’t think much of it until I started taking note of the timings. It would sit there all day, but be gone overnight. Then it would return the next day.” 

“Do remember the colour, or make of car?” 

“Yeah, a dark blue Sedan. Then a few days later the phone calls started.”

“Garcia I need you to run through Y/N’s phone records, see if you can trace the number they were calling from.” Hotch ordered and Garcia quickly left the room, heading to her bat cave. 

“Here, listen to this.” JJ started, holding up one of the first letters. “I’m doing this because I love you, pretty dove. So very much. It’s okay, you’ll see.” She looked up to her team. “He’s planning something.” 

Hotch turned his attention to her. “Y/N’s safety is our primary concern. This unsub seems to have fixated on her, for whatever reason. Y/N, do you have any ex boyfriends or enemies we need to know about?” 

“I have five ex’s, but I don’t think any of them would be capable of this.” She reasoned, but there was a seed of doubt in the back of her mind. 

At her words, Spencer stood up, slamming the letters down on the table with an audible thud before leaving the room. Y/N stared after him hopelessly, Hotch clearing his throat before speaking again. 

“I’ll need a list of their names.” 

Derek piped up. “We also need to know locations of spots that you frequent, anywhere you may have met this guy. Coffee shops, restaurants, even the library. No detail is too small, okay?” 

Y/N nodded, turning back to stare out the door that Spencer had stormed out of moments before. “I’m just going to go check on him.” She murmured, earning an apologetic smile from JJ. 

* 

She found him outside the building, sat on one of the stone steps of the staircase that led up to the buildings entrance. He had his head in his hands, trying to calm down the thoughts that sped through his overworking mind. 

She sat beside him, draping his coat that she’d grabbed from his desk over his shoulders to combat the cold winter air. “You’ll catch a cold.” She muttered, offering a small smile as he looked over at her. Despite how he felt, he let the smallest of smiles find its way onto his lips at the comment. She had a stalker threatening her life and she was worried about him catching a cold?

They sat in silence for a little before Y/N broke it. “I’m so sorry, Spencer.” 

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.” He mumbled, looking out to the street, watching people walk by. When Y/N didn’t answer, he spoke again. “You could’ve told me, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t.” She whispered sincerely. 

“Why didn’t you say something, Y/N? I would’ve dropped everything to make sure you were safe.” He promised, trying to make his voice sound strong, but failing as it cracked with his words. 

“I didn’t think it was important. He wasn’t threatening at the start, and I thought I could handle it.” Now the words were leaving her mouth, she knew she sounded stupid. 

“You didn’t think it was important?” Spencer repeated back to her, his breaths heavy as he failed to understand her reasoning. “Y/N you are the most important thing in the world to me. Okay? Please tell me you know that.” He turned his body toward her. 

“I know. I know and I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. It’s just I know- after everything that happened before with Maeve-“ She paused for a moment. “I didn’t want to worry you over nothing.”

His breath hitched when she said Maeve’s name, and Y/N could almost see him replaying the moment he lost her in his mind. The curse of an eidetic memory. 

“I’m not going to let that happen to you- no, not you. Never you.” He sniffed, reaching over to take her hand in his. 

She nodded, tears filling her eyes once more. She cuddled into his side, her head dropping on his shoulder. She sniffled. “I’m scared, Spencer.” 

“It’s okay. He’s not coming anywhere near you, Y/N. I swear to you, he’s not going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.” He brought her hand up and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

*

Over the next few days, the team spent hours analysing ever piece of evidence Y/N had received, and Garcia went through tons of security footage, trying to get a good look at whoever was in the blue Sedan. She’d ran the license plates, but they’d come back as being fake, so that had been a pretty dead end, and the phone number she’d traced had come from a payphone, so there was no lead there either. 

Spencer was evidently over-working himself, not taking breaks from work to eat or sleep. He reread the words a hundred times, desperately looking for what it was he must’ve missed. He was filled with this overwhelming need to protect her, to keep Y/N safe. To succeed where he’d failed previously. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake he’d made with Maeve. He’d let his emotions cloud his judgement and it cost Maeve her life. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

There wasn’t time for that, not when Y/N was in danger. 

Y/N spent most of her time alongside Spencer at the BAU, mostly because he insisted that she was somewhere he could keep an eye on her at all times. She only went home in the evenings so she could change and sleep in her own bed, but always with a police escort that Spencer had himself done a thorough background check on and knew could be trusted. 

Eventually, It had been an entire week. Spencer had only had a handful of sleep, only when the exhaustion became too much did he pass out and actually get a few hours of sleep before he was right back at it. Members of the team who attempted to gently voice their concern for him received a scowl in response, with Y/N even trying to get through to him, but he just shrugged her off. Ultimately, Hotch had to pull him aside to talk. 

Hotch walked into the room where Y/N sat reading silently in the corner while Spencer’s eyes ran over the words he’d already read a hundred times. 

“Reid, Can I speak to you?” 

Spencer’s head snapped up, pissed that he was being interrupted from the task before him. He grunted under his breath, standing up and walking out of the room. 

Hotch brought Spencer up to his office, closing the door behind them so there was some dilution to the raised voices that were definitely going to come from this conversation. He sighed, turning to face the younger man and crossing his arms. “The Bureau don’t want us using any more of our time on this case. The unsub has been inactive for a week, and we have other cases building up that take priority.” 

Spencer scoffed. “You want us to stop? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid not. The order came from above me, I have no power here. The best we can do for now is send Y/N home with police protection until this guy resurfaces.” 

“You wanna send her home? No way, Hotch! There’s some son of a bitch after her and you want her to be at home?” He was angrier than Hotch had seen him be in a long while. 

Hotch sighed. “Reid. It’s out of my hands. I recognise how hard this is for you, but we have no choice.”

“But I- I can’t protect her if she’s not with me! I can’t keep her safe.” His tone changed from angry to more of a begging. “Please, Hotch. There’s got to be something you can do.”

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer huffed, his anger returning. “Bullshit! You know as well as I do that she’s vulnerable as soon as she leaves here. Police presence or not, if something happens to her-” 

Hotch shot him a warning look, which made Spencer stop mid-sentence.

“You’re done with this case for now, understand? Until he resurfaces, we have other priorities.” Hotch spoke. Spencer scoffed, walking and brushing past his unit chief. “That’s an order, Reid.” He warned. 

Spencer ignored him, heading back to the room he’d left Y/N in, his mind refocused on getting back to his previous task-  despite Hotch’s orders. 

He stepped into the room, slamming the door closed behind him, earning a surprised squeak from Y/N, who still sat in the corner with her book in hand. He looked over at her, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “He wants you to go home, and we have to put the case on hold because we have others to work on. Can you believe that? How could he ask that of me?” He laughed humourlessly as Y/N shut her book, placing it next to her. 

She sighed, standing, knowing he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?” 

It was just the protective side of him coming out, and at first Y/N thought it was endearing, but he couldn’t neglect his own needs to favour hers any more. She wouldn’t let him. 

“Spencer, you gotta stop this. I know how hard you’re working, and I’m so grateful, but you’re killing yourself here.” Her voice was gentle, hoping she’d be able to appeal to him. 

“No! No Y/N I’m not stopping until we get this guy, until you’re safe.” He snapped. 

“You heard what Hotch said, you have other cases that need to take priority.” She moved toward him, still trying to reason with him. She was still scared to death, and she didn’t particularly want to leave Spencer’s side- after all he made her feel safe. But there were people who needed him and his team, and if she was no longer in imminent danger, his talents were needed elsewhere. It made her feel sick, but it’s the way it was. They were just going to have to wait for this guy to make his next move. 

“But Y/N, you are my priority. Don’t you get that?” He asked, moving back as she came toward him. The motion hurt her, so she stood still. 

“I do, I promise you I do, but there’s people out there who need that beautiful mind of yours more than I do right now.” 

He scoffed. “So you just expect me to give up?” 

“Of course not, but Hotch is right. What if this guy never makes any other moves? What if he just wanted to scare me? You can’t waste your time. It’s too valuable.” 

“And what if the second you walk out of those doors he gets you?” Spencer shouted, his arms coming out by his sides to exaggerate his point. 

“Then you’ll find me. If that happened, which is a worse-case scenario, I have faith that you and this team would find me and bring me home.” 

“And if I can’t? If I fail, again? If I have to watch you die like I watched-” His breath hitched, his voice catching. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “No, No. I will not lose you, do you understand? I will not stop looking for this son of a bitch, not ever. I’m not letting you go home, Y/N. I’m sorry, that’s final.” 

“Spencer, you can’t keep me here. You’d be disobeying Hotch’s direct orders-” 

He shook his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you, Y/N. I’ll talk to Hotch, change his mind. Just- stay here. Please.”  The last word was quiet and pleading, a stark contrast from the tone he was using before. He picked up the evidence files he was going through and walked away, feet stomping as his anger still radiated off of him. 

* 

Y/N had stood there for a minute, collecting herself before she took a shaky deep breath, bringing her hand up to wipe the tears that trickled down her cheeks. 

She walked out to the bullpen, ignoring how Spencer had asked her to stay. Her eyes met Derek’s who offered her an apologetic smile. 

“Hey.” He called out to her as she passed by. “Whatever the kid said, he didn’t mean it. He just wants to keep you safe.” 

She gave a sad smile. “I know. Um, is it alright if I just step out the front for some air? I’m feeling a little boxed in.” 

“Sure thing. I’ll keep you company, make sure you get back alright.” He stood up from his desk chair, grabbing his jacket and accompanying her downstairs. 

When they got there Y/N turned to him. “Is it alright if I have a moment alone? I’ll stay where you can see me, I just need a minute.” 

Derek was hesitant, but nodded. She pushed open the doors, out into the cold night. She remained stood by the front doors, where they bright lights from indoors seeped outside, lighting up the pavement. She took a few deep breaths, letting the cold air fill her lungs, hoping it’ll help alleviate the stinging pain in her heart. She looked up at the sky, willing herself to keep her tears at bay. She appreciated what Spencer was doing, and adored his instinct to protect her, keep her safe. She knew how stubborn he could be at times, but now she thought about it, maybe when she sided with Hotch earlier it made it seem like she didn’t have his back, which was certainly not the case. 

Derek watched as Y/N collected herself, seeing that she was about to turn and come back inside. Suddenly someone bumped into his side, his attention turning from Y/N to the person who collided with him. He looked over to see a young man he didn’t recognise. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going. My apologies.” The man apologised before walking off. 

Derek furrowed his brow, before turning back to look outside. 

Y/N wasn’t there. 

He bolted forward toward the doors, flinging them open and looking left and right for any sight of her. 

She was long gone. And so was whoever took her. 

Hearing a crinkle beneath his feet, Derek looked down at the sound, noticing a scrap piece of newspaper on the floor where Y/N had been stood. 

He picked it up, unfolding the paper. On it, written in the familiar blood red chicken scratch was the same threatening message Y/N had received before. 

‘If I can’t have her, no one can.’ 

* 

Derek placed the paper down on the roundtable, that the team was now gathered around, shock and worry on their faces. 

Hotch closed his eyes with a sigh as he looked at the paper, guilt rushing over him. Just then Spencer came into the room, immediately picking up on the mood that had settled over the team. 

“What’s’‘-” His eyes landed on the message, the realisation spreading over his features. “Where’s Y/N?” He asked, a sort of denial in his voice. 

“He has her.” Derek confirmed, bowing his head down in shame that he hadn’t protected her like he was supposed to. 

“Morgan, What happened? You took her out to get some air and then what?” Emily asked, trying to establish where it’d gone wrong. 

“I took my eyes off of her for a minute, some guy bumped into me and it distracted me, and when I looked back she was gone.” 

Emily’s mouth opened as she connected the dots. “It must’ve been a distraction, one guy bumps into you so that you take your eyes off of her while the other guy grabs her.” 

“So what, we’re looking for a partner here as well?” JJ posed, looking up at her team. 

“It would seem so. He waited for his opportunity, and when it came he took it.” Rossi chimed in. 

“This is now an active investigation, we have a missing woman who’s already been gone for nearly an hour. We’ve got to work fast.” Hotch ordered, which sent the team out of their seats, each with a task assigned to them. However, Spencer still sat in one of the chairs, trembling fingers trailing over the words before him. The air in the room seemed thinner, his lungs working harder to fill themselves. 

“Reid? Reid.” Morgan tried, but all he got from Spencer was little incoherent mumbles. 

Finally, he looked up to meet Morgan’s eyes, the words he’d been whispering falling from his lips in a more audible whimper. “He’s gonna kill her.”  He choked on his words, the realisation crashing down on him. “I’m going to lose her too.” 

* 

Time was a precious thing. 

Spencer had never been more aware of how quickly the seconds passed than he was at that moment. 

He was on his knees, hunched over the toilet, hands gripping the sides in a vice-like grip, desperately trying to push down the nauseating feeling creeping its way up his throat. After the note that Morgan found, Spencer had rushed into the toilets, standing over the toilet bowl as he dry-heaved, holding himself back from being sick. He took heavy breaths, eyes screwing shut as he tried to think of anything other than the danger that Y/N was in. 

He tried so hard to ignore the familiarity of the situation. 

The thought set in motion a memory that he’d much rather forget, one that he pushed so far back in his mind so he could deny it had ever happened, that he’d ever allowed it to happen. 

Ultimately, it was the curse of his brilliant memory, having the ability to perfectly recall things that happened years before. 

As if he could ever forget that day, eidetic memory or not. 

“Diane, Diane, there’s still a way out of this.” 

“You never wanted me. Never! You lied!”

Diane has her arm around Maeve, gun pointed at her head. The bullet she’d shot into Spencer’s shoulder felt numb, the scorching pain felt irrelevant to the fear spiking his heart. 

“I didn’t. Diane, I offered you a deal and you can still take it. Me for her. Let me take her place.” His eyes lock on Maeve’s, so full of fear, and he tries to reassure that she’ll be fine- because he knows she will. How many times has he talked down an unsub waving a gun around? She would be okay, she had to be. 

“You would do that?” 

“Yes.” 

“You would kill yourself for her?” 

“Yes.” 

Of course he would. In a heartbeat. 

“Thomas Merton.” 

Maeve’s voice was small but sure. What scared Spencer the most was how certain she sounded, as though she’d accepted that this was her fate; her end. 

“Who’s Thomas Merton?”

“He knows.” 

She loved him. And he loved her. Oh how bittersweet. 

“Who’s Thomas Merton, who is he?” 

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us.” 

Its only a moment’s hesitation, a moment that he should’ve reached for a gun, a moment where he should’ve taken his shot. 

“No.” Diane scowled. 

Time is a precious thing.

and Maeve’s was up.

“Wait-” 

The shot still rung clear in Spencer’s ears, a sound he was sure he would hear for the rest of his days. His breaths were heaving again, his eyes flying open as he willed the image of Maeve’s body to leave his head. But when his eyes screwed shut again, it was someone else in her place. 

It wasn’t Maeve’s body on the floor anymore. Instead, in her place lay Y/N, blood gushing from the open wound at the side of her head, her lifeless body cold against the concrete floor. 

That’s the thought that made him sick, throwing up into the toilet at the thought of watching Y/N die the same way he watched Maeve. 

Taking gasping breaths, he sat back against the side of the cubicle, hands running down his flustered face, feeling the streaks of tears that trembled down his cheeks. 

He shook his head, as if that would erase the horrific thoughts swimming around. He reminded himself that Y/N was still alive, and they had no reason as of yet to believe that she wasn’t. It was that thought that made him pull himself to stand, raking his hands through his hair and trying to calm his quivering hands. 

Y/N was still out there, waiting for him to save her. 

He grit his teeth together as he walked out of the toilets. 

He wouldn’t hesitate this time. He was not going to lose her. 

*

He walked back into the roundtable room, ignoring the looks he received from the team. They had been bouncing theories off of one another, trying to use their profile to figure out who their unsub was, and where they would’ve taken Y/N. 

“Is it possible a woman is our unsub, or perhaps even the partner?” Emily posed, her eyes scanning over one of the letters. 

Derek shook his head. “I don’t think a woman would use language like this, it’s very derogatory, it exerts a power over Y/N.” 

The team fell quiet in thought, only interrupted when Garcia came scurrying in, her laptop in her hands. “You’ll never guess what I just found!”

Everyone looked up to her, Hotch speaking. “What is it, Garcia?” 

“I looked over the list of Y/N’s exes, and only one of them jumped out to me as a little suspicious. So I did some digging.” She tapped a few keys on her laptop before grabbing her remote and  broadcasting to the team what she’d found on the TV. “Daniel ‘Danny’ Stone, 29, dated Y/N three years ago. He was her last boyfriend before she met Reid.”

“Three years? You don’t think he’s still bitter about the relationship ending?” Emily asked, confused. 

“Three years is a long time. Why surface now?” JJ chimed. 

“Reid, did Y/N ever mention her previous relationship ending on a rough note?” Rossi asked, turning to face the younger boy. 

Spencer frowned. “She said the breakup was a little rocky, but nothing awful. The last time she spoke about him was a few months ago, said he got in some sort of accident?” He looked to Garcia for confirmation, and she nodded. 

“Indeed. Stone was involved in a road collision four months ago.” 

JJ hummed, looking through the medical reports on her iPad. “Says here he suffered brain damage, specifically to his pre-frontal cortex.” 

“Well that would explain why this stalker seemingly came from nowhere. People who suffer damage like this are impulsive, unable to make rational choices.” Derek posed. 

“So what’s the theory here? He wakes up after this accident, and because of his injury chooses to track down his ex? Three years after they break up?”

Morgan shook his head. “It isn’t a choice. Not anymore. He has to do it. He’s become fixated on her. He knows she’s with Reid, and like he said, If he can’t have her, the neither can Reid.”

“Okay, but why stalk her? What does he gain from that? Instead of just taking her and getting what he really wants?” Emily questioned. 

“This newfound impulsivity would make him a risk-taker. He’ll do things that the average person wouldn’t dream of trying. But it’s unlikely that Stone actually staked out Y/N’s home, or delivered the letters to her door. He wouldn’t have the self-control to span this out over months. He just pulled the strings.” 

“So that was his partner, then.” JJ deduced, earing nods from the team. “Then  what does the partner gain from this? Why help Stone?” 

“Maybe Stone manipulated them. Perhaps he has some form of information on them he’s using as blackmail?” 

“Did you get an address on Stone, Garcia?” Hotch asked, and Garcia nodded enthusiastically. 

“You know I did, It’s already been sent to your phones.” 

“Alright, let’s go.” 

The team all stood, heading for the doors. Spencer was quick to get up and follow, hope sparking in him now that they had an address. He was just about to leave the room when Hotch’s voice stopped him. 

“Reid, you know I can’t let you come with us.” His voice was firm, he knew there could be no room for error here. Not after what happened last time. 

“Like hell you can’t.” Reid snapped, turning around to face him. He’d regret his smart mouth later when Hotch undoubtedly told him off for it, but at that moment who couldn’t have cared less. 

“We will get her and bring her home, but you can’t be involved in this. It’s a conflict of interest, you know that.” 

“Oh, so it wasn’t a conflict of interest when you went after Foyet?” 

It was a cheap shot, one that Spencer really regretted the second he said it, but amends could be made later. 

Hotch’s face didn’t falter, despite the petty jab. “Yeah, and look where that got me.” 

Spencer’s defesnive stance dropped, his arms falling by his sides. “Hotch. You were there when when Maeve died. Do you remember it?” 

“Of course.” 

“Not like I do. I can see every second of it every time I close my eyes. I can’t go through that again. I almost didn’t make it out the other side, If it happened again I don’t know if I could cope-” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “Just- Please.”

Hotch grunted, giving in. “Fine, but you can’t allow your emotions to cloud your thinking. I know it will be difficult but I need your head to be in this.Y/N’s life depends on it.” 

Spencer nodded and they headed down toward the SUV’s. 

*

They pulled up to the address, lights blaring and sirens sounding. They all quickly jumped out and regrouped, strapping their kevlar vests to their chests as they moved. They were stood in front of an abandoned apartment complex, one that had ben uninhabited for years. 

 “Alright Morgan, Prentiss I want you to go around the back, find a way in through there, see if you can find this partner of his. JJ, Rossi and Reid you’re with me. ” Hotch ordered, as they all drew their guns and prepared to head in. 

As they stealthily walked through the building, they listened for any noise that indicated where the unsub was. Hotch, who was leading the group, pushed open a door to the staircase, and they were about to head up when they heard a bang coming from the floor below them. 

They headed down the stairs, seeing that they were entering the buildings basement. They rounded the corner, guns at the ready, and stepping into a small boiler room. 

In the centre of the room, Daniel stood. He held a struggling Y/N to his chest, his arm around her neck and gun placed at her temple. 

Spencer recalled how it the sight was all too familiar, how Diane had held Maeve the same way. 

Daniel’s voice broke him from his thoughts. “If you step any closer, she dies.” 

“Okay, okay. We’ll stay back, but I need you to put down the gun.” Hotch tried, shooting a look over his shoulder to Spencer, a look that told him to stay put. 

Daniel shook his head. “No. You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Ruin what?” JJ asked. 

“My chance do what’s right. Y/N doesn’t want me. But I love her, can’t she see that? I would do anything for her, and still she would choose him over me?” Daniel’s eyes moved to meet with Spencer’s, narrowing. 

“Daniel, we know what you went through. We know about your accident, how you’ve felt so out of control since, but if you come with us we can get you the help you need.” Rossi was next to attempt to convince him, but to no avail.

“No- No!” Daniel scowled, clenching his teeth as his gaze fixated on Spencer, who’s eyes were locked with Y/N’s, trying to silently reassure her that she was going to be okay. “She’s mine. I protected her, I’ve looked out for her. She’s finally going to understand.” He looked down at Y/N, his grip on her tightening, causing her to let out a frightened yelp. 

Spencer gulped, tearing his gaze from Y/N and onto the unsub, putting on a strong and unbothered facade. He wouldn’t let himself be clouded by his emotions, not this time. “You’re right. You kept her safe, and I’m very grateful that you protected her when I failed to.”

“Thats right. You failed her. I’m so much better for her.” He seethed through his teeth. “ And that’s why, if she won’t chose me, she’ll have to die with me.”

“You don’t want to do that, Daniel. Put down the gun. We’ll bring you in, and if you tell us all about this partner of yours, we’ll tell everyone that you co-operated.” JJ suggested, her gun still aimed up at him. 

“Why are you doing this?” Y/N gasped out, still struggling against his hold. 

“Because if I can’t have you, the neither can he. No, No.” He grinned, bringing the gun up to his his own head. From where it was angled, the bullet would pass through his own head, and lodge itself in Y/N’s too. “You’re mine, Y/N.” 

This time, Spencer didn’t hesitate. 

One single gunshot. 

Daniel collapsed to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. 

Y/N fell to the ground with him in a fit of sobs, scrambling to get away from the man who lay dead on the floor, the pool of blood growing around him.  

Spencer holstered his gun, immediately surging forward to wrap a trembling Y/N up in his arms. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe.” He cooed, rubbing a hand on her back in a soothing manner. 

She sobbed into his chest as he held her, tears forming in his own eyes at the sound of her cries. But Spencer allowed himself a moment to breathe, looking over Y/N’s shoulder at the man he’d just shot without hesitation. 

And he’d wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it, either.  

He tightened his arms around her, thankful that she was safe. He brought her up to stand, his arms still tight around her. He looked toward his teammates, nodding gratefully at them as he walked Y/N out of the building. As he passed, he overheard JJ and Hotch’s conversation. 

“Emily and Morgan found the partner fleeing out the back. They say he’s agreed to talk.” 

With an internal sigh of relief, he held Y/N closer as they stepped out the doors of the building, guiding her toward the medical staff so she could be checked for injuries, despite how she told him she was fine. After it was concluded that she’d come out pretty unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises, Spencer came and sat down next to her. She smiled weakly up at him, and he knew it would take a while for her usual bright smile to return, but she was alive- and right then that was all that mattered. 

He immediately took her hand in his, gripping it tightly. 

“Is it over?” She asked quietly, and he nodded. 

“Yeah, they got the partner, and he’s going to co-operate in return for a reduced sentence, but he’ll still be going away for a long time.”

She nodded, her head dropping onto his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Spencer. You saved me.” She whispered. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m sorry about the argument we had, I was being a jerk. I just wanted to protect you, but in the end you still ended up getting hurt.” He frowned, looking down at the gravel ground. 

“It’s okay, I understand. I’m sorry you had to relive all of this again, I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been for you.” She sighed, guilt overwhelming her. 

“Hey, no. You’re safe, that’s all that matters.” He promised and she nodded against him. 

Giving her hand a squeeze, he turned slightly to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. 

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.” 

[hoe-imaginess]

baby socks | hawks

Hawks x Reader

summary: Hawks isn't ready to be a dad. He doesn't think he'll ever be—but now, he might need to rethink some things.

word count: 3.4k

a/n: short and montage-y. follows the idea that Hawks realistically isn’t looking to be a family man, but might be converted... for reasons 

inspired by an idea from @gabb-yeet​ ty friend <3

⤰⤰⤰

After two long, stressful weeks, your concerns were no longer contestable. Two weeks during which you waited, and hoped, while your mind did manic rebounds between joy and fear.

A third week came and went without your period, and you knew then that there was no denying the truth growing inside of you.

A pregnancy test from the local drug store gave you final confirmation. The other two you took while riding a wave of denial reverberated the inescapable.

You were pregnant. You were pregnant with Hawks’s baby.

And you had no idea what to do.

⤰

His visits were rare, but thoroughly cherished.

You loved to be in his arms, to feel the supple caress of his feathers around you; tickling a warm, blissful exhilaration up your spine. 

He loved your hands on him, and always esteemed their softness as you touched his temple or cupped his cheek, as though your gentle embrace extracted the day’s stress right from his skin.

Hawks could make you laugh as easily as anything. Your smiles came easy and organic—there was nothing more in the world he loved than to see your smile.

But now here you were, eyes hot with imminent tears as you showed him the pregnancy test, as he took a step away from you. He simply looked at you with bewilderment, then averted his gaze, somewhat shamefaced by his own shock.

“Wow,” he muttered, eyes and tone lacking any of the passion for this confession that you might have hoped for. “I… thought you were, ya know…” He gestured stiffly to his mouth, denoting your birth control, you guessed. “And we were careful–”

Hawks stopped then, noticing how swiftly the emotion drained from your face. He took a breath to dispel his confusions, and pushed his goggles up into his hairline so he could rub feeling into the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he started, like he was trying to wrangle his thoughts back in line. You saw his gloved hands fidget about, eager for orientation. “Um… Well, I wasn’t really… ready for this.”

“Well, neither was I,” you returned, hoping to convey to him that you were the equal of his wariness in this dilemma; you had no ambition to bestow obligations on him.

The proceeding silence took a substantial toll on your already crumbling poise. His gaze took an idling perusal of the ground, at the space between you two, unwilling to meet your eyes.

Then, as if a saving grace to his discomfort, the pager at his belt sounded off.

Your heart stung at the interruption. He sometimes had to make your time together short on account of duty, but surely he could spare a minute more to discuss this—something of this magnitude. 

“I have to go,” he murmured, after reading the message on his pager. He was still reluctant to meet your eyes, but found a heartbreaking sadness in them when he did. He swallowed hard. “I’m… sorry.”

“Hawks,” you started, searching feverishly for the words that might keep him there with you. “I’m—We need to…”

“I know.” There was a flash of somber determination in his eyes, something that aspired to reassurance, but failed. “I’ll be back.”

His arm moved, almost as if to reach out and touch you. But he seemed to think better of doing so, and instead he moved to your window, and flew from it as he had a hundred times before.

Except this time, you watched him go not with an enthusiasm to see him again, but a despairing anxiety.

⤰

His return was a no less cumbersome affair.

Hawks sat on your couch, looked around the room with thorny cautiousness, as if he were in an unfamiliar environment, as if he no longer found peace in your presence like he once had.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, still partial to keeping his gaze lowered.

You’d sat down next to him on the couch, with a condemning distance between the two of you that made your chest tight with despair. You looked down at your feet, at the soft carpet beneath your toes, and curled them restlessly into the fluff.

“What do you mean?” you answered, even as you feared clarification.

“I mean… have you decided?”

Your head came up to look at him, a mounting trepidation quickening your pulse.

“Decided?” you repeated.

Realizing your apprehension, he perked up, and a flash of apology softened his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His hands hovered to assuage you, and that tender, sweet look in his eyes that you’d so missed made itself known. “Listen, I just mean… you said you weren’t ready for this either, so I just thought you’d be thinking... I don’t know.”

“Do you…” 

You trailed off. Was he really after a verdict? Was he asking not how you two might endure parenthood together, but rather, whether you two needed to at all? 

Your mouth felt dry; you wet your lips anxiously. “I mean, are you asking me if I want to…?”

“It’s your choice,” he amended quickly, but uncertainty still cast its shadow over his face, gambling with his otherwise assuring words. “Whatever you decide I’ll… I’ll do what I need to do.”

There was no enthusiasm behind his promise, only a reluctant acceptance. You’d hoped for so much more.

⤰

Hawks couldn’t join you at your prenatal appointments.

He tried, once, when not a minute after showing up on the same block as the hospital, he was spotted and swarmed by fans. Thinking better of making a move that might lead you to suffer some unwanted media attention, he pulled back.

Later, after you’d trudged through the appointment alone, he called you to apologize.

You told him it was fine, and that you understood his need for discretion during all of this. After all, any whiff of information that the press claimed from this situation might prove detrimental to Hawks’s career. He was young, and a top hero; even if the two of you weren’t married, you knew part of his appeal was his bachelor status. Even if you’d both decided on this together, you were still worlds apart.

And from then on, there was an unspoken agreement that you would have to traverse most of your pregnancy alone.

⤰

When Hawks wasn’t thinking about hero work, he was thinking about you.

He was thinking about you, and his relationship with you—how it had been so ideal and complete. It was an escape from the labors of his day that often times felt more injurious than anything. Seeing you remedied that. Your presence was alleviating; your affections curative.

But now when he thought of the relationship, the happiness was sabotaged by a cloud of uncertainty—uncertainty for the unknown. From the very onset of his hero career, he’d planned to strictly dedicate himself to the betterment of society, no matter his personal sacrifices.

But how faithfully could he keep to that philosophy when it would no longer be his sacrifice alone, but also yours? 

Hawks had thousands of admirers. Among them were beauties that would have undoubtedly been the apple of any other man’s eye: stunners who flashed him pretty smiles behind pretty lashes, flattering him with their worship and exaltation—but they were tributes he couldn’t afford. He couldn’t devote himself to one person when the rest of the country demanded preservation.

But you were the exception.

You two had met under such fleeting circumstances that he could have never guessed the journey on which the short encounter would take him. But then you two kept running into each other, over and over, until he’d found the opportunity to indulge the humor of it. 

Is this just a coincidence? he’d joked with you. Or maybe you’re plotting something? Understandably, I’m a little suspicious.

You’d laughed so sweetly in response: a laugh that made his face warm and his wings twitch.

He had little control over what happened next. The warmth had sprouted. It had all gone so well. Doubts and fears about indulging a relationship with you slowly dwindled to a dormant worry. You were always so understanding and accommodating; you never harped on his business, and never guilted him for prioritizing hero work when it was necessary.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

But now, he had no idea what to think.

His feelings hadn’t changed for you, not at all. But this was an impossible situation, with an impossible answer. He was going to be a father. That was an unavoidable truth now, one he had yet to completely wrap his head around.

He wished it were easy. He wished he could bask in the anticipation of fatherhood, that he could be there to encourage your enthusiasms and grant you his part in this endeavor. You deserved that. You deserved support and happiness throughout this. But he didn’t know if he could deliver. 

On patrol, Hawks saw mothers carrying their young infants in the street—something he’d given little thought or contemplation before. Now his soaring wings would come to a slow as he tried to imagine that it was you down there holding a baby in your arms, his baby; a baby with his hair and eyes—or maybe yours, or maybe a mix of both…

He’d shake his head and turn away from the spectacle, knowing his thoughts would spiral, and that they would serve only to distract him.

⤰

Hawks stopped visiting as often as he had been. It was a palpable evasion, and it cut you worse as the days went by.

He kept up with your texts, mostly. But the longer they went unanswered, the worse your anxieties grew. Whereas before an unanswered message would scarcely disturb you—he had a demanding job, after all—your reservations had all but crashed now. It left you in a state of unending worry; gut-wrenching conclusions toppling over one another until you’d exhausted yourself with grief.

You would spend hours curled up on the couch, waiting for his response, eager to be quelled of your dread. Didn’t he realize the longer he kept away from you, the worse you were for it?… The more guilt you felt for deciding you wanted to keep this baby?

Your hand would curl over your stomach, and you would wonder how something meant to bring so much joy had so far served only to bring you sorrow.

⤰

During a break in his late-night patrol, Hawks called you.

Bleary-eyed, you woke to the phone’s tuneful ringing, and reached for it clumsily on the nightstand.

“Hello?” you croaked once you’d answered the call.

As if he’d been idle, and not expecting you to answer, he cleared his throat. “Uh, hey.”

You waited, brain too fogged by sleep to think of your own mediation to the silence. It was then he realized that he would need to take the lead, lest he make this late-night disturbance in vain.

“Hey,” he started again, with hesitation. “I just… wanted to talk.”

“It’s late, Hawks,” you murmured, blinking away haze as you peered at your alarm clock. It was nearly past three.

“I know. Sorry. Listen, I…” The mere notion of elaborating on the toilsome thoughts in his head made his chest tight. The onslaught of guilt and confusion struck instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and you could hear the self-condemnation constricting his throat. “I just…” Now his confidence digressed, his sentiments running faster than what words could articulate.

“I just didn’t know what to do,” he admitted finally, certain but woeful in his repentance. “I… guess I still don’t.”

You sat up in bed, let the blood flow evenly through your body to aid your thinking. “I’m confused too, Hawks, but I…” The thought of the turmoil you’d suffered all alone these last few weeks brought pitiful tears to your eyes, and a stutter to your breath. “I need your help.”

Touched by the sorrow in your tone, he raised his head to the night sky and breathed in his grief, then breathed it out.

“I know,” he said. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

For the next half-hour, you stayed on the phone with him, talking through mutual worry and braving the shame of confessing the anguish you felt because of his behavior.

He promised that he would take care of you. Both of you, he said. 

And you went to bed that night with a little smile on your face, hoping the soothing optimism you felt would last.

⤰

Baby socks.

It was baby socks that did it.

With his wings withered down from a particularly exhausting battle, thereby shedding the token of his celebrity, Hawks indulged himself by doing something he rarely did: take a trip to the supermarket. 

Still, it wasn’t something he did often. Even disguised in casual attire, sick mask and a hat complimenting the facade, there still remained a risk that he may be noticed. But the risk seemed worth it that day; the distraction that the mundane offered from his knotty thoughts was what he needed.

Still, wherever he went, so too did his anxieties, following him and reminding him of their need for resolve. In fact, maybe it was an unconscious decision that he ended up right here: staring down the baby supplies aisle, hesitation in his every step, almost as if the ground was hot coal. Unconscious, because part of him knew very well that despite the promises he’d made you, he still needed to come to his own terms with his convictions.

So it was part-obligation, and part-unbidden curiosity that pulled him down the aisle, his golden eyes giving a nervous perusal of the products on display.

He saw the rows of diapers, and tried to imagine using them: cleaning up an infant’s mess, suffering the smell. Hawks winced with a wrinkled nose. 

He’d rather endure one of those interviews, for that one magazine, of who the interviewers always asked about his political preferences, almost like they wanted him to say something controversial. He hated those more than anything, so to say it was preferable to changing diapers wasn’t a very good outlook on his imminent child-rearing.

He was on a path to conjuring up more unpleasant visions of fatherhood, when he came to the clothes section.

It was a parade of bright pastels and fuzzy cotton; animal-print designs and cheesy phrases glaring at him from every shelf. It was banal to the point of nausea.

But then, the baby socks.

He couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw them: ornamented with fluff and lace, so small and delicate that it was almost impossible to believe a human foot belonged in there. But it did; a baby’s petite, soft foot—his baby’s foot, would fit snuggly.

Hawks envisioned it, then envisioned it some more, the array of merchandise fueling his imagination.

Then there were the pacifiers. The beanies. The onesies—

He had a stupid smile on his face as he loaded his cart with whatever caught his eye.

⤰

Your water broke while Hawks was on patrol. 

He’d given you the number to his personal hero pager, with a promise that he’d leave work to his sidekicks if he was able and rush to you immediately. 

Unfortunately, the odds were stacked against him; an aspiring group of villains, all of whom used wide-range quirks that made their capture difficult, took the better half of an hour to subdue. 

By the time Hawks had done his work and left clean-up to the authorities, you were already in labor. And by the time he’d checked his pager for your emergency message—something he’d been doing almost hourly, now that your due date was close—and rushed to the hospital, all your work was done.

When he finally arrived, he was met by his newborn’s red cheeks and sweet cries. 

“A boy,” you breathed out with a tired smile, sagging into the hospital bed. 

Sweat streamed from your temple; dotted your brows and nose. If he hadn’t been so absorbed in the sight of the little human in your arms, he would have moved in to worry over your fatigue. But there he remained transfixed, golden eyes going to pinpricks as he gave the baby a hard inspection; his shock morphed into excitement, and from excitement: joy. 

⤰

There was no paternity leave for heroes like Hawks. Crime in the streets demanded his attention almost as much as his crying baby. 

But it was a rare night that he could be home with you, taking his parenting duties in stride, and finding them far less strenuous than he would have ever imagined. 

In fact, he was starting to enjoy them. But the most treasured time was after all work was done, when you, him, and his son lay on the bed together, his little body between you two. It was restful, and strangely, to Hawks, the most at peace he’d ever been.

Whatever chores he’d done in his time with you fell far from the work you did every day taking care of the baby, and the moment you hit the sheets, an easing fatigue started to take you. Hawks might have indulged rest, if he wasn’t so engrossed in the spectacle his infant son was making. 

Hawks watched him with adoring fascination, his honed eyes taking in every little wiggle, every soft twitch, every gentle stretch.

“Look, look,” Hawks entreated, reaching over to nudge you from a much needed sleep. “He’s kicking his little legs.” 

You groaned quietly, kept your eyes shut. “He’s been kicking my insides for months now,” you responded groggily, but with the smallest of smiles. “Nothing new.”

Removed from all nuances that didn’t involve his son, Hawks was unfazed by your comment, and his enthusiasm continued undeterred. He lay there, the baby between the two of you, and watched his son test his little muscles for the first time.

The smile never left Hawks’s face.

⤰⤰⤰

[pillage-and-lute]

How about-Hanahaki disease? Gerald/Jaskier? Happy ending please!

Nonny! Darling you read my mind, I’m an ‘angst with a happy ending’ kinda gal. Just so we’re clear, I know nothing of flower meanings and I didn’t research.

TW: Gore

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Jaskier first coughed up a flower at age three.

Poets loved Hanahaki, it was considered romantic, and those prone to it were tragic beauties, destined to languish, delicately spitting blood and rose petals into a silk handkerchief. No one really wrote about how it could be brought on by deeply unrequited platonic love.

Jaskier coughed a violet into his little fist and brought it to his mother, who turned him away.

Fifteen years down the line and having graduated Oxenfurt with honors, Jaskier was old hat at taking care of Hanahaki. His feelings, although often unrequited, were also often fleeting. A night spent coughing tulips into a bowl and a sore throat the next mroning, but rarely more than that.

If it persisted for a week or more there was tea. Any apothecary in even a mid sized city carried it. It was putrid and thick and slid down the throat like a cup of slugs, but in the morning there were no petals, and after two or three days of the stuff, the disease was gone. 

He was almost thankful for being so prone to Hanahaki, it was romantic and lended much to his chosen profession. People gave him sympathetic looks and free drinks if he sang a sad song and discreetly spat a rose petal into a handkerchief. Most of the time he simply didn’t mind it, and considered himself twice blessed with his mobile heart.

Sometimes he had nightmares of what would happen if he found true love.

The notions of true love itself was romantic, but everyone knew that your true love, the one you were fated to, if they didn’t love you in return no tea would save you.

He’d watched a friend, a grad student at Oxenfurt, die of it. It was no delicate coughing into handkerchiefs, no poetic languishing. He’d held her hair back as she threw up petals and blood, crying as she clutched the bucket with skeletal hands because she could no longer force food down a torn throat. 

It had been so slow, she’d said between pulling thorned stems from her mouth. More than a decade of loving the boy she’d had a crush on in her small town village. She’d lived through it all, only occassionally throwing up flowers. Always snow white roses, for him, apparently. It would have been wonderfully artistic if Jaskier didn’t know how they looked covered in blood.

Then she’d gone to his wedding to the baker’s daughter and two weeks later he watched her cough out roots wrapped around a chunk of lung and screamed for a doctor knowing it was too late. The blood stain never washed fully out of the floor.

And she’d said it was worth it. That she wouldn’t have stopped loving him for the world, even as she said it through a throat full of thorns. 

Jaskier never understood it, leaping from town to town, avoiding long term connections while knowing all the while that if fate wanted him to fall in love he would. Denying Destiny only made things nastier, he knew. And then, in a tevern in Posada, with bread in his pants and a hole in his boot, his eyes met pure gold. 

It took a split second, less probably, for him to realize that, although he didn’t love the man yet, for love at first sight truly is a poet’s myth, he could love this man. And if he died for this man, maybe the love would be worth it after all.

The man was a witcher, who punched him in the gut and stank of onion and talked to his horse. Jaskier followed him anyway.

He followed him and coughed up flowers, different blossoms for different people, and he began to fall deeper in love. He wondered sometimes what flowers he would cough, as the bouquets turned into only one kind. 

What flower would represent Geralt? Not buttercups or dandelions, certainly. Perhaps if someone else were to catch Hanahaki for Jaskier those would be for him. Geralt wasn’t a dandelion. He was grumpy and spiky and after ten years wouldn’t even call Jaskier a friend. 

In the dead of night Jaskier feared it would be white roses, like he’d seen once before.

And then Geralt died in a collapsing building only to be alive and fucking a purple-eyed sorceress after nearly killing Jaskier with a djinn. Jaskier vomited flowers not twelve hours after vomiting blood.

Snow drops, tiny and delicate. And from that point forth he never coughed up any other kind.

It didn’t progress so quickly though. Jaskier had expected to die within a month of Geralt meeting Yennefer. He didn’t. Love and sex weren’t the same thing, and his love didn’t go totally unrequited either. It wasn’t the same sort of love, but in the quiet moments just after dawn it was enough. 

Then Geralt made a choice.

He wouldn’t kill dragons, he didn’t hunt sapient creatures, he wanted nothing to do with the dragon hunt, until he caught sight of Yennefer.

And that left Geralt and Jaskier, on top of a mountain, as Geralt screamed into the wind that Jaskier meant nothing to him. Jaskier felt the roots set in.

He wasn’t going to get the story from the others. He could barely breathe, the pain was so sharp and intense and he could feel it growing, feel the flowers growing. Little snowdrops had no right to be so painful.

He wasn’t going to make it off the mountain.

Jaskier took a different trail down, and then wandered into the forest a little way, coughing blood and stems the whole way. He collapsed under a tree, blood staining his doublet. He wished he had a friend to clutch his hand, hold his hair back and rub his back like he’d done more than twenty years ago. 

There wouldn’t be a funeral though. No one would know what had happened to Jaskier the bard. Worse, no one would know what happened to Julian, the person, the man. As he threw up a clump of flowers and blood he felt very much like the scared little boy who threw up a flower for the first time. 

It hurt. It burned and shredded his throat and he wanted a friend and he didn’t have any. He’d thrown all his eggs in one basket twenty years ago and Geralt had kicked that basket off the mountain. 

Jaskier leaned his lute up against the tree. It’d be such a shame to get blood on the lovely girl. He curled up next to it, in a fetal position on his side as the coughs wracked his whole body. 

His friend had lasted two weeks, he thought. But her rejection was a wedding. Not her best friend and the love of her life telling her never to see him again. That he was a burden. That if life or Destiny could give him one blessing it would be to take Jaskier off his hands. And Destiny was going to deliver. She had made Jaskier love Geralt, and she would kill him by it. 

Still, Jaskier would have given anything for the comfort of his friend right now. He began to cry, snot and tears and blood and petals all mixing. He couldn’t even breathe, his lungs burned so bad. 

His vision was blurry.

He could hear noises, tromping through the forest and who knew what awful creatures lurked here. Just like Dame Destiny to have him disembowled while dying of Hanahaki.

It was dark, but it had been noon on the mountain. Black clouds swirled and closed in his vision.

A strangled noise.

No monster made that noise. That was a man-made noise. It sounded very much how Jaskier had felt on the mountaintop. He retched up a flower and tasted pollen and iron.

“Jaskier!”

He didn’t remember hallucinations being part of the final stages, but the brain played funny tricks.

“Jaskier!” There it was again, and he was being bundled up tight to a chest that was not at all comfortable and smelled of horse and leather and sweat and onion. A buckle of Geralt’s armor dug into his cheek. Jaskier’s mouth was full of stems and roots.

GLoved fingers dug in, pulling snowdrops from between his lips and then Geralt kissed him. It was entirely awful and unsatisfying. 

Dimly Jaskier came to the realization that it was not supposed to a kiss, but Geralt trying to blow air into his flowering lungs. A nice gesture but unhelpful.

He lolled his head to the side to throw up another clump of root, not wanting to throw up directly into Geralt’s mouth. 

A shudder ran through the chest he was pressed against, like a tremor before an earthquake. Then a sob.

It was quiet. The worst sobs are. 

Geralt lay Jaskier down on the floor, one hand cupped beneath his head, gently cradling. Then the witcher curled next to him, face pressed against a pale neck streaked with blood, and cried.

Jaskier wanted to comfort him, to stroke a hand through soft white hair one last time and thank him for not letting him die alone. He just didn’t have the strength.

Another wretched, tiny sob, then, “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m so sorry.” Oh that wasn’t fair. A tear leaked from Jaskier’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt continued, face pressed into Jaskier’s collarbone. “I didn’t mean it, I was angry and tired and I’ve hurt you but please,” the voice faded to barely a whisper. “Please don’t leave me, I didn’t mean it, I love you don’t leave me here alone.”

Don’t leave him here alone. Jaskier though. Destiny owed him, owed them both for all she’d put them through. Don’t make him lonely, he prayed. I don’t want to leave him alone.

Geralt held Jaskier tighter, pressing even closer like he was trying to meld them into one. “I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I love you.”

The world went white.

Jaskier blinked his eyes open with blood in his mouth. It didn’t seem to deter Geralt, who kissed him so thoroughly his head felt light. Then Geralt pulled him upright. There was blood on the ground around them, some even streaked into Geralt’s hair. 

There were no stems though.

The forest floor had been carpeted for ten feet all around them with snowdrops, planted firmly in earth instead of lungs. They were so close together it looked like a sudden snowfall, trailing to fewer and farther between at the edges of their little pool of white. 

“I...” Jaskier said, letting Geralt pull him to his feet. He wasn’t sure what to say but it turns out he needn’t say anything. Geralt was clutching him like a lifeline and tucking a snowdrop into his hair.

“I smelled blood,” he said, lips brushing into Jaskier’s brown fringe. “I smelled blood and was so afraid. I haven’t been truly afraid in so long and then I found those wretched flowers.” Geralt took a shaky breath. 

“I truly thought it was too late.” He pulled back and looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt’s own yellow ones were dry but the emotion was clear. “I thought I had lost you, my love.” A gloved hand, only slightly bloody stroked Jaskier’s cheek. “I thought I had lost you, my life’s greatest gift. And I wanted to lay down beside you and die as well.”

Jaskier chuckled wetly. “You overdramatic sod,” he said between watery sniffles. “What a ridiculous notion. And I can’t believe it takes me dying to turn you into a romantic.”

“Almost dying,” Geralt said firmly. There was panic written plain across his face, as if he was terrified that time would slam into reverse just to take Jaskier from him. Another embrace, just this side of bone crushing. “Almost dying, my love.”

“Not dead, my love,” Jaskier responded. 

As they made their way down the mountain snowdrops bloomed in their footsteps, but they were too busy looking at each other to notice.

[gotnofucks]

To Sin in Love

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader x Sam Wilson

Summary: You’re forced to choose between the man who owns your heart and the one who owns your soul.

Words: 3.5k

Warning: Smut, language, mentions of hell and demons, 18+ ONLY

A/N: You can imagine Lucifer to look like however you please. I have no specific one in mind.  Special shoutout to my babe @donutloverxo​ for beta reading this hot mess and just being my rock.

Hell seemed to breath fresher when his face appeared before you. Swimming in the dark surface of the water from where you spied on him, a smile tugged at your lips. He was exiting the gym, t-shirt damp with sweat and you wished you could smell his musk. The way he walked with purpose towards his destination had you imagining how he’d walked towards you with a predatory look in his eyes.

For months you’d spied on this gorgeous man from miles under the surface and yet feeling so close to him. His grief had called out to you, drawn you into his aura of pain and regret. As a demon, you didn’t feel pity, but Sam Wilson had you feeling more than that. He had you falling in love.

So engrossed were you in looking at him, you didn’t notice your master enter until his warmth met your back. A large scaly hand came around you, holding you close. You leaned back into him, resting your head on his massive chest. Those who said the Devil didn’t have a heart lied, you could hear it beating under your ear, strong and assuring.

“I’ve seen you torture sinners without a frown, and yet here you’re melting for a mere mortal. I taught you better than that my sweet.” Lucifer whispered in your ear, pressing soft kisses along your neck. You moaned, titling your head to give him better access.

“Master” You breathily whispered, “you aren’t being fair.”

Lucifer chuckled, his hands wandering until they cupped your tits and squeezed, the very best of sin from the lord of sinners. You turned your face to look at him, admiring the beauty that had once been in heaven. Hell was worth every bit of pain if you only got to see him this close and feel his hands over your body.

“I am not being fair? I find you lusting after this mortal man while you very well know you belong to me. Why must you hurt me so, my sweet?”

Raising a hand to his face, you caressed it, savoring the tickle of his stubble against your palm. Your Lord was the most gorgeous being you’d ever seen, and yet your immortal heart cried out for Sam Wilson.

“Have you ever wanted to repent Master?” You asked softly, leaning in to kiss his lips. Lucifer groaned in your mouth, turning you around so you straddled him, his arms around you.

“I am the Devil, my sweet, Hell is my repentance. I watered the ground of my kingdom from the blood that seeped from my torn wings. Ascending to Heaven is no more my fantasy, especially not with you in my arms.”

Tears glittered in your eyes, a heat burning in your core that rivaled the very inferno you were born in. Pulling your master close, you kissed his eyes in reverence before whispering against his lips. “He makes me want to repent My Lord. I look at him and I taste absolution.”

Lucifer kissed you, his tongue slithering in your mouth and tangling with yours in a dance as ancient as him. His hands found your ass, squeezing you closer and grinding against the soft mound that lay between your legs.

“And what about me, my sweet? What do you want to do when you look at me?” He asked, his sharp fangs biting into your lips until you bled in his mouth. You shared the taste of your blood with him, finding peace in this place of sorrows where he ruled with a cruel smirk. Why would someone prefer Heaven over the freedom that Hell offered? Would anyone want to be high above if they knew how beautiful your master was, carrying a piece of that heaven into Hell itself with his presence?

“You make me want to kneel Master. I look at you and I want to worship you.” You said, love for him evident in your eyes. “You own my devotion My Lord, and he owns my heart.”

Fingers that were stained with your blood traced your cheek softly, his deep eyes that had seen eons pass by look at you with adoration. You were your master’s favorite, his most treasured demon. Nobody touched you but him, his possessiveness ripping apart every being that ever laid eyes on you. But he would never hurt Sam, he would never draw the blood of a man who owned so much of you.

“I fear you’ll forget me my sweet. If I let you free to go to him, would you ever come back?” Lucifer asked, holding your gaze steady with his. A tear forged a river down your face, his fingers quickly wiping it away.

“Master, you only need to ask, and I will stay. I was born for you, and if you shall please, I’ll die here at your feet.” You promised him. “But I cannot stop yearning for him. He is mine as I am yours.”

He looked at you for a long time before picking you up with him, carrying you over to your bed that had only ever had him as a companion. Lowering himself over your body, he striped you of your garb, touching your body with almost as much devotion as you did to him. He eased into you, the heat of your union steaming the air that rang with your soft whimpers.

“If he ever hurt you, I’ll torture him myself.” Lucifer vowed, capturing your lips that were stretched into a beaming smile. You allowed yourself to merge into one with your master once more, for you doubted you’d feel him like this again. The world was cruel like that, forcing you to chose between the one who owned your soul and the one who owned your heart.

“You wouldn’t have to master. You trained me well.” You said, arching your back as he hit the special spot inside you. “He will cherish me as you have done, I know it to be true.”

Lucifer nodded, visibly struggling with letting you go. His hips thrust wildly, lips murmuring in an ancient language of how you were his light in darkness before you both shattered together, falling into sinful bliss for the last time together. Covered in his spent and heat, you hid your tears in his neck. Even in hell, love was pure and never a sin.

Sam said that you’d been created specially to lead him into temptation and damn him. You would only smile and kiss him, never telling him how true his words were. Only, he would never be sent to your home. Sam Wilson did not belong in the fiery fires of Hell, no matter how deliciously they had burnt.

“You should be ashamed of yourself Mr. Wilson” You joked, cupping his face and leaning close to steal a kiss. “Leaving your training in the middle to fornicate with your girlfriend. Where is your sense of propriety?”

Sam laughed, pushing you onto your back on the couch, catching your giggles in his eager mouth. “You shouldn’t have sent me those pics darling. You know I am addicted to you.”

Your eyes twinkled in love for him, pulling him over you excitedly. Your relationship with him had been nothing short of a dream, his presence in your life completing you. When Lucifer had let you out on Earth, you’d wondered for one fearful moment if Sam would ever love you like you did to him. But it seemed his ageless soul had searched yours for just as long, for you clicked from the moment you met.

You’d been looking for him, navigating the crowded land of the mortals when Sam literally flew by you. His wings outstretched, Redwing hovering a few above, he chased after a man with vengeance in his eyes. Seeing him like that, you were convinced he had to be some sort of an angel for never had you felt so alive as you did then, breathing the same air as him.

As you saw him disappear, you ran after him, heart beating with excitement at finally meeting the man who’d owned you without even knowing you exist. Turning the corner, you saw him on the ground, grappling with the other man for a small pendrive. You had not planned to step in but seeing your man grunt in pain when he was punched, you launched into the battle with a cry, pouncing on the bastard who dare hurt your love.

“Die you dickface!” You screamed, pulling on his hair and delivering a kick into his side. He cried out, struggling in your hold. His mortal strength was laughably unmatched to yours and with a flick of your fingers, you twisted his wrist until you heard a crack. One conk to the head and he’d be down on his way to Hell where your Master would greet him, knowing how to deal with such asswipes.

“Hey! Hey, come off. I have orders not to kill!” Sam said, and then he touched you. He wrapped a hand around your arm and pulled you away, dragging you into himself and off the target he was chasing. The moment you felt his touch, tingles shot up and down your spine, liquid fire curling in your veins until you burnt only for him. The target lay forgotten on the ground, clutching his broken wrist as you and Sam gazed at each other.

His mouth parted slightly, fingers still digging into your flesh. You could see his eyes widen and then dilate, a similar heat simmering in them. He gulped, reluctantly releasing you from his hold but not moving away, trying not to blink as if afraid you’d disappear the moment he did.

“Have we met before?” He asked softly, tilting his head to the side. The brown in his eyes melted like chocolate, and you wanted to step closer to feel his touch again. You’d never met and yet you seemed to recognize each other. Something older than human memories had etched your face in his heart.

You shook your head, stray hair dancing beside your face as you did so. He blinked, shaking himself from his trance before lowering down to pick up the pendrive and calling in backup to arrest the target. His eyes kept drifting back to yours, confused and curious.

“Who are you?” He asked. You told him your name, shivering when it passed from his lips like a love chant. “You got strength in those arms. CIA?”

His voice was deep, and you wanted to know how it would sound right beside your ear, out of breath.

“I don’t work for the government. They don’t handle power well.” You said. Sam smiled at your words, looking around as three agents approached him, cuffing the target and patting his back.

“My name is Sam Wilson.” He said, offering you a hand that you eagerly shook. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? I may know a team of people who handle power just fine.”

“Hey, where’d you go?” Sam asked, his lips trailing down from your shoulder to your neckline. You come back to the present, catching the back of his neck and allowing him access to your breast, moaning when he sucked them from over your clothes. You’d been brought together by fate, of that you were sure, never parting ways since the day you met.

“Was thinking about you.” You replied, shimming out of your shirt and salivating at his naked torso. He was beautiful, his body glowing in the sunlight that peaked in like a voyeur through the blinds to witness your tryst.

“What about me?” He asked, smoothening his hands over you. Your skin heated under his touch, a desperate craving in your core to be filled by him overpowering your senses. You moaned his name and asked him to take you, quietly sobbing when you felt his tongue against your moist center.

“Sam, please. I feel empty.” You cried, hips raising as a finger eased into your channel and rubbed against your spongy walls. He smirked against you, sucking on your clit and tasting your juices that he said were like his own communion. No wonder he fell for a demon, uttering the filthiest things from those lips that made you quiver.

“Tell me, what were you thinking of.” He prompted, teasing you further. You writhed under him, holding his head with your thighs, and clutching the edge of the couch. He was grinning at your desire, loving as you made a mess for him. You cursed, eyes closing as you gave into his ministrations, coming apart into his mouth and crying out his name.

His slight beard that had taken him months to grow left a delicious burn on your skin, and soon his lips met yours, his breath carrying your scent. You lifted your hips eagerly to his, begging him with your eyes to take you, to own your body and make you his again. Greedily kissing you, he entered you with a practiced thrust, moaning at how snug you were. When Sam fucked you, he lost himself in your body to find his soul.

“Look at me.” You said, forcing his lust blown gaze to yours. He panted hard, grabbing your hips for support as he pushed into you, your bodies merging together like perfect puzzle pieces. You wondered again how this utterly beautiful man could be yours, how a damned soul like yours could belong to one as bright as his.

“What were you thinking of darling?” He asked again, biting your shoulder to leave a mark.

“About how much I love you.” You finally said, surprising him by flipping him over and taking the reins. You rode him out, taking him deeper and deeper until you were sure he was in your womb, feeling right at home. “I have loved you since before we met, believe it or not.”

Sam took your hand that rested on his chest and placed a sweet kiss on it, laying back as you lazily fucked him into a pile of gooey mess.

“I believe you baby” He said, pulling you into a soft kiss. “I feel like I’ve loved you my whole life.”

Tears gathered in your eyes, your hips moving faster as his words registered in your heart. Your love was complete and reciprocated, your life finding its meaning in him. Oh, how you loved him and his gap-toothed smile. His eyes that lit up when you danced together and played pranks on his friends.

“You are my heart Sam Wilson” You whispered in your ancient language, surrendering to him and the pleasure of your body.

Your dream suddenly turned hot, and it was then you realized you were back home. The room you had spent centuries in was still the same, your stuff kept together like a shrine to your memories. You wandered in, touching everything as nostalgia welled in your heart. Reaching your bed, you smoothed out the creases in the velvet sheets, smiling at the smell of your master there.

“Welcome home, my sweet.”

There he was, as regal and beautiful as ever. Looking at him, you knew he was meant to rule hell, for someone like him could never be happy serving at the feet of another.

“Master” You said breathlessly, wanting to crawl on your knees to him. But before you could, he flew to you and took you in his arms, his wings opening wide and curling around your body, enveloping you. A sob lodged in your throat, for you had never thought you’d ever feel him again. You met his eyes that seemed misty like yours and when he kissed your forehead, you let a tear escape.

“Oh, my sweet, how I’ve missed you. Hell seemed to have lost its fire without you. My hearth seems cold in your absence.” Lucifer said, nuzzling his nose in your neck. You held him close, running a hand through his hair that had grown longer.

He pulled away to kiss both your cheeks, his beautiful visage soothing the burn in your heart you didn’t know you have. Fate has been cruel, separating you from one man you love to be with the other. You raised your head up to receive his lips, but that kiss didn’t come.

“No, my sweet,” He sadly said, stroking your face gently, “You and I both you we can never share that intimacy again.”

Your heart broke at the rejection, a frown crumbing your face into one of despair that Lucifer was quick to kiss away.

“Oh no, that is not what I meant.” He assured. “I have loved you since you were born. If I am the soul of Hell, you are its heart. But now your heart belongs to someone else, does it not? Nobody knows better than the Devil that you must not abandon that which you seek. My need for freedom led me here, and you need for love led you to the man who could return it the way you deserve. Do not sully that by presenting yourself to me, not when I would love you just as much without the succor of your body.”

It was then you realized, standing in the palace of the damned with the Devil, that love came in various ways. Here was your master, who loved you deep enough to let you go, defying all nature that had made him a villain. He was greedy and jealous, the sinner whose pride led him to fall. But that fallen angel had raised you here, had loved you as purely as god did to his children. How harshly had the world judged this being, and how strongly have you loved him, that you didn’t want to leave.

“Master” You begged, clutching his collar and holding on tight. “Do not let me go. You still own me, as does he. Can I not belong to the both of you, equally?”

Lucifer smiled, a content look in his gaze. He sat down on the ground, taking you into his lap and rocking you like a babe. “My sweet, you will always belong to me. Love is infinite, and you can divide it between people and yet it wouldn’t lessen. But I summoned you back here to give you a boon, for I see far into your future.”

You stared at him in confusion, hugging him tight. He smelled like the dirt of graveyard after rain, death and rebirth combined into one. He took a section of your hair, running a hand through it until the few strands in there turned gray. Your heart beat faster, a new vulnerability coursing in your blood that had you feeling fear for the first time in your life.

“Master, what have you done?” You asked.

“That man you love lives a limited life my sweet. I promised you to not damn him into this place of tortures, and if I cannot bring him in as a demon, I must make you a mortal like him. Grow old together, find your happiness. When the time shall come for your body to retire, the fates shall merge you as one and see where to deliver you.”

A storm of emotions rushed through your heart, longing and pain and love and sin. You leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, feeling his presence settle in your bones.

“And you master? Would I ever see you again?” You asked, voice cracking. Lucifer smiled, removing the black ring from his finger and pressing it in your palm. He rested his forehead on yours, lips curved in a small smile.

“I will stay down here and try to repent my sweet, so that one day I may join you too. If there ever was someone who could redeem the Devil, it is you.” He whispered.

You laid in his arms, cocooned in his presence until you woke up in your bed next morning cuddled up to Sam, clutching the ring Lucifer had given you.

Sam had always been pretty, but today he was just beautiful. His eyes sparkled like precious gems, a reassuring metal hand on his shoulder telling him to keep it together. He couldn’t believe it but when he held your hand, it felt real. A black ring sat on his hand, a matching one in yours.

“Could you both wait until the reception is over to eye fuck each other?” Bucky joked, but he kissed your cheek and hugged you, pushing you into your now husband.

“I have waited a lifetime to be his, I guess I will be okay with a few more hours.” You said to Bucky, but your eyes were trained on your man. He was yours, wearing your mark. You both were together in spirit and body, and your love seemed to have tripled in size.

“We have forever to go darling, don’t we?” Sam said, kissing you softly.

You nodded, entwining your hands and running a finger over his ring. You had a forever, and you would wait a forever more for the other part of your soul.

[nightowlwriting]

summary: you've always known there's a soulmate on the other end of your injuries. when you're working the victory pit during the harvest close festival, though, it's the furthest thing from your mind. ironically, it's the closest mollymauk has ever been to you.

word count: 4.0k

warnings: canon level violence, mentions of molly activating his swords, canon level allusions to war and corruption

title credit: the steve miller band

note: takes place during episodes 17/18, requested from the soulmate abc list: damage done to a person also translates into their soulmate’s body (cuts, bruises and all).

masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Throughout your childhood, you’ve been called blessed. It started with bruises and scuffs. Little things that are perfectly normal for a child to receive and not remember. The problem with your bruises and scuffs was that they were not your own. When you grew into your celestially gifted powers, it started to make more sense.

Your family had stories of soulmates bestowed upon their clerics, but it wasn’t something that had happened in many generations. Nobody was really concerned until the wounds you received from your soulmate began getting worse - deeper, taking longer to heal, more life-threatening. It worried you, and your family, but it pressed you to become a better cleric. To find your source of power and lean into it. You heal yourself each night before bed, hoping that you’re giving some sort of comfort to the person you’re connected to. Even if you have no energy spells, you pull a pearl you were gifted when you left your hometown and press your lips to it and let it fill you with the love and warmth of life and still heal yourself. It’s your nightly ritual and, since you’ve started doing it, you haven’t missed it once.

Except once, but really that doesn’t matter because of how you miss it. It’s the Harvest’s End festival and the Victory Pit, and you’ve been conscripted to work it. You hate working for the Crown, but it pays well and allows you to help people. Your clerical skills and magic get used every day and you help the people that really need help. Still, the inevitable war looming over the Empire worries you. You’re skilled for your age, more so than the other clerics who perhaps have years over you, and War Clerics don’t have the longest life expectancy. After the last time that your soulmate died, and the grief and pain it inflicted upon you, you don’t want to do that to them. You try not to think about the several times you’ve felt their death and resurrections, though, because it worries you.

Most of all, it tells you very important information about them. They’re some sort of adventurer, best case scenario. The worst case, though, is that they’re a criminal. Regardless, you’ve become fond of them. The cuts don’t really hurt as much anymore, but they still pucker and scar when you heal them at night. There have been a few times when you’ve gotten hurt and you know that they’ve received those wounds, so perhaps they know about you as well. You hope they do because it would be awfully lonely to be the only one out of a pair to be aware that there is, in fact, a pair.

Still, your soulmate is the furthest thing from your mind as you funnel people into the Victory Pit. Clerics double as security, mostly because the Guard want to watch the fights more than they want to keep people safe, and you grit your teeth trying to keep your prepared spells at the back of your mind. You have several healing spells in your mind, but a few offensive ones as well. In Victory Pits of the past, you’ve had to use them. Now, you’re just sore and aggravated with the hickey that appeared on your chest last night - that you did not receive yourself. It doesn’t bother you that whoever you’re linked to is getting lucky, but it would be nice if you didn’t have to look at the proof for the next week or so.

Someone stamps on your toe and you bite back your curse, skittering backward and colliding with someone who is cursing. “I’m sorry,” You apologize on instinct, turning and grabbing the person by the arms. You’re momentarily struck by how beautiful they are, but you’re at work. “Are you okay? I’m a cleric working in the Pit today.” They glance down at you, baubles and trinkets swinging from their gaudy horns, and you realize with a start that they're purple. It’s not that tieflings are rare in Zadash, but purple ones are. The group they’re with also has a blue tiefling, a small green halfling, and a half-orc. Truly a strange band of people.

“No, no,” The person you’d run into says, voice smoother than you’d anticipated, “I’m alright. Are you okay, darling?” They smile down at you, completely red eyes smiling with merriment as they settle their hands on your biceps in a mirror of how you’re holding them.

“Please, I ran into you,” You shake your head, “Besides, I’m working. It’s my job to make sure that you’re okay.” You give them your name, telling them to seek you out if they shall become injured.

“Oh,” They sweep you grandly underneath their arm, squishing you into the side and stepping toward their group for a few steps, “I will get painfully injured today, but I will seek you out specifically, darling. My name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, and I am fighting with the Mighty Nein. You may call me Molly, all my friends do. I am a man of many friends, and you are one of them now. Keep your eyes on me today.” He winks and then sweeps himself away with a flourish, leaving you standing and a little flustered.

After that, the Victory Pit starts faster than you anticipate. You're stationed in the Pit itself, one of the more powerful offensive clerics on the roster today when you start to put the pieces together. You're not sure why you didn't notice at first, but Mollymauk - Molly - has a lot of scars. A lot of familiar scars. You trace a particularly deep scar on your collarbone as you watch the first Pit fight and wonder. What are the odds? Could Mollymauk really be…? A horrible thought hits you, and you can feel yourself pale. He's fighting in the Victory Pit today. He's going to get hurt, which will either confirm or deny whether or not he's your soulmate but if he is… Shit, you're in for a rough day. You know that The Mighty Nein is slated for the first fight against an Otyugh. They're nasty creatures, although not really native to Zadash you've still had to heal up some rather awful sucker wounds in your time.

You're glad to see that Mollymauk holds his own in the fight, and stays far away from the Otyugh. It's hard to keep your eyes off of him with the idea that he might be your soulmate and you get the sense that he's a melee fighter more so than a magical fighter in the beginning, but then he activates his swords, and the pain blossoms in your ribs as he drags his blades along his.

There's no question now. Mollymauk Tealeaf is your soulmate. Watching the way he fights and interacts with the Nein during their fight with the Otyugh everything about the injuries you've received from your connection with him makes so much more sense. You actually find yourself… Weirdly proud of your scars, then. You've heard about the Nein, how they're swords for hire and defeated the Fey Spider in the tunnels, but still. Mollymauk seems like good people. Maybe it's naïve to hope on your part because he's your soulmate, but you'll take it until you're proven different. You've been doing things like that for most of your life, and you'll be damned if you stop now. You know you can hold your own, too, so that helps. The next fighters pass in a haze to you, as you stand ready to save someone from death the Banderhobb fight passes with no need for clerics, and the fights with the Giant Crocodile and Ice Troll are much the same.

When the Mighty Nein is back up, your senses fire to life. The next monsters are Winter Wolves, nasty creatures with powerful ranged attacks. You steady yourself against the half-wall you're stationed behind, readying yourself for whatever pain Mollymauk is about to feel. The beginning of the fight is tense, and your fellow clerics watch you curiously as your hands grip tight and relax intermittently on the wall in front of you. When one wolf whirls and releases a nasty, icy breath you heave a sigh of relief that Mollymauk wasn't hit but then the other does the same thing. You feel it more than see Mollymauk get hit, sharp shards of pain washing over your skin so intensely that your eyes roll back in your head and the only thing that keeps you from collapsing is the fervent grip on the wall. Someone lays their hands on you and you feel a swell of magic before you shake them off. "I'm fine," You grit out, "Save your spells for the competitors." Even though you could use the healing, there's a reason clerics wait in the wings at the Pit. It's very possible that someone could be on death's door before the end of the day and if they die because you wasted a spell you'd never forgive yourself.

By the time you fight the darkness from the edges of your vision, Mollymauk is delivering the killing blow to the final Winter Wolf. You're not sure how he's still standing, let alone aware of his body enough to swing his swords like they weigh nothing. Your knees practically knock together as you gather your wits, wiping a hand down your sweaty face. The trials only get harder, and one hit almost took you down. You know you should heal yourself but you're not really sure if your nightly heals affect Mollymauk and, while you have no love for the Empire, it wouldn't be fair if your heals do help him. (And, again, there's the preemptive guilt of maybe not having enough energy for a lifesaving spell. You're just too selfish to use your pearl, too, so you have to make do and conserve your energy.)

The next group comes out and whispers flitter down the row of clerics to you: Owlbears are next. They're awful creatures, nasty when there's only one but two are damn near unmanageable. You happen to know these two aren't even mated, but that hardly matters. It's going to be a bloodbath at best, and at worst there'll be a death. Reaching over the wall, you unhook the latch that keeps it connected just in case you need to rush into the field. The beast-keepers are technically supposed to be the first on the scene, but you're also technically more powerful than they are. You rarely listen to the rules at the Victory Pit, mostly because you're a Crown Cleric and not from the Temple of the Platinum Dragon.

The fight is intense and the clerics next to you barely hold you back when several members of the team go down. They have clerics on their team, yes, but it's hard to tamp down your instincts when you were practically raised by your family for clericdom. It's only when you hear the whispering chatter that the beast-keepers are gathering the magical manacles that you jump into action, flinging open your door and sprinting into the field. The gasp from the crowd barely registers in your mind as you dodge an attack, skidding underneath and stopping next to what looks more like a bloody lump of cloth than a humanoid. The beast whirls on you, but you're faster. You've cast spiritual weapon before it can strike, the air in front of you and the injured party member shimmers and then, the first thing you thought of, a replica of one of Molly's scimitars but three times the size, appears and blocks the strike.

The Owlbear reels back again, going for another, but you're right there to block it. The beast-keepers are going to get an earful from you when you're done with the Pit, but for now, you're relieved that they've managed to subdue the beast and you can focus on the fallen. They're not in great shape, and with a precursory feel of their pulse, they're incredibly close to death.

You put your hands on either side of their neck, close your eyes, and pray. It's not necessarily a religious relationship with the deity that gives you the powers you have to heal, but it's still technically a prayer. The contestant heaves a deep breath, and you can feel the life rush into them from the fold between this plane and the next. The other clerics have gotten everyone else, so you focus on your patient. They probably need two or three more spells before they’re fully stabilized, which is going to burn through either your higher energy spells or all of your lower levels. You grit your teeth as you roll your patient onto the blade of your spiritual weapon, using it as a makeshift gurney. They’re already calling for the next team as if the clerics they’ve hired aren’t already spread thin trying to keep this team from dying. The Mighty Nein are at the doors, holding them open for the clerics, and you barely catch Molly’s eyes as you bring your patient off of the Pit floor and into the waiting room. The scimitar disappears as you lay them on a cot, quickly finding the worst wounds and sealing them with magic, burning through a lot of the spells you prepared and the arcane energy that it takes to cast.

The next beasts are angry and wily - displacer beasts - so you don’t really have time to think about how Molly is lingering near you, trying to find a time to talk to you while you’re trying to keep this person from dying. You stabilize them eventually, but the scarring will be intense. There’s nothing that you can do about that with what you’ve got now. Outside you can hear the next team win against the beasts and stress begins to bundle in your shoulders at the thought of how quickly the Pit is moving. Molly is hovering over your shoulder as you step back and begin clearing the blood off of your hands, despite his group being called out once more.

“That was my sword,” He rumbles, keeping his voice down and stepping even closer to you when you turn around. You track his tail thwipping through the air behind him, either very agitated or incredibly curious. Either could be incredibly accurate, and you don’t really have enough time to parse any information from the rest of his body language.

“Yes, it was,” You want to grumble, but it comes out softer than you intended, “Sorry, but you’re being called and I have to get back to my station so that you don’t die.” Molly tries to catch your arm when you slip around him, but with a promise and a smile you turn back to face him. “Don’t fucking die out there, and then we can talk, okay?” You wish that you could tell him, warn him really, that they’re about to face a Hill Giant. An incredible creature, really, but pushed to a near unreachable limit by the beast-keepers and their prodding, angry spears and arrows. It makes you sick to your stomach, but this is your job. The Empire pays your bills and keeps you fed - they would not tolerate any dissent from you on the matter of the Victory Pit and the treatment of the creatures captured specifically for death, no matter how strong of a case you can make. Instead of telling Molly what he’s up against, you casually brush the back of your fingers against his hand and let your magic make its way into his system. He should be okay, you think, the blessings of a cleric are strong.

Making your way back to your station, you fidget with your uniform. One of your friends - using the term loosely because you’re more like coworkers - catches your sleeve as you pass him. He’s grinning, mischief in his eyes. “You’ve never given a contestant your blessings before, what’s so special about him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” You pull away from Brock, “I just told him that if he wins, we can have a conversation. That’s all.” You shoot him a pointed look and then, after glancing around to make sure nobody else is looking, a wink. Brock grins and relaxes into his station, shaking his head. You’re known to push the limits, but outright break the rules? It’s almost unheard of for you. Everyone knows you’re blessed with a soulmate and Zadash is a bustling metropolis, frequented by the sort of people who get the injuries you sometimes show up to work with. They know you’ll need to stick around to find them, so you’ve only pushed the limits the Empire gives you, not outright shoot past them. By the time you’ve found your station again, the Hill Giant is almost out onto the Pit floor, and Brock has probably figured out why you’re so soft on one particular contestant.

The giant knocks out one of the pillars, roaring so deeply it vibrates in your chest. He’s pissed, rightfully so. The spines sticking out of his body make you sick to your stomach, and you have to look away. Your eyes find the halfling that was with Molly earlier, but as she sprints off toward the human woman, you realize that she’s a goblin. An interesting myriad of people traveling together, but you’ve seen strangers come through your town. She fires off two of her bolts, missing entirely, and you watch one arc through the air and strike off of the helmet of a Guard, who yelps.

You snicker as she takes off again, and the human man fires off his magic. It’s strange to see magic come from another person, especially magic that is clearly learned and not given. It almost makes you wish that your magic was learned instead of bestowed upon you but that would mean losing Molly, who you’re already rather fond of. You’re watching the man try to keep his cool and almost miss the other tiefling casting - a giant fucking lollipop appearing out of the air, smacking the giant, and then flames rocketing out of her hands to hit him, as well. You grin when you realize she’s a cleric, too. You wonder if she has a soulmate, but it would be improper to ask.

When the giant reels back and hurls a large chunk of wall, you suck in a breath. Everything is happening so fast, and Molly… Not only will it hurt to take the hits, but he’ll get hurt. It’s not just about you, but if he goes down so will you, and then you can’t help anyone. You’re almost relieved when the giant turns toward the half-orc, but then Molly is sprinting up toward the giant’s legs, his swords out. He’s a melee fighter, getting right into the thick of it and making your skin crawl. Molly’s swords carve through the giant like butter, making you cringe because the giant is pissed, and Molly won’t have time to get away from whatever is about to happen to him.

When the giant whips around, his eyes are fully black and bleeding down his face. You’re almost certain that’s Molly’s doing, but you don’t really have time to figure it out. The giants club swings up, and then down, and before Molly hits the ground your world has gone hazy with pain and darkness.

The pain and darkness keep their hold on you for what feels like forever. You know that eventually you’ll wake up, but floating in the darkness of unconsciousness you think of Molly. Did someone heal him? Is he okay? You’ve felt the other times he’s died, the way it rips you apart inside, the way you sleep for what feels like days before you wake up. Is this the same way? Has Molly died, even for a second, and you’re left to suffer the consequences? The stories your family told you all ended with soulmates together, no longer bearing the injuries of the other, because of the love that they share and the way they give and take equally. Nobody told you stories of soulmates where one dies over and over again - or at least comes close to doing so rather regularly. You’re still floating in the abyss when you hear his voice. Molly’s voice startles you because normally it’s the deity who blessed you with magic that comes to you, reminding you that everything is going to be okay.

But this time it’s Molly. He’s saying your name, asking you to wake up so that he can see your eyes again. Faintly, as you drift closer and closer to the surface, you can feel the light tracings of fingertips against the crest of your cheekbone and the faint wisp of breath against your hair. He keeps speaking, telling you things that you’re not sure you’ll remember when you finally float to the surface.

That happens faster than normal. When your eyes finally feel light enough to open, Molly is there. He looks a little worse for wear, but you can tell he has at least one healing spell in him. When he realizes you’re awake, a large grin splits his face. “There you are, darling,” He sighs, leaning forward in his chair to be even closer to you, “Scared me for a moment there.”

“Now that I’ve found you I highly doubt that you can get rid of me, Mollymauk.” Your voice is hoarse as you push yourself up, one of Molly’s hands curling around your shoulder to help you sit up on the cot. When you’re upright he moves from the chair he had set up next to your bed to sit next to you, his entire side pressed against yours. “You are a man who is constantly in danger.”

“That I am,” He leans against you, his horn pressing into the side of your head but you don’t mind. He’s warm and nice. The aches in your body numb a little bit just by being near him, but Molly seems like he has a bit of an ego so you don’t mention that. “Do you know why we feel each other this way?”

“Have you heard of soulmates, Molly?” You drop your voice to a whisper and turn your face to him, your lips pressed against his lavender forehead, “My family has legends of them, given to clerics to help them become the best healers they can be. Pushed to their limits by the other’s injuries, but also filled with an overwhelming need to be good enough. To have enough power. To protect, and love, and heal.” You kiss his forehead, hoping it’s not too bold, and let one of your last healing spells flow through his body. The last one you cast on yourself.

“It’s rotten work to love me, darling.” Molly finally says, one hand searching yours out, “But I do feel much better having met you. I feel connected, loved.”

“It’s not rotten work to love you, Molly. I’ve loved you for a long time, and I do not plan on stopping now.” You kiss his forehead again and his head turns, his own lips pressing against the side of your neck as he sighs, “Perhaps your work is not done in Zadash, but it should be soon.” You drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that only Molly can hear you, “War is coming, Mollymauk. You, The Mighty Nein… You should run before you’re conscripted to fight.”

“And you?” He asks, red eyes never leaving yours as he pulls you impossibly closer, “What about you?”

“I… I’ll come with you, if you’ll have me.” You watch the shock flicker across his face for a brief moment, but then it settles into something that you can’t find a name for. “But if not, you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be conscripted to be a War Cleric, not at first. They’ll take the clerics from the temples before they take me.”

Molly caresses the side of your face with his other hand, a small and hesitant smile playing on his face. “Darling, of course, I’ll have you. The Nein will, too. We’re meant to be together, after all.”

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 20: Final: Till the Bitter End

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood/gore, body horror, angst, violence, major character death, trauma

Summary: Juniper is delivered back to Heisenberg…

Feedback appreciated. 18+

This is the end my lovelies…this end can fit into cannon, without plot holes for the game. Stay tuned for the family Au later in the week. Will start a whole new (happier) fic, picking up at the end of chapter 19

The hours bled into days, then the days bled into weeks. Heisenberg thrust himself into his work, trying and failing to keep his mind off of what happened.

He couldn’t sleep in the bed anymore, and slowly he even stopped entering the apartment outside the occasional shower or meal.

He carried her compass in his pocket, finding his thumb worried over its surface more times than he’d like to admit.

Feelings of anger and sadness plagued him constantly, filling even his sleep with nightmares. He replayed the day she was taken over and over in his mind, loathing every stupid decision he’d made. The radio and alcohol did little to drown out these thoughts.

Until one day the cameras alerted him to someone at the gates. Heisenberg pushed away from his desk, flipping a switch to see who had tripped his alarm.

It was the Duke’s cart. Heisenberg groaned, his order wasn’t due for another week out. He pressed a button to buzz him in. Walking towards the elevator to meet him.

By the time he was on the surface Duke had pulled his cart up much closer than usual, damn near at the front doors.

“Didn’t expect my shipment so fucking soon.” Heisenberg pointed out.

The Duke’s voice was less jovial than normal as he spoke, “My apologies, Lord Heisenberg, but I bring a different delivery to you today.”

Heisenberg’s brows knitted together in confusion.

“It’s Lady Heisenberg…but I must warn you she is most unwell.” His smile fell, “I found her on the steps of the stone church, and thought her place was much more suited here.”

It took his words a moment to register, Heisenberg’s eyes scanned over the merchant, his lips a thin line.

A mixture of relief, worry, and anger swirled around his head. He swallowed, his throat dry, “Can I see her?”

“Lord Heisenberg…she’s just hanging on.” The Duke warned.

“Let me see her.” Heisenberg’s voice rose, desperation tinged his tone.

The Duke nodded, the small door at the side of the cart slowly swung open. Heisenberg quickly came to the opening, peering inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the cart’s interior a menagerie of all matters of goods. In the center of it all, upon an owl rug, was a mass covered by a blanket.

Heisenberg crawled into the cart, a shaking hand reached out to pull the covering away.

There was Juniper, curled in on herself along the cart’s floor. Her skin was deathly pale, her side hardly rising with breath. Heisenberg tentatively touched her, skin cold under his fingers. He shuttered, dismay ripping through him.

The sound roused her.

Juniper blinked her eyes against the pale sunlight filtering in. Her eyes were dull, all the spark they once held, gone.

“Karl?” She asked, voice almost cracking.

“It’s me.” He came closer, cupping her face.

He saw a smile try to grace her lips, as her eyes closed weakly into his embrace, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Doll.” His eyes flicked down her body. She was thin, her skin covered in blotches of pooled blood below the surface. But the thing that almost turned his stomach was the deep incision from navel to pelvis. It was red and weeping, angry tendrils snaking through her skin from it.

“Fuck.” He cursed, “What did she do to you?”

Juniper winced, a weak hand delicately touching the stitching, “S-She said I was a failure…”

Heisenberg’s eyes stung and he gathered her up, careful to wrap her in the blanket to Shield her from the cold the best he could.

He could be angry later, he had to get Juniper safe first.

“I’m going to take you home, and fix you right up, ok Doll?” He tried to soothe, his voice wavering.

Heisenberg’s stomach clenched, seeing the redness of her abdomen slowly turning an ash grey.

She’ll be fine…she’ll be fine…she’ll be fine…

The words echoed in his head as he exited the cart. He gave a brief thanks to the Duke before retreating back into the factory.

He went straight to the apartment, pausing to ponder what to do next.

Hope waned as he felt her weaken in his grasp. He went to the bed, placing her down gently and making sure she had enough blankets.

“Thank…you.” Juniper gave a sigh, eyes closing. Heisenberg gulped, crawling into the bed beside her. He lay on his side, silently looking her over.

His heartbeat hammered in his chest, fear and worry spinning around his head.

He wanted to do something, anything, to help her. To make the pain go away. He wanted to see her bright and happy again, like a flower. His flower, his buttercup.

Juniper looked up at him the best she could, swallowing as she tried to find her voice. Her skin was slowly taking on an ashy hue, small cracks forming along her arms.

Heisenberg felt his chest clench in iron knots, touching her cheek.

“I’m sorry.” She rasped, her once bright eyes now milky, “I won’t be able…to see the world with you.”

“Don’t say that.” He choked, “Don’t fucking say that.”

Juniper’s breaths were shallow, her eyes unseeing.

“We’ll get out of here.” He almost pleaded.

He gently pulled her head closer until their forehead touched. Juniper closed her eyes into the contact. He could feel her life slipping away ever so slowly under his fingers.

She felt so frail, every breath ragged though her rib cage.

Heisenberg held her close, trying to choke back tears.

“I love you.” He whispered, words broken and wavering. Juniper’s delicate fingers covered his own. Her skin was cold as she smiled the best she could.

“I love you too.” She cooed, her voice sweet and like honey on his ears. He could feel her grasp wavering as he clenched his eyes shut.

He didn’t know how long he laid there. How long he held her, trying to memorize every detail of her form: her smell, her hair, every freckle on her sweet face.

Eventually, in the wake of exhaustion, sleep overtook him. It was fitful and quick. But as he blinked his eyes open all his fears came crashing into him like a speeding car.

The space in the bed beside him was covered in sparkling, iridescent crystal, and crumbling ash.

He sat up, eyes almost unseeing.

He could make out the outline of Juniper’s form, from her jaw to the sway or her hips, forever encased in beautiful stone. The place where her abdomen once was now was hollow with intricate swirling patterns.

He reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips touching the smooth surface of the crystal. The world seemed to slow, a distance ringing filling his ears.

A humming filled the room, all metal rose and began to swirl. It all picked up speed, becoming a cyclone. The metal desks and chairs buckled in on themselves, the walls shuttering.

He balled his hands into fists, bringing them up to cover his face.

A horrid sound joined the choir of destruction. Only when his throat ached did he realize it was his own voice, crying out the grief that ate his core.

The bed shook, the frame bending.

A sound met his ears, almost lost in the havoc. The cracking of stone, hollow like glass.

Everything stopped, metal falling to the floor as he looked forward. The bed frame had buckled enough to start to crack the crystal it held, stopping short only when the humming died.

He felt numb as he stood from the bed. Shattered glass and metal scattering the floor.

Days bled into weeks. He’s not sure how long he left the crystal untouched in the ruined bed. He rarely slept and even more rarely ate. Many family meetings were missed, calls going unanswered. Eventually he wrapped the crystal that was once Juniper in her coat; placing it somewhere safe, deep in the factory.

His grief and loss turned his hunger for freedom into an all consuming desire. His disdain for Mother Miranda forged into a dagger of loathing, cutting ribbons into his soul daily.

Distractions were no longer permitted. Every waking moment was dedicated to his obsession for revenge.

~Epilogue:

Heisenberg sat before the small tv monitor, smoke creating a haze around him. He watched the man on the other end of the screen with interest, a stranger in their village. A stranger with promise.

He bite the cigar between his teeth, pondering the opportunity presenting itself. His army was big, and time was running short. With this stranger’s help, freedom was within his grasp.

He sat back in his chair, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled a small, ornate compass free. He turned it over on his gloved hand, it’s surface scratched and worn with time. His thumb brushed over the etching across the back, a word branded not only onto its metal but also on his mind.

His eyes narrowed, watching the screen. The man was breaching the stronghold, holding his own against the Lycans like no other before had.

He felt the word over again.

“We’ll see the world together, buttercup.” His tone was thick, “I promise.”

~Thank you~

[emiewritesthings]

project parenthood (1) - jay halstead

jay halstead x fem!reader/voight!reader

series summary: a series in which y/n and jay are faced with the highs and lows that parenthood has to offer.

part summary: in which y/n and jay welcome a long awaited member of their family.

masterlist

y/n had been through enough in life to know what pain feels like. whether it was physical pain, like the multiple times she had been shot, or emotional, like the death of her mother, she had experienced it all. well that’s what she thought, was until 19 hours when she was wheeled into the maternity unit with what felt like waves of knives and shards of glass crashing against the shore of her body and a rather excited boyfriend that couldn’t stop talking as he followed with a smile. 

sweat was beading on her forehead with every second she laid there with her legs raised and her hands clamped around jay’s as if they were stress balls that would provide some sort of relief to what she was feeling in that moment. for the past few months she had read on the parent forums, which jay introduced her to surprisingly, about other women’s experiences with childbirth. she had seen videos and photos that had scarred her for the rest of her life, but no one seemed to capture the exact feeling that she was going through in that moment. 

“okay another big push, y/n!” the midwife called over the mother to be’s heavy breaths from where she crouched down at the opposite end of the bed. the whole experience would normally have made the young woman feel incredibly awkward and embarrassed, but it was hard to focus on the fact that a group of strangers were staring at her naked bottom half as she used all the power in her body to provide a push. 

“I swear to god I'm gonna kill you for doing this to me, halstead!” with her eyes clutched shut, and a cry leaving her lips, she was still able to deliver the threat with the same fiery edge that she would when she was patrolling the streets with Kim or interrogating some low lives back at the precinct. y/n wasn’t sure what she was expecting from the man she loved with her entire soul, but what she hadn’t considered was to hear the sweet chuckle that left his lips. 

as her body collapsed from the push she had delivered, y/n didn’t hesitate to peer over to her left to provide a playfully harsh glare at the brunette that had the same admiration in his eyes that he had ever since they admitted their feelings for the other all those years ago. 

“it’s nice to know that even in this state, you still maintain your voight ‘I'll kick your ass ‘cause I can’ reputation.” jay teased, causing a grateful grin to plaster itself on y/n’s lips for long enough that jay felt like he wasn’t completely helpless. he hated seeing one of the strongest women he had ever met in so much pain, but was appreciative that even if he couldn’t take her pain away, he could still cause a smile that could cause the entire city to fall to its knees.

“preparing to teach our baby their family roots.” y/n joked, her dried lips pulling up into a smile as she studied the face of one detective jay halstead. everything had been so hectic leading up to this moment that she couldn’t remember the last time she had just looked over his soft features. the love of her life. the soon to be father to her baby. her jay. 

“I must be crazy to even consider trying to control one and a half voights.” leaning over to grab the pot of ice cubes that a nurse had handed them when y/n was first emitted, he gently brought one up to his lips, carefully placing it on her tongue as she parted them. 

“been telling you that since we met. some people just never learn.” she hummed, nearly completely forgetting about what she was doing. however like every sweet moment, it quickly came crashing down when the midwife requested for her to push again. it was almost like a slideshow as the joy in y/n’s eyes was quickly swapped out with fear and exhaustion, her bottom lip trembling as she tried to get ahold of herself to stop her from crying. 

“hey, hey,” jay whispered, pushing himself up from his chair so his body was positioned in a way that blocked her sight from the hospital staff, instead her eyes were locked on the green of a forrest she had explored and would continue to explore for years to come. “you are doing amazing. I'm so proud of you, okay? now I know you are tired and in pain, but we are so close to meeting our baby. just a little longer.” hesitantly, y/n nodded her head, ignoring the tears that slid down the side of her face. 

“are you ready, y/n?” feeling jay press another kiss onto her knuckles, y/n mumbled out a noise of agreement. y/n wasn’t sure exactly how long she was pushing for, it felt like hours, days even, but it couldn’t be that long for the light still shone through the window as she pushed one final time followed by loud cries that were unmistakably her child's. 

“it’s a girl!” someone, y/n wasn’t sure who, called out as the staff fussed with the small bundle of red skin and dark hair. the announcement caused a small sob of happiness to leave the couple’s lips, jay squeezing the hand of his girlfriend with the same force she had when she was delivering their little girl.

“did you hear that, a baby girl. you did it.” jay was brought to tears as he too listened to a sound that he would be getting used to for the years to come. bringing his thumb of his spare hand towards her face, he quickly flicked the tears off her cheek before planting a passionate kiss against her lips, melting into them for moment before pulling back, resting his forehead against her sweaty one. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” she whispered, before a clearing of the throat parted them, revealing a midwife holding their baby, their girl, their daughter. pulling the hospital gown slightly, the child’s bare skin was pressed against her mother’s the sight of such a delicate, fragile human being made y/n’s cries increase, her and jay had really creating someone so beautiful. she couldn’t quite believe she was finally here. 

“congratulations, she’s beautiful.” the midwife sung, watching as y/n and jay greeted the long awaited guest to their new family. 

“just like her mother.” jay mumbled into y/n’s hair, as he pressed his lips against her head gently, taking a seat besides her on the bed. y/n looked up at him with a look that spoke a million words without her even parting her lips. this was it for her, she finally found what she had been implicitly looking for her entire life. happiness. 

--

it hadn’t even been an hour by the time the room was cleared out and both mother and daughter were in the wonderful world of sleep. jay had been dozing off in the chair besides the bed, however every now and then he couldn’t help but check to make sure the two most important women in his life were okay. his flickering between sleep and consciousness seemed to break when he heard a knock at the door and was greeted by a familiar red head. 

“so a girl, huh?” will whispered, not wanting to wake up his as good as sister in law or the baby. pushing himself out of the chair, jay joined his brother by the edge of the bassinet, glancing down at the newest halstead. “lucky she looks like her mom, huh?” will joked, slightly nudging his brother’s ribs with his elbow. jay chuckled lowly. “you got a name for the little rugrat yet?” 

“not y-.” jay started but failed to finish for before he could another voice answered over him, causing both men to turn their heads to face the young women laid in the bed drowsily. 

“actually, I think we do,” pushing herself up on her arms, she swatted away jay as he attempted to move to help her. “I was thinking what about the name Sophie Camille Halstead. I know I never met you mom and you never met mine but I like to think they are up there together cursing us out for not even considering naming our first daughter after the pair.” y/n giggled, however the look on jay’s face was not filled with humour but instead shock. when they chose not to find out the gender of the baby they had briefly talked about names, but never had they mentioned their past mothers. tears pooled at the bottom of his eyes before he pushed forward to wrap his arms firmly around her body. 

“I love it,” jay mumbled. “I love you.” 

“love you too.” 

“look I don’t want to spoilt this moment, but currently the waiting room is being taken up by the entire 21st precinct that had been waiting hours for any news.” will informed the couple, that both gave the other a look that had them both picturing the chaos that was happening just down the hall. 

“you should go, take Sophie and introduce her to her family.” y/n insisted, glancing over at the baby that still was very much asleep, before returning her gaze towards a skeptical looking jay. “I insist, there is no way I am moving out of this bed until they force me out. tell my dad to come in and that I will see the rest of them tomorrow or something. now go and show off our little girl.” the smile that spread across her face was enough convincing for jay who carefully picked up the blanket wrapped bundle of warmth, before following will out of the room. 

as they made their way through the hallway, jay could hear the chaos kicking off from behind the double doors. voight’s deep voice could be heard shouting at someone that was clearing irritating him, probably Adam, and trudy who yelled for someone to give them some sort of update. 

as the door finally opened, all attention was turned towards jay and his Sophie as a few gasps and murmurs could be heard. clearing his throat, he quickly readjusted his holding of the baby, before facing the crowd. 

“I'd like to formally introduce the 21st newest recruit, Sophie Camille Halstead.” he announced with a permanent smile etched into his lips, meeting voight’s eyes he watched as the walls of steel that usually stood strong and tall fell at the sight of his granddaughter. as jay was suddenly flooded by friends and colleagues asking questions, he couldn’t quite bring himself to move his gaze away from his daughter, that he vowed to protects, as well as her mother, for as long as he shall live. 

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 32)

Notes: Thanks for being so patient waiting for this latest chapter. As usual it turned out to be a hefty MF so I hope you enjoy reading it :) I think this chapter has got the most locations in it so far: Windhaven, Ironcrest, The Steppes and Velaris!

As usual, let me know what you think. And if you enjoy reading it please do hit the reblog button. Thank you, thank you, thank you <3

And during the wait for Chapter 33 (which I will post on Sunday 28th March / 4 April if all goes to plan), do feel free to drop into my anon box--I love hearing from you guys! 

Chapter Thirty-Two Cassian

Despite a day and night of rest following the initial bout of healing at the cottage, the next week tumbled by in a whirlwind of activity. If life were a play, Cassian thought, then everything had previously been in intermission and the Gods had suddenly deigned to continue the show.

After speaking with Maya, Feyre and Rhys had winnowed an exhausted Cassian and Nesta back to Windhaven before leaving immediately for Velaris. By the time Cassian  waved them goodbye, Nesta was already lying in the foetal position on her length of the couch, her head nestled into the corner. Silent silver flames danced in the hearth and Cassian only had time to groan before he collapsed onto the branch of cushions directly opposite. His wing had landed with an unceremonious thump onto the coffee table, moulding itself around a stack of books, the tip of his fingers grazing Nesta’s thigh. She did not bat him away. Her eyes were already half-closed, her breathing deep and even.

Cassian heard the gentle reassuring thump of her heart in his ears before everything had turned dark.

It was the click of the backdoor that had woken him the next day, heralding Mas and Roksana’s arrival. Cassian had blinked the sleep from his eyes only to be met with the crown of Nesta’s golden head and the scent of jasmine and vanilla entangled like something vital in his lungs. 

Only then did he remember the nightmare that had dragged him from sleep in the dead of night. His eyes had snapped open, his body bound and immovable by the heavy weight of death and the illusion of powdered ash in his mouth. His chest had heaved but he’d managed to whip his head to the side—searching for her—only to find Nesta blinking blearily at him, as if his torment had pulled her out of the clutches of sleep. She hadn’t said a word, had only climbed across the cushions until she was lying at a right-angle to him, her body stretched across the intersection of the couch.

As soon as her head had lain next to his, Cassian had found himself able to move, as if the bindings holding him prisoner had suddenly been cut free. Shuddering, he had wound his hands through her hair and pressed his face to her scalp, breathing her in—the scent of her that told him she was safe and sound. That she was not the crumbling ash that coated his tongue.

Nesta’s hand had come up to clasp at his elbow, a silent comfort that told him she was there, before they had tumbled into the comforting dark together.

He hadn’t dreamt after that.

Biting back a sleepy grin, Cassian watched with amusement as Mas halted abruptly at the left-hand archway to the living room.

“Sorry anak,” she apologised with a mortified, unnecessary flush to her brown cheeks. Her hazel eyes flitted from him to Nesta, no doubt clocking how close their heads were and how Cassian’s fingers and nose were still buried in Nesta’s hair. “I didn’t realise you were still sleeping.”

With the swiftness of a mother prone to scooping up little ones before they got themselves into trouble, Mas grabbed for Roksana as the youngling tried to enter the room, gathering the little girl tightly to her chest. Roksana had made to lurch forward and her wings were still spread wide, ready to aid her attempt to launch across the room—towards Sala who was spread out by the fire.

Slowly, the manticore lifted her head from where it was resting on her huge paws and cocked it to one side. The beast’s sandy ears pricked forward in intrigue, her beautiful almond eyes soft and curious as she soaked in the sight of the little Illyrian buzzing with energy.

“Manticore!” Roksana exclaimed with a delighted clap of her hands. She looked up at Mas with unbridled excitement and then, to Cassian’s surprise, to him.

Cassian had never seen the youngling’s face so unfettered—so childlike. In fact, Cassian had never heard her speak. He knew she spoke the odd word to Mas and Nesta, but with him present, the youngling usually remained mute.

An ache rippled over Cassian’s wings as he folded them in and sat upright. Biting back the grimace that wanted to fight its way onto his expression, he shot Roksana his best smile and told her, “The manticore’s name is Sala.”

“Sala,” Roksana repeated quietly, turning her head to peek up at Mas with wide hazel eyes. The housekeeper grinned at the gesture and dropped a loving kiss to the wind-snarled mass of the youngling’s hair.

Nesta, who had been as immovable as a rock, finally stirred, no doubt dragged from the blanket of sleep by the sound of voices and the loss of Cassian’s hand in her hair.

Those steel blue eyes immediately sought his and everything in Cassian tightened as he found them to be clear and trauma-free—as wide and open as the moments after he had kissed her. After he had made her shatter on his tongue.

“Hello,” Nesta croaked. Then, she spied Roksana and Mas, and the sleepy smile that graced her face had all of his desire dissipating. His heart softened as Nesta propped herself up onto a forearm and said, “Hello.”

“You can go to Nesta only,” Mas told Roksana sternly as the youngling scampered across the room, scrambling up onto the sofa so she could wrap her arms around Nesta’s waist.

“She wants to pet the manticore,” Mas told Nesta with a faint, amused smile as Roksana whispered the word twice more to Nesta with a point of a stubby finger towards the fireplace. “Your manticore,” the housekeeper corrected with a toothy grin, even as Mas glanced nervously at the beast who had jumped to her feet, eager to greet Cassian as he rose from the cushions.

Cassian stretched with a groan that evolved into a wide yawn. His limbs were stiff from sleeping for so long. He needed to fly—to exercise and warm up his muscles. He needed to bathe. Gods, how long had they been sleeping? Eighteen hours? More? He usually only slept that length of time after battle.

“Devlon and the other instructors trained you this morning?” Cassian checked with Mas.

The housekeeper nodded. “More balance and footwork,” she told him. “Then applying that to self-defence.”

Cassian’s nod indicated that he was satisfied. “Take the salve from the bathroom cupboard on your way out today,” he instructed. One quick sweeping assessment of the Illyrian had told Cassian that she was sore. “It looks like you could do with it.”

A muzzle was thrust into Cassian’s hand and he looked down to find Sala staring up at him beseechingly. She let out an indignant whine as if to punctuate that she didn’t appreciate being ignored and Cassian snickered, before he bent down to scratch behind the beast’s ears.

When the manticore began to purr loudly, Roksana clapped her hands in delight.

“She’s very friendly,” Nesta told Roksana with a smile. She smoothed back the girl’s wild hair and kissed Roksana’s chubby cheek. Nesta’s hair was mussed, golden strands falling from her coronet which was now loose, no doubt from where his hands had been in it all night.

Cassian wasn’t sure she could look more beautiful. An intense urge overtook him and he almost felt the tug at his ribcage as he imagined striding across the room and slanting his mouth on hers.

Gods, he needed to taste her again more than anything.

Ignoring the sharp, knowing glance Mas threw his way, Cassian created some distance. Doing his best to appear casual, he leant against the right-hand archway that led to the kitchen and took the time to wrangle back some semblance of control.

But then he had watched Nesta introduce Roksana to Sala and everything tightened in a completely different way. His throat bobbed at the look of wonder on the youngling’s face as she stroked Sala’s fur and Cassian knew the sight was something he would cherish forever.

With a fervour that surprised even him, Cassian wished Feyre was with them. Because he knew what he wanted for next Solstice—a painting of this. Of Roksana before Sala, Nesta cradling the youngling’s body from behind, her chin tucked atop the girl’s dark tangle of hair, a secret smile on her face. Just the thought of Feyre brushing the moment onto canvas had sent shivers down his spine—and in that moment Cassian had understood just how irrevocably entangled he was with the female before him. How completely and utterly besotted he was in a way he had never thought possible with anyone.

Later, Roksana had buried her face into Sala’s neck, her small hands clutching at the manticore’s ears and whispered Sala’s name. And when Nesta had laughed, the sound had only confirmed to Cassian what he already knew: that he had never been so content. That he would live with the pain of being so near to Nesta and not being able to have her if it meant he could witness her smile freely. If he could hear her laugh without trying to stifle it as if it were a fire to be put out.

Over the following week, training the females, overseeing the military units and ferrying between Windhaven and the cottage preoccupied Cassian’s every breath. Nesta was just as busy, and she spent any free time she had in the widows camp or running errands with Mas. She had even flown to the travelling market with Mas, which had set itself up for a few days in the Paya valley, selling all means of goods, from spices and fresh produce to jewellery, weapons and swaths and swaths of fabric.

When he did not winnow to the bungalow to deliver them in person, Rhys spoke frequently into Cassian’s mind to deliver updates. Azriel bled in and out of shadows scouting for Kallon and utilising his most-trusted Illyrian contacts to feedback information of the ongoings in Ironcrest’s camp—the former attempts of which had been futile. And all the while they waited with bated breath as news continued to reach them that Marsh had still not left his bed.

It was only a matter of time until Kallon had the right to the title of Prince of Ironcrest. They all knew it. The question would be whether he’d come back to claim his title. And if he did, how the princeling would wield his new found power to rally his cause and drum up the discontent even further.

Given their demands and duties, Cassian and Nesta did not often find themselves alone, something which Cassian found to be both torture and a blessing. Even during their flights to the cottage they flew separately—Cassian on his own wings and Nesta atop Sala—and Nesta had even taken to bringing Roksana with her once the majority of the girls had recovered enough to be taken to Velaris by Mor. The little Illyrian had been delighted to discover Caer whom she adored even more than Sala, most likely due to his endless patience whenever Roksana clambered onto his back. Caer would pad around the grounds outside the cottage, carting Roksana about as she tried to balance herself with outstretched wings. Whenever she toppled off—which was frequently—the manticore would nuzzle at Roksana’s stomach with a teasing growl, which never failed to elicit squeals of giggles that cracked even Frawley’s hard exterior.

Lorrian, who had taken a shine to Roksana well before her visits, had used the youngling’s attendance around the cottage as an opportunity to give her some much-needed flying lessons. Cassian had watched with amusement, leaning against the paddock railings with Nesta and Frawley by his side as Roksana zoomed around the paddock with such speed even Lorrian had stumbled to catch up with her. Cassian had even spied a few of the girls peeking curiously from around the barn doors, no doubt drawn by Frawley and Nesta’s amused outburst of laughter. In the end, even Maya and Samra had come outside to watch.

After the lesson, Frawley had awarded Roksana with a huge mug of hot chocolate, before depositing the youngling swiftly into the tub for a much-needed bath.

In the rare moments that Cassian and Nesta were alone, Cassian found things… difficult, and it was through no fault of Nesta’s. After all, it was Cassian who had given Nesta the choice of deciding what their activities between the sheets had meant. Yet, Cassian could not help the bitter disappointment that wound through him when Nesta did not seek him out again at night—neither for company or for something more heated.

The problem was that Cassian had not truly known the gravity of what he would be dealing with in the aftermath. Knowing what Nesta now tasted like—the scent of which had faded but not disappeared from his tongue—tested a new reserve of Cassian’s strength, and Cassian found himself flitting between an almost terrifying, composed calm to a fervent, primal yearning that had him shaking with the need to touch her… to consume her… to please her in every way possible that went beyond carnal lust.

Oddly, it was the small things that set him off: when she stood too close or when those smoky grey eyes searched for him over anyone else. The worst was when she allowed a small smile to grace her beautiful face or when she taunted him, each teasing jab or jest enough to tell him that she was no longer wading through the muddy waters of trauma. That she was happier—more content.

Sometimes Nesta would touch him without him prompting her to, her fingers snagging on his arm or her body brushing against his as she moved to make tea at the kitchen counter. And those light touches… they burned, as if Cassian was nothing but an animal and Nesta was on heat. His body itched and trembled and begged for her, and Cassian had taken to pleasuring himself at night and first thing in the morning, recreating the sounds of her moans in his head and the grasp of her fingers in his hair. The way she had finally said his name and the weight of her breasts cupped in his palms. The way her body had arched and moulded to his as she had begged for release.

And finally, the way she had reached for him. Those fingers as they had dipped just below the waistband of his pants…

Fantasy and memory became friend and foe. And Cassian pleasured himself in the shower. After training. In the middle of the night. And even then, Cassian was only sated for the briefest of moments until that need crashed down over him again and he had to think of any grotesque image that would cool his blood: Devlon. Marsh. Kallon.

As a consequence, Cassian found himself keeping his distance whenever it became too much. It hurt to do it, as if something was tearing inside of him, and he knew Nesta had clocked it. But she didn’t bring it up and nor did she broach what had happened between the bedsheets. She did not shut him out. Did not poison him with words or derisive looks, even when, for the most part, Cassian thought his actions called for it.

And all the while her scent lingered like the sweetest perfume. It was worse when they were together. Then, it grew stronger. It filled his nostrils, his mouth, the taste of her heady and wonderful and almost sinful in its reminder that Cassian had experienced his one chance with her: one kiss, one touch, one taste.

That was another reason why Cassian was keeping his distance. What was it Nesta had said when he’d told her that the others might scent what they had done? It’s a complete invasion of privacy. So, when the others had arrived, Cassian had created space between them whenever he could. Had watched the way Nesta’s eyes had become more hollow whenever he ensured he was stationed at the opposite side of the room. He hadn’t had the time to communicate to her that his distance was to try and respect her wish for privacy—to prevent the others knowing what they had done—and he had been forced to watch her tumble into the dark depths of her trauma without a hand to haul her out.

Until he’d had to act as a tether, anyway.

Despite his efforts, Cassian suspected that all of his friends had sensed a shift. Mor’s gift was truth, after all, and Azriel and Rhys knew him better than anyone. His brothers had always reprimanded him for wearing his heart on his sleeve to the detriment of no-one but himself, but Cassian couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help a lot of things when it came to Nesta, and he didn’t trust himself not to let that carefully formed leash slip and ruin everything he’d promised her.

He’d already failed once; If you summon your healing magic, I’ll taste you again.

Mother Above. Cassian had even had to resort to training Nesta with Lorrian at the cottage—an unacknowledged chaperone—using the excuse that Nesta needed to not only practice with the bow, but spar with other opponents so she could experience different fighting techniques. And whilst that was true, it was also because training was sacred to Cassian. It taught people to survive and endure and he would not taint the opportunity by tackling Nesta to the ground and slanting his mouth on hers.

Not to mention that she probably didn’t want him to do that, anyway.

“Struggling?” Lorrian taunted at Cassian one evening after dinner.

The two of them had stepped back out into the paddock in order to exhaust some excess energy. They had left Nesta in the cottage living room with Frawley, Maya and Samra. Roksana, who had been running around all day with the manticores, had passed out in front of the hearth, curled up between the two beasts, one of her little wings curved around Caer’s head.

Maya’s eldest daughter Ailie remained upstairs. In fact, she rarely came out of the room she shared with her mother and sister, still too traumatised to face even those inside of the cottage. When she did emerge, she’d sit in front of the armchair by the fire and stare at the flames, as if she were hoping she were one of them and she could escape up the chimney and out into the freedom of the open sky.

But Samra—the youngest of Maya’s girls—was slowly and shyly come out of her shell, although she stuck to her mother like glue, clearly terrified that she might disappear.

“Struggling with what?” Cassian drawled to his friend, as he tapped his siphons to rid himself of his armour. It disappeared scale-by-scale, revealing a short-sleeved tunic layered over a long-sleeved one. Both were fastened at the waist by a lightweight rope of leather, which Cassian tossed to the side before shucking off the short-sleeved top.

Usually Cassian favoured fighting in skin, but Illyria in the depths of winter tested even his fierce warrior blood.

Snorting, Lorrian flared his own siphons and a gleaming emerald arm appeared in a wave of light. “You’ll feel better once you have beaten the shit out of me.”

Cassian raised a scar-slashed eyebrow. “That’s defeatist of you.”

Lorrian rolled his magical arm as he adjusted to the additional weight. “You have intermittent aggression and arousal seeping from your pores. I’m surprised Nesta hasn’t detected it.”

With a dismissive wave of a hand, Cassian replied, “I’m not that bad.”

The way Lorrian grunted told Cassian that he didn’t agree, but to Cassian’s relief, the no further comment came.

Cassian did not need his friend to point out that in the past week the two of them had sparred more frequently than they usually did in months.

“I’m acclimatising,” Cassian said shortly as they began to circle one another, their fists held up to their faces.

For a few turns, there was only the sound of their feet on the wet, spongy earth beneath the soles of their boots. Cassian’s eyes did not stray from Lorrian’s face, allowing his peripheral vision to drink in his friend’s every movement.

It was true that Cassian had more weight behind him than the colonel, but like he was in the skies, Lorrian could be as quick as hell in the training ring. Cassian had learnt long ago that sparring with Lorrian wasn’t about throwing the fiercest punch, but being alert enough to recognise when the bastard was going to duck and strike a fierce upper cut to the gut.

“You’ll stay in Velaris for a few days?” Lorrian asked, after their third round of circling.

Cassian flashed his friend a grin as if to tell him he knew what he was doing. It turned out to be more of a grimace. “You know that I am. Quit trying to distract me.”

“And Nesta’s going with you?”

“You know she is.”

“My point,” Lorrian continued with a slight pant, “is that you better master your shit before you get there. I imagine tensions will be high enough without a snarling general in the mix.”

“Things have been mending. She’s doing well.”

“Incredible,” Lorrian corrected, his eyes flitting to Cassian’s solar plexus in a way that betrayed his desired move. “I’ve never met anyone more resilient. Frawley holds her in high regard and we know that doesn’t happen often.”

In the corner of Cassian’s eye, something moved at the far left-hand side of the paddock, but then Lorrian’s right elbow dropped and Cassian had the opening he had been waiting for. He lunged, his fist flying for Lorrian’s jaw and the colonel barely had time to slam his left arm up to deflect the blow.

But Cassian did not give Lorrian time to recover. He was already moving, his left fist cutting upwards to land a sharp jab to his friend’s ribs. Lorrian tried for a shot to the face but Cassian’s right arm was already deflecting and counter-jabbing before the colonel had time to so much as think about doing anything else but blocking.

Breath sawed out of them and Cassian knew that to any onlooker they were barely more than a blur of grunting flesh and lethal wings.

It was only a lightning fast parry from Lorrian as he jumped back on agile feet, that spared him from being thrown to the forest floor.

It struck up a distance between them again, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of wings as they flared outwards and tucked in tight.

And then they began again. Circling one another and panted for air, before one of them created an opening and then there was nothing but punches and blocks and counterattacks, of footwork and grunts and wings thrown out for balance. Cassian felt himself slip into that calm—the mantra that felt like a dance to him—until he landed a precise counter-head blow as Lorrian stepped in for a hook to the ribs.

Lorrian’s knees hit the floor with a thud and Cassian stepped back, breathing hard, giving his friend space to recover. Turning, he used his wrist to wiped the blood away from his lip, only to find Maya watching him with wide-eyes, her arms wrapped tightly around her body.

He lifted a hand in greeting and she offered him a small smile in return, before she turned on the spot and disappeared back inside the house.

“That was better going than last time,” Cassian told Lorrian. He extended his hand to help his friend up from the ground but Lorrian only waved him proudly away. “But you’re still dropping your left arm and leaving your face open. Once that falls apart so does all of the rest.”

Shaking his head in irritation, Lorrian spat blood onto the damp earth. Neither of them had been going at full pelt, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t roughed one another up a little. Cassian’s ribs were already bleating from the impact of Lorrian’s fists and he knew he was already sporting a bruise on his right cheekbone. “I spent all this time mourning the loss of a limb, but when I magic it back for hand-to-hand combat it feels wrong.” Grimacing, the colonel rolled his arm in its socket. “It’s like learning all over again and the worst damn thing is that even when I magic it away at the end of the session, my brain still creates a phantom soreness where my limb should be.”

Chuckling, Cassian clapped his friend on the back. The sparring hadn’t only been a method of burning off energy for Cassian. Now Lorrian had taken up the position of colonel, Lorrian had asked Cassian to train with him more regularly. Whilst Lorrian’s magic could bring his limb back into temporary existence, Lorrian’s muscle memory had depleted over the years. Training with Cassian provided his friend with the opportunity for his brain to reconnect with his lost limb for those times when he needed it the most. “You’re Illyrian, Lor. You can deal with some pulled muscles.”

Another grunt. “It would be easier on my body if you didn’t fight like a damn God.”

Cassian flashed his teeth. “I can’t help that I was destined to lead on the battlefields.”

“And so modest, too,” Lorrian grumbled. Then, he sobered. “Nesta seems a little better.”

Cassian had not spoken to anyone about Nesta’s trauma, but it was there so plainly for anyone to see that he did not jump to deny it. And… pride wound through him at how well she was doing. At how she hadn’t shut him out. “Yes. I hope—“ he blew out a long breath, suddenly unable to stifle the worry that took hold of his brow. “I hope Velaris doesn’t make it worse.”

“You think it will do that?”

“As you guessed, there are a lot of unresolved tensions and conflicts,” Cassian admitted. Not to mention that Nesta herself had once begged him not to send her back to Velaris. Cassian did not know why she’d had a change of heart. He knew she wanted to visit the girls and help them to settle, but she’d asked to come back with him before that. “Nesta wasn’t happy in Velaris,” he finished simply.

“Does she know it’s your birthday on Hogmanay?”

“No,” Cassian said shortly. He shot his friend a sharp look. “Don’t tell her.”

Cocking an eyebrow in confusion, Lorrian asked quizzically, “Why?”

“Because Nesta has enough to worry about. If she thinks there will be a party that she has to attend with my family where she has to pretend that she’s happy, then she will bolt.”

Lorrian frowned. “She won’t bolt from you, Cass.”

But Cassian was not so sure. Lorrian did not know the Nesta in Velaris; the sharp, angry female who had been so terrifyingly sick.

“What you have seen is not Nesta at her most traumatised,” Cassian told Lorrian in a long breath. “When she came here…” He trailed off, his throat bobbing. “Things were very bad. Velaris was toxic for her. The War was hard on her—more so than any of us.”

Kallon had highlighted some of Nesta’s habits during their trip to Ironcrest and Cassian had no desire to voice them aloud again.

This time it was Lorrian’s turn to clap him on the shoulder. “And now Nesta is stronger. She’s built herself from the ashes and become someone the females revere, Cassian. You know what the Illyrians are calling her.”

Cassian did know. Did not want to think too hard about the silver-flamed Diyosa with a fierce manticore by her side. Together they protected and defended the females of the Night Court.

“She might be the only High Fae in the history of Illyria to have the respect of our people,” Lorrian continued. “She’s already winning over the majority of the female population by doing nothing but being herself. She could single-handedly sway the rebellion if we played our cards right, Cass.”

Cassian did not say anything. Was too scared to.

“Even the males have begrudging respect, you have seen how Devlon is around her. At the very least, they recognise that she is powerful. Is she still going with you to instate the new law tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Rhys had offered Nesta a choice: to assist Mor in settling the last of the girls into the library or to come with the rest of them to each of the Illyrian camps to announce the new clipping law.

“This is what you have been campaigning for all your life,” Lorrian said quietly. “Nesta could pave the way for something new. Something better. You both could.”

“You seem to have forgotten that I am nothing but a lowly bastard,” Cassian stated gruffly, as together they walked out of the paddock and past the barn. “And that I have done very little to stifle this rebellion.”

“You earned the title of Prince of Bastards a long time ago, amongst other names.”

“That is not a title.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Lorrian asked with a flicker of surprise. “That you’re not good enough for Nesta?”

Cassian stalked towards the back door, suddenly keen to find Nesta and go home. He wasn’t angry, just… uncomfortable. Lorrian had hit too close to the bone.

“Don’t do yourself a disservice by labelling yourself as something others have tried to falsely pigeon hole you into,” Lorrian told Cassian sternly as they reached the threshold. “You can’t dismantle a faulty system if deep down you believe what the oppressors have drummed into you.”

Then, with a final clap to Cassian’s shoulder, Lorrian disappeared into the cottage.

___  

As the pastel hues of dawn bled into day the next morning, Rhys and Feyre winnowed into Windhaven.

Even if it hadn’t been for the star-kissed breeze that wound its way through the mountain pass, Cassian would have known his brother and his mate had arrived. Cassian was halfway through correcting Emerie’s stance when her head whipped to the right of the sparring rings, along with every other female who had turned up for practice that morning.

Only Nesta did not turn, but like Cassian, she had been expecting them. Rhys had spoken into Cassian’s head the evening before whilst he and Nesta were eating dinner, informing him that he and his mate would arrive just after dawn the next morning. They planned to watch the females train, before Rhys would carry out his quarterly observation of Windhaven’s aerial fleet so he could witness the progress Cassian had insisted they were making in reforming the Illyrian troops.

Feyre would join Nesta and Mas on an inspection of the camp—the widows camp in particular—before they would all reconvene for a quick lunch. From there, they would travel to each of the camps main squares to announce the new clipping law, whilst Mor would winnow to the cottage with Frawley and transport the remaining females to the library.

Cassian knew that Nesta was not looking forward to going back to Ironcrest, but she did not change her mind about accompanying them to the camps. For some reason, the fact that she was willing to brave it at her own expense had only served to make Cassian fall for her even more. And although she had retired to bed early that night, she had left her bedroom door ajar just as she had promised during their time in Ironcrest. Cassian had watched her read in bed out of the corner of his eye for an hour or so before the faelight in her room winked out.

It had taken a long time for her breathing to become deep and for the blankets to stop rustling as she tossed and turned in bed. Cassian had fought the urge to crawl in beside her; to fold her into his body and tangle their legs together. To reassure himself with not only with the sound of her heartbeat but the patter of it against the centre of his palm.

Now, Nesta stood beside him with her hands on her hips, using the opportunity to catch her breath. She was dressed in her favourite leathers and her golden brown hair was weaved back tightly from her face. It revealed her flushed cheeks and pink nose, which was thanks to the frigid bite of frost that had kissed the landscape the night before.

“Back to work,” Cassian ordered the females firmly, as their attention lingered on the new arrivals. He heard the same command echo around the adjoining sparring rings from the other trainers. “I want three sets of ten lunges on each leg, followed by twenty one-two punches against your partner’s sparring pads,” Cassian continued.

He was teaching the youngest age group that morning and Nesta remained at his side to assist with the demonstrations. “Remember to make two clean punches,” he told the females. “It should sound like a beating heart—boom, boom—but your fists should move in a fluid movement like an arrow. One fist is the head, the other is the tail.”

He held up his palms so Nesta could demonstrate. Unsurprisingly, her punches were perfectly formed.

“Good,” he praised her. “Partner up with Emerie again whilst I do the rounds.”

Leaving Nesta with the shopkeeper, Cassian weaved his way around the ring, stopping when he needed to gently correcting a stance or a technique. In the corner of his eye, Cassian saw Sala give up her station beneath a copse of young pine trees. The manticore gently nudged off Roksana who had thrown her arms around the beast’s neck, and slunk over to Rhys and Feyre, her silver tail a blaze cutting through the brisk morning air.

The manticore paid no heed as Rhys stilled and his magic crackled—a male ready to protect his mate—but something angry rose in Cassian. He stifled it. Told himself he’d be nervous if a young manticore was roaming around near his mate without its fae counterpart beside it. Yet… the females around the camp had accepted Sala more readily than Cassian had anticipated. To them, Sala and Nesta were a gift from the old Gods—a level or protection against the evils in Prythian—and whilst they kept their distance they did not flinch when Sala walked by.

It helped that the manticore was good with the children. She allowed them to tug at her ears and hang around her neck, only letting out a warning growl if they pulled too hard or she’d had enough.

And the males… even they treated Sala with a level of begrudging respect and terror. Nobody could dispute the old magic that clearly stated that Sala was Nesta’s and Nesta was Sala’s. Cassian couldn’t say he was put out by it. If anything, it offered Nesta an undisputed level of protection that meant she could roam the camp and surrounding skies with more freedom. There had been so many times this week when Nesta had come back to the bungalow in time for dinner, her cheeks glowing and her eyes so wonderfully bright that Cassian couldn’t stop the delighted, relieved smile that graced his expression.

Ignoring the magic that was heavy in the air, Sala drew up at Feyre’s side. Feyre’s eyes were a little wide as the manticore nudged her muzzle into her hand in greeting, before the beast sat back on her haunches. Those golden eyes fixed back on where Nesta stood in the sparring ring, her weight braced on a back foot as Emerie pummelled her fists into her hands. But when Feyre dared to run her hand down the silken fur of Sala’s head, the manticore’s eyes briefly slatted in pleasure.

“She’s on our side, you know,” Cassian told his brother later, as they stood at the lip of the mountain pass where the sparring rings jutted out into the Illyrian sky. Feyre and Nesta had disappeared to the widows camp whilst Rhys observed the Windhaven forces. “Quit acting like Sala is going to tear Feyre limb from limb.”

Rhys’s attention slid from the males engaged in a sword fight to pin Cassian with violent stare that did nothing to quell Cassian’s irritation. “In case you have forgotten, Sala is a manticore. I believe I have some leniency to be wary of a beast who could rip out my mate’s throat with little hesitation.”

“Bullshit,” Cassian retorted, making sure he kept his voice low so as not to draw attention. “A manticore has its own moral compass and its own ability to judge who is and isn’t a threat. And,” he continued, “Nesta would never harm Feyre. She would never allow Sala to attack her.”

“Nesta’s magic is so vast you could add up the magic of six of the High Fae nobility and it would seem like a drop in the Sidra in comparison to Nesta’s. So excuse me if I take precautions given her relationship with my mate is volatile at best and the manticore answers to no-one but her.”

Barely contained fury split across Cassian’s expression and he clamped down on it, lowering his mental shields on instinct so Rhys’s dark consciousness could step inside his mind. Stop spewing shit, Cassian snapped internally, his voice thunderous now he did not have to control the level of his voice. And stop disrespecting Nesta. Her trauma runs deeper than you could ever imagine, yet here she is, defending the Illyrian people and fighting for what is right.

And Rhys… his brother actually blinked at the force behind Cassian’s words. It was not often that Cassian truly lost his temper—not like this.

Releasing a slow breath, Cassian finally loosed the words he’d needed to say aloud for a long time; If you don’t forgive Nesta, you will forever drive a wedge between the two sisters. You forget that Nesta is an empath. Why do you think she turned down every job you offered her? Your offers were never genuine.

Rhys observed Cassian with a level of scrutiny he hadn’t been subject to in a long, long while. Cassian did not squirm, only stared his brother down, unflinching. You can’t welcome Nesta to the Court of Dreams without a level of trust, brother. Let her show you what she’s capable of. Give her space and time. Nesta is strong and fierce and proud but she feels deeper than anyone I’ve ever met. She is well aware of the wrongs she’s committed. Do not think she does not suffer for them, but she is not someone to be controlled. Nesta cannot and should not be tamed by anyone but herself.

This time Rhys’s blink was laboured as if a realisation had just clicked in his brain. Cassian knew that he had not considered that he might prevent Feyre from mending a relationship that she yearned for. And to know he could be the cause of his mate’s unhappiness…

Rhys wasn’t without fault—nobody was—but this bias had gone on too long.

His brother seemed to think so, too. Ok, Rhys conceded. You’re right. I’m sorry. But know that it will always be my instinct to protect Feyre, you know that. Even if there’s nothing to protect her from I will never stop worrying.

Cassian did know. It was why he was so worried about this afternoon. About Nesta joining them whilst they announced the new law to a population of hostile, backward Illyrians.

But Cassian graced Rhys with a taunting smile that was free of his earlier anger. I understand. But you should know that if I see you mistrust Nesta or Sala again, I will drag you into the sparring ring. And we both know who will win that fight, brother.

Rhys’s velvet soft laugh echoed around Cassian’s mind and then that midnight dark retreated. Cassian carefully stacked up his mental shields until they were a ring of indestructible fire.

And all the while, Cassian did not voice what they both already knew: that it was his instinct to protect Nesta, too.

___

“What if instating the clipping law today motivates the rebellion?” Feyre asked uncertainly as they ate a quick lunch together in the bungalow.

Azriel had arrived a few minutes prior and they all sat together on the couch, plates balanced on their laps. Mas had been busy preparing food dosas that morning and even Rhys’s eyes had lit up with delight as he thanked the blushing housekeeper, piling copious amounts of potato onto his pancake.

It struck Cassian as he surveyed the people in the room before him—his loved ones— that the bungalow too small for so much company. And that was without Mor or Amren, the latter of whom had remained behind in Velaris to watch over the wards, alongside overseeing an important meeting with the merchants in stead of Rhys.

Cassian also suspected that Rhys’s second remained behind because his brother didn’t want any of the Illyrian’s to glean just how much power Amren had lost in the war—how she was no longer the nightmare the children of Prythian were told about—the ancient, terrifying other who would drink their blood if they misbehaved.

The new law would be decreed in all of the market squares of the major camps. Alaksander would travel with them and would be publicly clipped—a living example of what would happen to anyone who disobeyed the law that had been instated for centuries. Alaksander would prove that the new penalty for clipping another’s wings was not just a threat: the Night Court would follow through on their promises.

All of the Illyrian nobility had been informed of the impending law by Night Court winnowgram, each letter signed by both High Lord and High Lady. The reaction had not been a pleasant one and even though Cassian knew the amendment to the law was progress, he couldn’t help but wish it was not a bastard who had stooped so low as to mistreat girls in such an abominable way. What might have been different if Alaksander had not been brought up on the cold and brutal fringes of society, where only iron will and sheer luck meant you survived? It didn’t excuse his actions, but Cassian couldn’t shake the leaden sensation in his gut that whispered; what if, what if, what if?

“It could go either way,” Cassian confessed finally to Feyre, his expression grim.

As he spoke, cold fingers brushed against the back of his hand and Cassian looked down in surprise to find Nesta’s forefinger curl around his. He had dared to sit next to her, unable to emerge triumphant from the battle that came with his innate need to oversee what she ate—fetching her chai when she barely touched her tea, spooning more yoghurt atop her dosa to counteract the spices. Feyre, he knew, had watched the entire process with a bemused expression that bordered on amusement. Rhys’s eyes had just glimmered knowingly. Azriel remained stone-faced, but Cassian knew his brother was raising an internal eyebrow at him as those shadows whispered and whispered and whispered.

Cassian adjusted his grip until their fingers intertwined just as a soft, gentle breeze fluttered down that tether. It smelt sweet like summer. Like freshly cut hay bails and the muted perfume of flowers and grass. In his mind, Cassian caught a fleeting image of Nesta running her hands through a golden field of wheat as she walked towards a lone large oak tree, its gnarled trunk a safe haven as she sat against it and opened a book.

Want coiled inside of him and all Cassian could think about was raising Nesta’s hand to his lips and pressing his thanks to her skin. Something primal growled as he fought the urge and Cassian hoped to the Mother that Nesta’s scent had faded from him enough that his mere proximity to her didn't scream to his High Lady, I pleasured your sister until she shattered on my tongue.

For some absurd reason, the thought made Cassian want to bark a laugh. Nesta twisted her head to look up at him and Cassian wondered if she’d felt his amusement with her empath gifts or whether it had tunnelled down the bond.

He didn’t really care. He squeezed her hand.

“It will either continue to ignite any existing hatred of our Court or scare them enough that they will start to see us as a real threat,” Azriel said.

The Shadowsinger had already finished his food and was now standing at his usual spot by the fireplace. Sala sat intently before him, her eyes tracking his shadows as they wreathed about his body. It was almost as if the manticore was hoping he would send out a tendril for her to play with.

Cassian felt like telling the manticore that Azriel was all about hard work and very little play. But it was that work ethic and the Illyrian spies his brother had in place across the clan territories that had ensured that word had got out about what had happened in Ironcrest. Rhys had been adamant that condemning the Ironcrest royalty right off the bat might spark Kallon into action before they were ready. They still needed to find out where Kallon was, whether he’d managed to get the sword to work, and why he had needed the girls blood. Cassian was sure it was dark magic intended to revive the blade, but until they knew for certain… They needed answers and they needed them fast.

So, the leaked information had been selective—devoid of details about the sword and the pit of blood—but the bare bones had been enough to spark intrigue; each retelling whispered of Nesta Archeron, the witch of the Eastern Steppes and their manticores. Of clipped girls kept in cages and rebellion sentries killed for their crimes by a member of the High Fae who did not treat the Illyrians as lesser.

As Azriel had assured Nesta a few days prior when he’d visited for dinner; Stories that thrive on the grapevine have a tendency to wreak more havoc than the complete truth.

The key was to use the power of rumour to slowly unravel the success of the rebellion’s cause amongst the Illyrian people. If Kallon was relying on the females to sway any future referendum for an independent nation, the Night Court would reveal their despicable actions and hope that it would be enough to show the females of Illyria that the rebellion would only result in continued subordination and abuse.

“I am keen to side with the latter,” Rhys said lightly, as he picked a piece of invisible lint off his already immaculate shirt. “This is the first true reaction they have seen from us. It reasserts our authority above petty threats.”

“And it helps,” Azriel continued coldly, “that the rebellion sentries lost their lives. It eliminates further problems down the line.”

“Had the Blood Rite gone ahead, I did initially suggest that we should have allowed some of them to get caught up in the casualties,” Rhys mused.

“We can’t kill every Illyrian that stands against us,” Cassian snapped, his temper rising, even though he knew Rhys had never been serious about messing with the Rite. “That makes us the evil ones in the scenario. It sparks further rebellion later down the line when we squash down every fly that strays onto our path.”

“That may well be true,” Rhys reflected, “but Nesta has certainly done us a favour by ruling some of them out of the equation. Either way, going to all of the camps today is the start of something new—something better.” He turned to Nesta. “You’re ready?”

Nesta had been silent during the meal but to Cassian’s delight, she had cleared all of the food on her plate. Even so, her fingers tightened around his, her knuckles turning white as she rose up tall and lifted that regal chin. “Yes.”

To everyone’s surprise, the Shadowsinger let a faint, reassuring smile grace his mouth, as if he saw through Nesta’s indifferent mask. “It will reassert authority,” he reassured Nesta quietly, his voice as smooth as midnight.

Cassian relaxed slightly at his brother’s words. Nesta liked Azriel and he was the least likely person she would snap at. Sometimes that understanding consumed Cassian with a bitter jealousy that he couldn’t shake, that territorial part of him raging that Nesta would sooner listen to his friend over him, but now… it was needed, and it was useful.

He also knew that he wouldn’t give up their shared fire for anything.

Rhys nodded in agreement. “My Inner Court works on choice,” Rhys told Nesta. “You can help Mor relocate the girls this afternoon if you’d prefer or you can come to each of the camps with us.”

It was an olive branch and one Rhys meant, even if it scuppered his brother’s plan to reassert that Nesta was not someone to be messed with: a benevolent yet wrathful queen that would defend and protect those who needed it the most.

Nesta shook her head, but Cassian felt her inner turmoil in his stomach, the sensation deep and wounding. So he stood, helping her rise to her feet, their hands still entwined. He cocked an arrogant, lazy eyebrow and allowed a grin to spread across his face as he gave in to temptation and kissed the back of her hand, as if she were royalty and he a lowly pauper. “I think you’ll terrify them, witch,” he drawled, and Cassian didn’t have to observe anyone in the room to witness their surprise as Nesta’s lips twitched up into a small, true smile—a smile she saved for Mas and Roksana and him.

“You don’t have to do anything, Nesta,” Feyre said thickly, her hand coming to rest gingerly on Nesta’s arm as she also stood from the couch. She was no doubt thinking of the image Cassian had accidentally let slip the day before when Rhys had asked Nesta to share her memory of the cave. He had been so terrified of Nesta reliving the previous day’s trauma that the ring of fire around his mind had slipped.

It had been too late to fumble after the images that had tumbled through the exposed cracks of his mental shields; Nesta’s haunted blood-streaked face and that dead look behind her eyes as he desperately cupped a palm to her cheek in the bathroom—as he tried to get her to engage with him.

Feyre had looked as if she had been hit in the stomach—had looked physically ill—and even Rhys’ violet eyes had flicked to Cassian’s for a second, his dark eyebrows raising imperceptibly before Nesta had allowed him into her mind.

And that memory…

Even now, the thought of it made Cassian want to shatter things. They had all witnessed Nesta’s sheer panic as that male had pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the ground. Had all seen the boy’s cruel face that had pushed to the forefront of Nesta’s mind when it had happened—a face that Cassian was certain was that human piece of filth. But then Cassian’s pyrite had exploded with power, the ruby light throwing the male off of her just in time for Nesta to scramble to her feet and thrust that sword through his groin.

“You’re involved in this either way,” Rhys told Nesta from his position across the couch, puling Cassian abruptly from his thoughts. Silver flames from their position in the hearth danced in his brother’s star-flecked irises. “What you displayed was an incredible amount of power that they will fear. You need to remind them of that.”

___

When Nesta emerged from her bedroom in full leathers with a bow slung across her back, Cassian thought he might self-combust.

The leathers were a gift from Rhys and rather than being made up of the usual black, the scales were lined with a smoky silver that shimmered and danced. The effect was both sublime and unnerving; the whispering silver a promise of the danger that could be wrought from Nesta’s fingers should anyone cross her.

Clamping down hard on the arousal that smacked him in the face, Cassian quickly looked away, only to find Azriel observing him with a sly grin.

“Ditch the bow,” Rhys ordered.

Nesta bristled. “But—”

“No.” Cassian’s words were a deathly snarl that were forced between gritted teeth. Besides the lunacy of asking Nesta to go into the camps unarmed, Rhys’s tone was not the way to deal with Nesta—it was not the way to speak to his mate.

Feyre whirled on Rhys. “You can’t be serious?”

Rhys’s violet eyes did not move from Nesta’s, nor did his expression turn neutral as he spoke to Feyre mind-to-mind. “You’re powerful enough without it,” Rhys told Nesta simply when he was done explaining to his mate. “That’s the message you want to send. You have your own magic and you have a manticore at your side.”

Cassian clenched his fists as Nesta removed the new bow Lorrian had gifted her a few days prior. The bow she had taken to wearing almost everywhere.

“At least take a dagger,” Cassian ground out, striding towards Nesta and unsheathing one of the knives at his thigh in one fluid movement.

Mother above, the thought of Nesta with no weapon made him want to vomit.

But Nesta shook her head. “I’ve got one,” she told him as she buried her fingers into Sala’s ruff and took Rhys’s outstretched hand.

Her lips twitched as Cassian scoured her body in vein. He was so close to her that he could almost taste her skin, but he ignored the heady rush and crossed his arms firmly over his chest. He stared down at her and demanded, “Where?”

A taunting eyebrow lifted as Nesta replied coolly, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Cassian couldn’t help it. He laughed—the sound loud and booming and true.  “At least tell me you’re wearing —“ he started, needing to know she was wearing the pyrite. That if some shit went down and he couldn’t reach her, if her magic failed, then he could protect her like he had that day at the cave.

Metallic blue shimmered in Nesta’s irises—her power writhing beneath the surface. The sight of it was a relief and Cassian wondered if Nesta had known that. If she had summoned it so she could assure him that she had her own arsenal of weapons. “I haven’t taken it off.”

Fine. Good.

“Now, now children.”

Feyre’s teasing voice filtered into Cassian’s ears and then her slim fingers were wrapping around his hand.

But Cassian did not break his gaze from Nesta, watched the fire dancing amusement in her eyes until Feyre folded him into nothing.

___  

Ironcrest was just as they had left it; beautiful yet punishing, the strong wind a slap to the face as they winnowed directly into the roughly hewn market square located in the centre of the valley. To the left of them the sparring rings rose like teetering, grass-topped towers and to the right, the cliff face layered with the nobility’s residences staggered their way up into the clouds.

It had been decided that the royalty across the camps would not be granted a visit prior to the clippings. The Night Court would not bow to the Illyrians haughty sense of authority. Instead, the Illyrians would be reminded that it was they who were subject to its Court’s wrath should they not abide by law.

For the brief second it took for them to materialise into the camp, Cassian witnessed the awe alight across Feyre’s face—the painter in her no doubt drinking in the beauty around her—before her expression turning into the stony mask of a High Lady unimpressed with the brutal actions of her people.

Beside them, Nesta, Rhys and Sala appeared in a glitter of midnight. Seconds later, Azriel stepped out of the shadows with Alaksander beside him, the bastard bound in ropes of cobalt light. The Illyrian’s face was full of such stark fear and apprehension that Cassian knew he’d be begging when he learnt that his penalty was far worse than death.

Aside from the howling wind, the activity in the camp seemed to pause at their arrival, as if it was waiting with bated breath. Crowds had already formed in the square around a circular wooden platform that had been built around the middle of a stone fountain.

The fountain itself was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful structures in the camp. Water flowered downwards into multiple stone basins that grew in size until they met the wide reservoir at the base, which was obscured by the wooden scaffolding. At the very pinnacle of the fountain, two stone warriors rose towards the sky—Enalius and Oya—who sported crowns. Rather than being inlaid with jewels, the crowns were set with two angled stars that lay atop the front and were tied together by a circular ribbon that ran through their middle—pareho. 

At the base of the fountain, hidden by the platform, Cassian knew lion faces were carved into the stone—beasts ready to fight beside their chosen companions in the battle against evil.

“Here we go,” Cassian muttered under his breath to Feyre as he spotted the all too familiar figure of Lord Rufous—Ironcrest’s senior war-lord—stalking towards them across the wide circular platform.

Cassian turned to Nesta, ready to prompt her should she forget their plan, but she and Sala were already moving—Nesta an unwavering, lethal Queen as she floated towards the steps that would lead them up onto the raised planks.

Sala slunk by her side, her silver tail flicking dangerously, her sharp fangs visible and pointed beneath her muzzle, and Illyrians stepped back warily to create an unobstructed path. Some jumped out of Nesta’s way, their eyes wide and scared as they discovered that the rumour of the manticore was grounded on truth. But a few of the females dropped to their knees and bowed to the earth. A handful of them even dared to reach out and brush Nesta’s arm, as if they wanted living proof that she was not a mirage.

Cassian tried not to bristle—tried not to snarl and launch himself towards her and unsheathe his sword in the same motion. A slow, steadying breath allowed his head to clear as he reminded himself that Nesta could protect herself. That she was strong and fierce and brave and that she did not need him to step in and fight her battles for her. So Cassian watched Azriel stride after her, his hand gripping Alaksander’s arm as he led the restrained male towards the stage. Feyre and Rhys filed in behind them, their magic trailing an invisible yet somehow detectable path behind them like a royal cloak, and Cassian took up the rear, his hand casually resting on his sword as he stalked after them, his expression as hard and unyielding as granite.

When Nesta slowly ascended onto the platform, Lord Rufous faltered. And Nesta—Nesta—smiled at him, the movement cruel and twisting and terrifying. And in that moment, every single rumour that had spread through the camp like wildfire lit as a threat in her eyes.

Those dark beady eyes fell to Nesta’s fingers, where embers sparked with the promise of flame, and Rufous stilled, seemingly frozen to the spot. Even the males beside him halted, although their expressions remained cruel and calculating.

“She killed Ironcrest warriors,” Lord Rufous snarled when he finally found his voice. “That witch is not permitted on our lands.”

Cassian snarled right back, the sound a low, territorial warning in his throat as he bared his teeth at the war-lord. Rhys scraped a nail down Cassian’s mental shield but he ignored it. They both knew he couldn’t help it. “Then the Ironcrest nobility should have ensured that girls were not caged and slaughtered like animals.”

“Where is Lord Marsh,” Rhys cut in smoothly, before Cassian could royally fuck something up. “I called for his presence today.”

“He and his wife are indisposed,” Rufous sneered. “As is his son.”

“And pray tell me, where has Prince Kallon scarpered off to?” Rhys asked with a light deliberation that should have set alarm bells clanging through Rufous’s thick skull.

“He has business with the warriors in the north of our territory,” Rufous replied coldly, but the male’s onyx eyes slid warily to Sala as the beast pinned him with a glare that sung death.

“How interesting,” Rhys mused, as he picked off an imaginary piece of lint from the exquisitely tailored shirt that was lined with silver thread—starlight shimmering in a night sky. “And here I was thinking that Princeling Kallon abandoned his territory and his people after our recent findings.”

Rufous’s lip curled but he did not retaliate. Instead, his gaze slid to Alaksander who looked as if he might have fainted if it were not for the Shadowsinger holding him up. “He’s not one of ours,” Rufous sneered.

“He was on your territory with many other males who belonged to your camp,” Rhys responded calmly, but this time his voice was laced with the dark sort of promise that should have finally made Lord Rufous take stock of who exactly he was speaking with. “And he will receive a punishment that is fit for his crime.”

“Is that why we’ve all been called here then?” Rufous asked. “To witness a killing of a bastard who has no relevance to our camp? We do not control the filth that comes out of Windhaven. We can’t help it if those savages clip their females.”

“If the Illyrians in Windhaven are savages, then I do not know what to call the males in your camp,” Nesta said, her voice brimming with a fervour that burned like ice. “How many females have been mutilated here? How many girls? It is a sin what has been allowed to happen here.”

Lord Rufous was slowly turning purple with rage—no doubt at having been spoken to with such derision by a female—but he remained where he was, his darting glances between Sala and the fire burning at Nesta’s palms enough to keep him stationed in place.

“I do not believe that I need to remind you or the Illyrians here in Ironcrest that clipping has been against the law for centuries,” Rhys began coldly before Lord Rufous could open his mouth to form a retort. His voice was suddenly ringing out across the crowds, his magic amplifying the sound. “As Lady Nesta has pointed out, I have it under good authority that many of the females in this camp have been mutilated, so I would not take it upon yourself to lie to both your High Lord and Lady that this is a one off occurrence when I can see for myself that it is not the case.”

Rhys nodded to the bodies of Illyrians who had gathered around the fountain—at the females who had turned up not only to witness a public visit from their High Lord and Lady, but to see the High Fae who had protected their gender at the potential cost of her own life.

A sharp click of Rhys’s fingers summoned a rickety looking stool that appeared out of thin air. “Sit, observe and do not speak,” Rhys ordered with another snap of his fingers and a deliberate pointed finger.

For a moment, Rufous looked as if he was going to object, but then Sala prowled forward. The manticore’s ears lay flat against the back of her head and her nose wrinkled as her lip curled into a cruel smile, baring her lethally sharp incisors.

The blood that had threatened to turn the war-lord the colour of beetroot drained so quickly that Cassian thought it was a wonder that he didn’t faint. Sala slowly encourages Rufous and his warriors to step backwards until the war-lord’s legs bumped against the stool. There was a moments pause and then, when Rufous failed to sit down, Sala let out an ear-deafening roar. Spittle flew onto the war-lords leathers and the male jumped out of his skin, his backside hitting the seat with an audible thump.

The males at Rufous’s side leapt to unsheathe their weapons, only to find that they were stuck in their scabbards.

Feyre raised her chin. “We won’t be using those. If anyone so much as dares to touch their weapons you will receive the same punishment as this traitor.” She jerked her head towards Alaksander whose knees were all but knocking together.

“Well said, darling,” Rhys purred, bringing his mate’s hand to his mouth so he could press a kiss to the back of her palm.

And then together they turned back towards the crowd.

___ 

Alaksander had begged when Nesta had cut his wings. Had fallen to his knees and begged as Nesta floated over to him, her irises misting silver.

“You were part of a group of males who raped and mutilated young girls,” Nesta had told him in a voice that had bordered on ethereal. “As punishment, you will never taste the skies again.”

That fated forefinger finger had risen and at the tip, a single silver flame had burned so hot Cassian could sense the molten heat of her magic from where he had stood flanking his High Lord and Lady. And somehow Cassian knew that the hoards of Illyrians that had gathered could sense it to—the immense power of the eldest Archeron sister who had been gifted with the magic to protect and defend.

Alaksander had started to sob, the sound cracking around the market square in such a broken way that Cassian was surprised the male’s ribs did not splinter. He tried to tuck in his wings but Azriel made him turn so his back and wings faced the crowd.

The male had tried in vein to keep his wings tucked in tight, but Rhys had lifted a hand and slowly, painstakingly, Alaksander’s wings had spread as if an invisible force was pulling them open.

“We do not take pleasure in this,” Rhys informed the many faces that had gathered around them. “We have trusted Illyria to uphold the laws the Night Court have decreed in the past, but they have not been followed. Lest this new law be a lesson to you all.”

“Should any of you clip another's wings then you will pay the same price,” Feyre continued. “We have eyes and ears in every corner of this Court. Do not think because you are far removed from Velaris that we will not catch wind of barbaric acts and that we will not dare to interfere.”

And then, with a nod from her sister, Nesta’s flame had seared through the tendons on either side of the male’s elbow joints. Alaksander had screamed, his back arching as he tried to flinch away from the permanent damage that Nesta had inflicted to his treasured wings.

It was that desperate, broken scream that had sleep eluding Cassian as he lay in bed hours later. His thoughts were too loud, too insistent, and the images his mind conjured were too bright and colourful.

He was worried about Nesta. She had healed Alaksander between trips to the other camps without a word. Had slowly knitted his tendons back together only for her to cut them again as they stood before the next clan. She had not balked. Had only kept that icy, murderous expression across her face that told Cassian she was thinking of every wronged female as she took away Alaksander’s flight.

Even so, Cassian knew Nesta had found no true pleasure in it, only a grim determination that what she was doing was right. And it was something that the crowd had understood, too. Nesta was two sides of a coin: she could protect and destroy and she would indulge in the latter if it meant fighting for the former.

By the time they had arrived at the House of Wind, the exhaustion that came with the day’s events had been stark across Nesta’s face. She had barely registered the food Cassian had made her eat in the dining room as soon as they had arrived, or the way that Sala had placed her head in her companion’s lap. Feyre had summoned the wraiths up to the House, clearly worried herself for her sister’s welfare, and Cassian had watched Azriel’s spies lead Nesta away to her old room in search of a bath and a warm bed with a forlorn expression on his face that had resulted in a quirked eyebrow from Azriel.

When Cassian had checked on Nesta an hour before he retired to bed himself, he’d only spotted the slope of a satin-strapped shoulder and the golden tangle of hair spilled across a pillow beneath the piles of blankets atop the mattress. Sala had lain at Nesta’s feet, her chin between her paws, but the manticore had hopped off the bed when she’d spotted him, rubbing her face against his middle with a loud, rumbling purr.

Letting out a long groan of frustration, Cassian flipped over onto his back in defeat—his mind too busy to grant him the peace that came with sleep. It was well after midnight now, the night sky overcast and muted through the view Cassian was afforded in the gap between the curtains. Occasionally, the cloud coverage would break to reveal a dusting of stars as they glinted softly against the smoky blue of the night sky and a beautiful crescent moon.

A dull pounding began to echo around Cassian’s skull; the result of his continuous efforts to strain towards something that simply would not come. So, when he heard the quiet patter of feet coming from the corridor outside his room, Cassian initially thought it was a new addition to the throbbing in his head. Even so, instinct had him reaching for the knife beneath his pillow. But then the doorknob turned and a soft, buttery wedge of light crept across the floor, illuminating the sweeping outline of Nesta’s curves as she stepped into the room. Sala’s golden eyes glinted as she sloped in behind her companion.

Nesta’s scent hit him moments after that—sleepy jasmine and vanilla. He didn’t sit up. Cassian had learnt to treat Nesta like an easily startled animal when she chose to expose herself. Opting for slow, measured movements was key—or better, no movement at all.

“Ok, sweetheart?” he rasped through the darkness, barely daring to believe he wasn’t dreaming as she leant against the carved oak door. It clicked shut behind her and Cassian pushed the weapon back beneath his pillow.

For a moment, Nesta stood there and Cassian tried not to notice how her nipples had peaked from the cold or how painstakingly beautiful she looked with dishevelled hair and her eyes half-shuttered from sleep.

He clamped down hard on the sudden need that washed over him, imagined sinking his teeth into the meat of it until it squirmed uncomfortably—a beast trapped beneath a paw—as Nesta walked silently across the room. Sala slunk through the shadows too, hopping up onto the bed so she could curl up by Cassian’s feet. But Cassian was too preoccupied with how the mattress dipped as Nesta slid beneath the sheets. At how his heart was beating so hard he knew she must be able to hear it.

She was still too far away—too far, too far, too far away on his stupidly enormous bed—and Cassian resisted every urge that screamed at him to grab her.

Instead, he rolled onto his side. Savoured the sight of her silhouette from the intermittent moonlight that filtered between the billowing amethyst curtains.

“It’s too quiet in my room,” Nesta admitted eventually, her voice hoarse from lack of use. She stared up at the ceiling. “The silence woke me up. I miss the wind.”

Now Cassian’s heart raced for an entirely different reason. “I had Rhys loosen the shield around my room here a long time ago,” Cassian told her, knowing Nesta had already clocked the soft howl of the wind as it whipped around the neighbouring mountain peaks. “Whenever we used to stay here as younglings I could never sleep either. It took me a long while to realise that Rhys could alter the magic for me. He did the same in Azriel’s room.”

Not that Cassian often entered Azriel’s bedchamber. His brother was fiercely private like that.

“Is that why you choose to stay up here rather than in the other houses?” Nesta asked. “So you can live in the sky?”

“Partly,” Cassian admitted with a lift of a shoulder. “I never had reason to set my roots down in Velaris permanently and buy my own place. My home has always been Illyria, even if the bungalow is small.”

Nesta frowned, clearly unconvinced by Cassian’s words. Before the threat of the rebellion, Cassian had spent very little time living at the bungalow, more often than not having one of his friends winnow him to where he needed to be when he was required to oversee a military unit or kick a stubborn war-lord into line.

But she only said quietly—as if it were their secret, “I like the bungalow.” She rolled towards him and as the face of the moon was again cast free of a cloud Cassian finally saw Nesta properly.

“I didn’t think I’d like Illyria but I do,” she confessed.

“I’m glad,” Cassian replied softly. “It’s not for everyone.”

Nesta shrugged. “It’s brutal and cold but it’s…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “Freedom, somehow. I’ve never had a home really, but being there feels right.” A blush graced her cheeks and Cassian wanted to stroke it away with his thumbs as she looked away. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It makes sense,” Cassian replied hoarsely.

Silence draped over them like a blanket. But then Nesta asked, her voice smaller than usual, “Can I stay here? In your room, I mean?”

“I’ve already told you I’d rather sleep with you beside me,” he reminded her, something cracking inside of him at the glimpse of vulnerability she allowed him to see. “Stay whenever you want.”

Nesta stifled a laugh. “You won’t be saying that if you have company.”

“I won’t have company.”

Nesta turned her head to smile into the pillow. “Liar.”

“I’m beyond lies right now, Nesta.” The intensity behind his words didn’t have Nesta physically recoiling but Cassian knew her—knew that she would start to panic. So, he shot her a slow grin. “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to turn away a haughty witch now, would I?”

A huff of breath caressed his cheek. “I didn’t realise you had such common sense.”

Cassian’s laughter sparked him into action, his resolve to keep his hands to himself wavering as he reached for her. And when Nesta moved towards him and melted into his embrace, her back moulding into the hard planes of his body, he almost groaned at the comfort of it—at the knowledge that she wanted to be held by him.

Their legs tangled together and Cassian curved a wing around them, carving out a safe space for the two of them.

Emboldened, Cassian dared to bow his head to the nape of her neck and breathe her in. And even though he had spent the last week desperate to touch and taste her, Cassian found he had never been more content in his life to lie with someone and merely hear them breathe.

Minutes passed and when Cassian shifted slightly to get more comfortable Nesta’s fingers curled around his arm. It was a silent order to stay and Cassian realised they were in the exact same place they had been the other morning, when they had awoken.

They both slept, after that.

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical  @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @hatemecozuaintme @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99 @ellies-iced-coffee @simonmqb @misswonderflower nessiantrashh 

[nanamikentcs]

SIREN’S SONG

word count: 1.7k

genre: fluff (??), reader meets diluc for the first time,  mutual admiration

warnings: none (gn!reader, not proofread)

summary: god isn’t some bigshot in the sky. god is a redhead playing the violin against the setting sun, while you watch in complete admiration. inspired by that new official art where diluc plays the violin.

Of the tasks undertaken this particular week, this seemed the least burdensome and most straightforward to you. One of the employees of Dawn Winery—presumably Charles (whose name you only learned recently), since he was within the immediate vicinity of the Adventurer’s Guild—put forth a commission to deliver a set of documents to the Winery itself, somewhere along the city outskirts. For a myriad of reasons—most revolving around the relatively low appeal of the commission, given that adventurers were drawn to more thrilling tasks—none had yet accepted the job. 

You wonder if, perhaps, another reason for the lack of interest in the request involved an unexpected run in with the Winery’s owner. 

By no means was Diluc Ragnvindr an unpleasant man. The reputable former knight was known for his courteousness, his polite nature most likely spawned by the esteem upheld by families of old. His demeanor was, nonetheless, off-putting, to say the least. He often kept to himself,  speaking rarely to others beyond business and smiling even less often. Shrouded by an aura of both invulnerability and power, the young Ragnvindr’s unapproachable nature served as an effective ward against not only those he explicitly opposed, but perhaps against those who longed to forge a connection with him as well. 

But, you were here for matters relating to work. Even if he hadn’t been aware of the commission, the documents you carried in your pack must’ve been important enough for a commission to be issued in the first place. Of course, having only encountered the redhead a couple of times—and oftentimes with a mind half-buzzed thanks to an alcoholic spell—your image of him was less intimidating than that of the locals’. 

The sweltering heat of the sun receded into gentler warmth. You kept your eyes trailed on the road ahead of you, watching how the path changed from pavements to rough roads as you neared your destination. Hailing leagues away from the City of Freedom, you appreciated Mondstadt for the little details that solidified the beauty intrinsic to the region. Fontaine—a place you once called home—was a city known for its artistry and innovation; but Mondstadt, in its simple yet unrestrained nature, called to your heart in ways you did not understand.

By the time you arrived at the Winery, the sky had settled into a yellow-orange hue, denoting the incoming arrival of sunset. A signpost indicating the Winery’s location seemed unnecessary, considering the visibility of the vineyard from miles away. This was the first time you’d step foot onto a property so large, so busy with the duty of sustaining an entire city’s economic stability. Still, your business lay ahead of you, and you would much rather be done with your tasks before nightfall.

“Are these from Charles?” A white-haired man questioned as he sifted through the papers you handed him, addressing you but not looking away from the documents.

“Ah, I didn’t get to check who posted the commission,” you admitted, slightly embarrassed to overlook such a detail. “But it was posted in the afternoon, so it must’ve been someone in the city.”

The man—his name was Elzer, if you caught it correctly—hummed at your response, staying silent for a few moments. You shifted awkwardly, half-wondering if this was your cue to leave, yet half-expecting a proper dismissal, as though you’d still been a student awaiting your teacher’s approval.

After a brief period (which frankly seemed like a lifetime to you), Elzer finally looked in your direction, promptly thanked you for your service, and assured you that your remuneration would be facilitated through the Guild.

As you turned to leave, however, he called after you. “Ah, wait,” the tone that laced his voice betrayed just the slightest hint of exhaustion. “Could you perchance hand these over to the young master himself? These documents should’ve been given to him directly anyway.”

You stopped in your tracks, wondering if you’d heard him right. Your only instructions were to deliver the documents to the Winery. You didn’t know that they had to be given to Master Diluc himself. 

“He’s at his study at the moment. First door to the left, once you ascend the stairs.” Elzer added, and, despite not having accepted the sudden request, you moved forward to retrieve the documents you’d just handed over. Following the directions he gave, you made your way to Diluc’s study, knocking once, knocking again, knocking twice for a third time, and knocking thrice for a fifth. No answer. Frustrated at the delay and the impending approach of the dark, you turned to find Elzer once more. You’d done your job. They couldn’t hold this against you, right?

Then you heard it: music created by a bow against steel strings, and for a moment you recall the endless symphonies composed by one frustrated musician after another in your hometown. Each was beautiful in their own right, but never seemed to meet the standard of perfection that greatness demanded. This song, however, was not perfect nor was it especially great—but it was indubitably beautiful.

Your feet moved by their own accord, following the direction of the violin and the mystery musician—not at all considering who’d dwelt there and who were expecting to find in the first place. The melody drew you in by some invisible thread, and before you knew it, you stood openmouthed by a door left ajar.

This was the first time you saw Master Diluc without his typical bravado. You watched as he nestled the violin in the crook of his neck, his right hand moving with grace as he shepherded the bow upwards and down, and the fingers of his other hand gliding with deftness across the violin. The sight of him and the sun setting through the window behind him was enough to root you into place. You did not understand why your heart leapt, but perhaps it was because it had not witnessed anything more beautiful.

He stopped. You wish he hadn’t but he did. His senses were keen, and though you had been too silent to make a sound, he knew he was in the presence of another. Turning to face you, an intruder in his personal area, he regarded you with an expression that furthered your surprise: he did not seem the least bit annoyed, nor did he appear to be upset at your sudden arrival. The glint in his eyes betrayed some curiosity, but beyond that, his face remained neutral.

“Was there something you needed?” He asked, as though your presence was a natural occurrence. 

“Oh, I...I was on a commission...and well,” You managed to stammer out, electing to present the documents in your hand instead of relying on your ability to form a coherent sentence. “Th-These are for you.”

Diluc glanced at the papers in your hands, noticing the slight tremble to them, and sighed before setting his instrument down. As he took the documents, you immediately pulled your hand away, eager to hide both the tremor and incoming clamminess. You knew you should’ve apologized for your intrusion, thanked him for his patience, and left at the soonest possible moment. Instead, the more irrational part of your brain decided to blurt out: “That was beautiful. The way you played, I mean. I’ve heard a lot of violinists back in Fontaine but you...I mean you could easily outclass them.”

The pair of you seemed shocked by your profuse compliment. Diluc gathered himself first (and fairly quickly), clearing his throat before offering a small yet gentle smile. Strange, you thought. I’ve never seen him smile before.

“Thank you. Do you recognize it?” He asked, a faintly amused lilt in his voice. You shook your head in response. He nodded, as though expecting it. “It’s a composition from the olden days of Mondstadt. Not many recognize it anymore, more so if one were from another place. You mentioned Fontaine, yes?”

You did not understand why you could not use your voice. You only nodded, hoping he charged your nervousness to introversion. He paused to consider your response, turning to the violin he’d set down earlier, then returning his attention to you. 

You watched as he opened his mouth to say something, then abruptly close it as though he changed his mind midway. Shifting his eyes away for a brief moment, he turned his gaze back towards you, asking, “Do you play?”

“The violin?” You inquired, rather dumbly now that you’d said it. “Oh, no, I don’t. I mean, I played for a little while then stopped. Hardly learned past the basics.”

He hummed at your response, unexpectedly content to hear your voice. 

“I play the piano a little bit better, though.” you added, after a moment’s quiet. Perhaps it was to impress the clearly impressive man in front of you, or perhaps it was your pride in your own abilities. Either way, you felt compelled to add that detail.

Diluc considered your words, scrutinizing you in a private silence he shared with you. To both your surprise and his, he raised the question: “Would you like to play together, then?”

The invitation was extended like a hand requesting one’s own before a dance. You wanted to take that plunge, accept the invitation and waltz a symphonic dance with the man before you. But, enrapt in allure and the desire to prepare for a more impressive showcase of your talents, you said instead: “I’m a bit out of practice, and it’s going to be night soon. But next time...I’d love to, next time.”

Had you not directed your gaze towards your shifting feet and the wooden floors, perhaps you would’ve noticed the flash of disappointment in his eyes. 

“Next time, then.” Diluc said, again with a small smile that rarely graced his features. He thanked you for fulfilling the commission, and watched as you turned to leave, unable to understand how one interaction could ignite so many emotions within him. With a sigh, he returned to his abandoned violin, absentmindedly plucking at the strings. 

Diluc Ragnvindr, in all his acumen and knowledge of the workings of the world, could not pinpoint what it was about your exchange and what it was about you that stupefied him so much that he--only much later did he realize--had not asked for your name. 

[bowieandqueen11]

Time For Reading / Dewey Denouement Imagine

Request: Dewey does deserve to be happy. I can imagine having the sweetest/domestic evenings with him after a long day at work. He seems like he would read to you while sitting together.

I love this man so much thank you for letting me imagine this <3

If you enjoy, please comment!! I may have stayed up writing this oops

Dewey Denouement may not be the kind of man to place his feet up at the end of the day, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t.

It was a cold night, the sort of chill blowing through the cracks in the library’s doors that made you thankful for the crackling fire by your feet. The embers flashed red, hot and heavy before leaving their smoky trail in the October air as they fell back down onto the kindling. You stared at them for a moment, dancing like a circus troupe in front of your vision. A trapeze artist there, some juggling pins in another corner of the pit, and finally, the fiery lion’s roar rises from the middle of the heap, before falling onto the floor in a pile of ash. You snuggle down, burrowing deeper into the suit jacket you had stolen off of Dewey’s shoulders this morning. He had never seen it coming, too busy pressing back against the kiss you had pressed against his lips when you had come in to deliver him his morning coffee. He had smiled against your lips as he pulled away, nuzzling his nose against yours with a twitch of his moustache as you massaged his shoulders, gently levering the jacket down before stealing it away.

You wished he would hurry back, missing him already despite the fact you had only just heard the final, surprisingly pained sounding whistle of the library’s kettle. Although you knew, since his parents perished in that fire you both blamed Olaf for before his fifth birthday, that he would keep his promise to try and spend some more time away with you, rather than his catalogue. He was trying his best, you knew that. He also made it clear how much he loved you, evident in all the old bookshelves that lined the library’s walls that he had filled with your wish list, numerous treasures and memories stuffed into every crevice and nook of this small home he made yours. He knew, and had tried to tell you time and time again, that this was no life for someone as precious as you, but you had refused to leave him to this fate alone.

So instead of one librarian, Hotel Denouement gained two.

You sigh, kicking off your shoes and placing them up onto the old leather chair. You turn your nose back to your book, letting your mind fall back into a similar world of adventure and wonderment. You had only got a few more pages in, the book old and heavy in your tired hands, before you could hear the familiar sound of Dewey’s warm, deep humming swirling through the air as if in a dream. Before you can even place your bookmark back into the worn, crumpled pages before you feel a warm breath of air beside the tip of your ear.

‘I’m sorry I took so long, Y/n. The tea took quite a while to brew, on account of the brewing time of the leaves and the fact... we need a new kettle.’

You grin, reaching over the top of the chair until you grab the collars of his dress shirt. Running a thumb over his maroon tie, you pull his smiling face down until he reaches his lips. When you finally let go of him, he presses a final kiss against your forehead, moving to place the two steaming cups of jasmine tea he carried within the ornate china cups with his fingertips down onto the wooden side table of the living area.

He glances over at you, a glowing, slightly goofy but completely enamoured smile playing on his lips as he takes his usual seat in his own matching leather chair, placed facing towards your own on the other side of the fire. You lift your feet up, the two of you set in a steady and comfortable routine. He wipes the creases off of the front of his trousers, before replacing them with your feet. You beam at him thankfully from over the cover of your leather bound novel, breathing in the sweet scent of his cologne, and the warm feel of his fingers as they dig into the muscle of his feet. He only raises an amused eyebrow at you.

‘Ah, an interesting choice tonight Y/n. A tale of smoke and mirrors, quite fitting, don’t you think?’

You hum, folding your arms down until you could see the fond look Dewey gave you over the rim of his cup. He takes a sip before continuing, glad to finally be able to have a relaxed conversation for the first time today, with all the time spent preparing for the arrival of the Sugar Bowl. ‘It’s been a while since you’ve read a book from the books labelled 818.’

‘I just thought’, you start, leaning further into his touch as he places his now empty cup back onto the table and leans towards you, giving his full attention. ‘Hopefully, we’ll be out of here soon, and we can start again. A real life, a new life for you Dewey, without all these books and secrets and shadows and betrayal. I just thought it would be fun to reminisce before we finally burn all these secrets down.’

Dewey’s silent for a moment, gazing so intensely at you that despite your best efforts, you feel a blush flooding your face. For a moment, you’re worried you’ve upset him, his eyes so thoughtful, heavy and forlorn as they stare unmoving into yours. Your worries sink quickly, though, when that familiar tick of his raises his moustache, and the twinkle returns to his eye - the familiar sign that he’s amused by your words.

‘Yes, we can finally end this terrible series of events once and for all. Then, there is nothing else I would like more than to never be apart from you again, except for when we are at work, of course, but even that might be too much of a struggle.’

‘I suppose, then’, you begin with a slight grin, ‘we shall just have to retire off to some splendid tropical island somewhere, and spend our days drinking from coconuts and growing apple trees instead of having our noses stuck in books.’

As the two of you sit there grinning, hearts fluttering in time in your chest at the look of absolute devotion that lines both your faces, he’s suddenly quick to react. Smiling deeply, he reaches over and knocks the book straight out of your hands and into his own. Ignoring your cries of protest, he shakes your outreaching hands off and instead intertwines your right one within the large, slender fingers of his right. The other hand busies itself scanning over the words, following the paragraphs down until he finds a place to start.

His words, since they are directed towards you, are so beautiful and elegant. There was no other way, he had learnt in all his books, to speak to a lover. To someone who held your heart so tightly in their hands he felt he might drown with the feel of it. There could never be anger, or malice, when speaking to someone who was more of him that he himself was. So he read on, honeyed words pouring from his tongue in the only outburst of love he had ever learnt to give. Each word earned him a welcome groan, and each welcome groan earned you a tug at his lips until he was beaming.

Letting the words flow over you, you gazed up at the old pane of glass that lay above your head. As the night dwindled on, the heaviness of the water’s shade began to cast darker lines across the walnut floor, each specked with a glaring dot of celeste blue. Turning your chin up, you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to feel hopeful for the first in a longest time. Dewey didn’t stop, words gliding from his throat as he admired the way the writhing waves from the pool a world above fell upon your face in an almost otherworldly fashion.

When he was finally satisfied you had fallen asleep, he gently dropped your legs to the floor, one by one. Before heading out, he tucked the jacket he had let you steal earlier tighter around your shoulders, before pressing the most warm, intense and loving kiss he could muster against your cheek, eyes closed in bliss all the while.

He opened them again as he closed the door into the living quarters, leaving all his hopes and dreams locked inside. Instead, he stepped further into the navy shades of glooming water that seemed to envelope his frame.

It was time to prepare for the arrival of the Baudelaires. 

[manndo]

not today, but someday [oberyn martell x reader]

gif credit

pairing[s]: oberyn martell x female!reader

warning[s]: 18+ due to heavily implied sexual content (no actually smut), sexual references/situations, mentions of breeding (in reference to conceiving a child), swearing; talks of pregnancy & the inability to conceive; fluff; angst; oberyn being oberyn (is that a warning??); no mention of ellaria; possible inaccuracies about got (see notes)

word count: 5.4k (ummmm, whoops?)

prompt[s]: none.

summary: all you had ever wanted was a little one, a child to call your own. and yet, months later, you were still without child. still barren, and your dream of becoming a mother seemed to be slipping away. 

author’s notes: okay, so, let me start off saying this -- oberyn martell has taken over my life and i have spent much time yearning over him. and, in doing so, i got this idea one day because, as we know, oberyn had eight daughters. so, i thought, what if he had a s/o who could not seem to conceive? hence, this fic. but, i have never watched an episode of got in my life. i have seen his scenes (besides, you know, that scene because in my head, oberyn is alive and well and having all the berries and orgies he wants & i just can’t handle that much violence) and i have read some articles about the show, seen the gifs/posts on tumblr, and talked to people who have watched it in the past eight+ years. but that the extent of my knowledge of got. so, i apologize in advance for any inaccuracies that this fic holds. and i hope that my characterization of oberyn is good. also, no ellaria -- i just did not feel like she fit in this in anyway possible, and i did not want to force her into the story, so to speak. well, i think that is it! so, on with the show! all mistakes are my own. comments/reblogs/likes are much appreciated. thank you! ❤️

“I am sorry, m’lady.”

You did not know what else you were expecting. You knew, deep down, that nothing had changed. You did not need the maester to tell you that you were still without child — you knew. But, Oberyn had instead you call up on them, and you were too tired to argue. You also hoped you were wrong, and Gods did you want to be wrong. But, you were not.

You plastered on a polite smile for the maester. “It’s quite alright,” you said, your voice tight as you forced your emotions down. You weren’t going to shed any tears in front of the maester; you would never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you cry, save for your husband. You nodded your head toward the door. “That’ll be all. Good day.” The maester bowed lowly before turning on their heel and exiting, the large wooden door shutting with a resounding, empty thud. 

The sound echoed in your head and heart; it seeped into your veins, and began to settle in your bones. The sound felt like a finality of sorts. An ending before anything could even begin.

A short, broken sob escaped your lips, and you quickly slapped your hand over your mouth to stop the sound from breaking free. However, it did not matter — the dam had broken, the heartache released. Another sob escaped, muffled by your palm as you squeezed your eyes closed, and laid down on your bed. Your body curling into itself as tears easily flowed down your cheeks, staining them. You felt as if your body was turning on you, tearing you apart at the seams as you shook violently with your cries.

For eight months now, the two of you had been actively trying for a babe, an heir for Oberyn. Not that he himself required an heir — he had eight beautiful daughters, his Sand Snakes, whom he loved dearly no matter their status. But, when the two of you had been wed over a year ago, there had been an unspoken expectation placed upon you both. Oberyn paid no mind, and told you to do the same, but that was easier said than done.

You had always wanted to be a mother, wanting to have babe upon babe running around, mucking up your home and tugging at your skirts. To watch them grow and prosper, becoming handsome young lads and beautiful young ladies, all whom would be intelligent and strong, but caring and kind. To have your legacy, no matter how small or large it would be, live on thorough them. Perhaps there was a small sense of duty, as a woman, that made you yearn to have children. But, you knew that was not the whole picture. Children were beautiful, wonderful, and loving. They were gifts, and you want to have those gifts, to cherish and love them till you were dead and buried. You wanted it, with all your heart, and yet, it seemed like fate was delivering you a cruel hand.

There had been, one fleeting moment in the very beginning of your wedded bliss, where you were positively sure you were with child. You had been so sure, so eager to see the maester; however, you had quickly been proven wrong by your own body betraying you. You’d spent the day in your chambers, unwilling to leave for any reason. Oberyn had found you curled deep in your silken sheets that evening, and try as he might with his quiet, reassuring words, he was unable to pull you from your depressive state. So, he had held you — silently, but tightly, pressing soft kisses across your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. He let his fingertips brush against your skin, tracing nonsensical patterns across your hips, your stomach, your chest, anywhere he could reach. His touches were light, and his movements were sluggish. He comforted you silently, the best way he knew how, and you allowed him to do so. It hadn’t eased the pain completely, but it had been enough.

But, slowly, the days had turned to weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and nothing changed. It did not matter that the two of you had stopped bringing others into your bed to focus solely on each other, for Oberyn to focus solely on you. Nor, did it matter how many times he filled you with his seed, or how willing and open you were to taking what he offered. It did not matter day, afternoon, or night. Nothing mattered. Because here you were, still without child. Barren.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed as the tears flowed and the sobs continued to wrack your body as you laid curled in your marriage bed. Your hand maiden had knocked on the door at one point, but you had been quick to dismiss her before she could enter and find you in your current state. She had not come back and you were grateful. 

But then, finally, everything came to a standstill; the tears you had been crying seemed to dry up, and your body had stopped trembling. You took a deep, shuddering breath and unfurled yourself, allowing your limbs to stretch out across the sheets. The tears were still clinging to the corners of your eyes, but most of them had already dried and stained your cheeks and neck. You pushed yourself to sit on the side of your bed, and roughly wiped away at your face, brushing away the outward sings of your heartache. You silently wished you could easily wipe away the heartache in your chest, too. The one that had buried itself so deeply in there. 

You hadn’t even noticed the door to your chambers opening, didn’t even hear a voice calling out to you. It was only when the door shut — that hollow, empty thud — that you were brought back, your head whipping toward the sound. “Oberyn,” you said, your voice soft, a breathless whisper. He wasn’t supposed to be here; from what you recalled, he was supposed to be kept busy with mundane princely duties (his words, not yours). You weren’t supposed to see him till this evening — and from the way the sun was peeking through the curtains, it could only be mid afternoon — which would have given you plenty of time to steel yourself. To gather yourself together, lock your heartache and pain away before delivering the news. To pretend that it didn’t cut into your soul, didn’t rip you apart from the inside out. “What are you—”

“I had a free moment,” he said, making his way toward you, his golden robes flowing effortless around him. There was a smile playing at his lips, which told you that he actually did not have a moment — he made a moment to come and see you. 

You felt the heartache clawing at your throat, fighting to be released.

Quickly, you pushed yourself to stand, and turned away from him in a futile attempt to hide your face. He would come closer; he would see your pain, your sorrow. Because, though you had wiped away the tears and the stains they had left behind on your cheeks, your eyes were still red and puffy. The pain and heartache still lingering behind your eyes.

God, you had hoped to have more time, more time before you had to tell him. Before you had to watch the sadness and disappointment appear, filling his rich, beautiful brown eyes. You wanted more time. 

A pragmatic pause. “Love,” he said, his voice sounding strained, painful. Your actions had spoken louder than words, it seemed.

You could feel a fresh set of tears springing to your eyes, your hand grasping at the dress clinging loosely to your side. You fisted the fabric tightly and closed your eyes, willing yours tears to stay put, to not fall. You heard Oberyn call out for you again, this time your birth name falling from his lips just before you felt him come closer. He hadn’t touched you, not yet, but you could feel his presence only mere inches behind you. 

“Love,” Oberyn whispered once more, this time as you felt his hand wrap gently around the fist at your side, the other coming to wrap around your waist. “I am—”

“Don’t,” you breathed out, the word sounding more like a broken sob than anything coherent. You broke away from Oberyn, and thankfully, he let you go. “I cannot bare another I am sorry, especially from you, husband,” you said, your voice harsher than you had intended, angrier. Not at him, no, you could never be angry with Oberyn. No, you were angry at yourself. This was your fault; you were defective, broken, unable to provide him and yourself with the one thing you had so desperately wished for. “I have heard enough apologies to last me a lifetime.”

You felt his fingertips brush gently against your arm, the lightest of touches, barely there. A soft gesture to tell you he was there, and that he would not leave. You took a shaky breath, and loosened the grip on the fabric in your hand, letting the dress fall back against you. “There is no rush, my love,” he said, his voice soft and tentative, as if he knew he was treading rough water. And, he was.

A choked chuckle escaped your lips, and you turned to face your husband. “For you, perhaps,” you said, letting your eyes take in his appearance. He looked as handsome as ever, but he was growing older, as was the consequences of living. Over time, more grey had appeared in his hair and his beard, and a few more lines and wrinkles adorned his regal face. Even his stomach had gone a little soft (not enough for anyone besides you to notice). But, he was still the man you had met many moons ago. Still the Red Viper. Sill the man could make any woman or man fall to their knees and beg for his cock. “You, my stallion, can breed until you’re dead. The same cannot be said for myself.”

“I do not think I would call myself a stallion, my dove. Not anymore.”

You snorted, and turned away from him, letting your eyes look down at your marriage bed. You ran a hand across the silk sheets. “With the way we’ve been fucking these past few months, I’d disagree.”

You heard an amused chuckle escape his lips. “I may be able to still mount you like a stallion, but perhaps, I can no longer bred you like one.”

You looked over your shoulder at Oberyn, and raised your eyebrow. “Don’t tell me the father of eight daughters doubts his ability to breed?”

His shoulders gave a small shrug before he reached out to you, wrapping his callused hand around your wrist. Oberyn brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your pulse point. “I am not in my prime anymore, my dove. Perhaps, the fault does not lie on you.”

You looked away from him and back toward your marriage bed. You felt him take a step closer before you felt the press of his lips against your shoulder in the briefest of kisses. The hand holding your wrist slide down, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You’re taking pity on me, husband,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I would never,” he said, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. He pressed another kiss to your shoulder before his chin came to rest there, his beard tickling your skin ever so slightly. “I am merely stating a possibility,” he mumbled, the hand holding yours moving, arm shifting to wrap around your waist, hands still tangled with one another. “A truth, perhaps.”

You scoffed. “You cannot be serious, my prince.”

Oberyn hummed, and placed a soft kiss on your neck. “I am,” he mumbled into your skin. “I could deny reality, if I wished, but denying the inevitable does not change the outcome.”

“So,” you swallowed and looked down at your tangled hands that were resting on your stomach. You took a deep breath. “You do not think of me as a failure?”

Before you could blink, Oberyn had spun you around to face him. His rich, dark eyes were narrowed, but there was no anger behind his eyes. “You are not a failure, my love,” he said, his voice filled conviction. He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Please, do not think of yourself as one.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “There are not many things women are afforded in this life, Oberyn. Many of us are not giving the promise of kingdoms, riches or lands when we are but babes,” you stated, your voice hard, irritation lacing your words. “But this, the gift to bare children, we are born with that. That is ours,” you said, your voice softening as your throat tightened and tears welled at the corner of your eyes. You closed your eyes, and feel another swipe of his callused thumb across your cheek. “I know I am worth more than my anatomy. I know that my anatomy does not define me. That this, this failure,” you said, your voice catching in your throat, “this inability to conceive, does not define me.” You swallowed, and opened your eyes, looking into Oberyn’s deep, chocolate orbs. “I know these things, Oberyn. I know them. But, it cuts me deeply, so deeply that I feel as if I am bleeding out with no way to close the wound.”

“My dove,” he said softly, his other hand coming to rest on your other cheek. He held your face gently between his hands, his features soften, and you could see a pain in his decadent eyes. A pain that was reflected in your own. “Your pain is my pain, know that. And know, there is nothing I would not give up in this world in order to give you the gift of a child,” he said, and you could tell that he meant what he said. He wanted this as much as you did, you both wished for this, silently prayed for this. And yet, barren. 

You watched as he removed one of his hands from your cheek, sliding it down your neck, shoulder, down the middle of your chest, between your breasts and coming to rest on your stomach. Oberyn looked down at his hand, as did you, and spread his fingers across your stomach. “What I wouldn’t give to see you swell with our babe,” he said, and if you listened close enough, you could hear the slight hitch in his breath. You placed your hand over his on your stomach, fingers resting between his. “To see them suckle at your breast, to tug at your skirts, to wreak havoc in the halls.” He gazed back to you, and you felt a lump forming in your throat, a fresh set of tears prickling at the back of your eyes. “The sound of their cries and laughter filling the rooms. To see them as they grow and blossom.” He paused, and you could see he was choosing his words carefully. You felt a knot grow in your stomach. “But, I am starting to think—”

“Please, Oberyn,” you interrupted, your voice cracking as you closed your eyes, your fingers tightening their grip on his. “Do not say—”

“We need to take a step back, my love.”

Your eyes snapped opened. That was not exactly what you expected. You had expected him to say that you two should give up, forget the notion of ever having your own babe. Perhaps, he would even suggest an orphan child; you were not opposed to the idea, you loved children and would gladly be a mother to a child in need of one. But, you were not ready to give up the idea of having your own yet. 

“A step back?” you asked, your eyes filled with confusion as you released your grasp on his hand. You were not entirely sure where your husband was going with this statement. You could not imagine that he was implying to stop fucking. Though Oberyn had aged, he still enjoyed the pleasures of sex (as did you) and the idea that he would give that up? Preposterous. “Are you suggesting we stop fucking, dear husband?”

Oberyn looked aghast at your suggestion, and it made the corner of your mouth tick up. “What a ridiculous notion, dear wife,” he said, mimicking your words back to you, his voice sounding almost betrayed that you would think such a thing. Even suggest such a thing. “Besides,” he started, voice dropping an octave in tone and pitch as he moved both hands, the one on your stomach and the one on your cheek, to come and rest on your hips once more. Oberyn’s callused fingers dipped into your hipbone and held tightly, almost too tightly. It barely phased you. “The idea that I could keep my hands, mouth and cock to myself around you is absurd,” he muttered, a wicked grin spread across his face, his dark eyes flashing with lust. It lasted only a moment before the smirk fell, and a serious look appeared upon his face. “However, if you wish to cease—”

You shook your head. “No, no,” you muttered. “I could not do that to you.”

“My love—”

“I’ve already asked too much of you by ceasing our activities with others.”

“Which,” he started softly, “I had no issue forgoing for you, my dove.” He paused and removed on have from your hip. He placed a finger under your chin and pushed up, lifting your head to make sure that your eyes caught his rich, dark orbs. “You have my body, my heart, and my soul. I love you. Whatever you need, I will comply.”

Your heart swelled in your chest. Oberyn partook in every pleasure imaginable, had never denied himself and tried almost every sexual act under the sun. And yet, here he was, willing to forgo sex for you. You knew he loved you, but this? This proved how far he would go for you, the lengths he would go to make sure you were well, that you were content. Whatever you needed, it seemed, he would gladly give it to you. 

“No, Oberyn,” you started and he opened his mouth once more, but you stopped him as you placed a hand on his cheek. “I am — I have no problem continuing our sexual activities.”  

You watched as Oberyn studied you, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign that you might be hiding the truth from him. After a moment, he seemed content with what he found. He nodded and removed his finger from your chin. “Then, that is settled. But, I think, my dove we may have put too much pressure on ourselves,” he murmured, turning his head into your palm, and pressing a soft kiss to the center of it. “Not that our lovemaking is not pleasurable, it most certainly is, always,” Oberyn said, turning his gaze back to you, slipping on another mischievous smirk his let his free hand come to rest just below your breast. “But, perhaps, we’ve forgotten what it is like to be us,” he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your neck as you let your hand fall from his cheek and back to your side. “Without pressures.” Another kiss, lips moving down. “Without worries.” And, another, lower. “Only us.” His final kiss landed on your shoulder. “Return to an earlier time, when we had first laid eyes upon each other. Do you remember those days, my love?”

You nodded. You remembered those days vividly; the hours spent walking through the water gardens, talking about everything and nothing. The nights spent together, tangled in each other, exploring each other with hands, lips and teeth. Back then, all you had wanted to do was learn about the man you shared your bed — and soon, your life — with, and he had wanted the same. Oberyn still attended to his duties, as required, but every moment when he was not busy, he was with you and you were with him. 

Then, when you had married, more of your time had become consumed with your own requirements and duties as well as his own. Much of your time together was spent was in the evenings, in your bed in hopes of conceiving a child. 

“Perhaps, my love,” Oberyn started again, “we need to allow ourselves to enjoy each others company, get lost in each other.” A brief pause. “In and out of our bed.” You caught Oberyn’s dark orbs, and him yours. The hand on your ribs was removed, and placed instead upon your cheek. You leaned into his touch. “What do you say, my dove? We do not forgo our dream of one day having a babe of our own. We just,” he paused, for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eye, “allow ourselves not to be pressured or burdened by the notion? Return to simpler times, so to speak?” 

You let your husband’s suggestion mull in your head for a moment. Perhaps, he was right; perhaps the two of you had been too focused on conceiving a child that you had, unintentionally, made sex a burden. Oberyn was not wrong; your times with him were always pleasurable and the two of you never fucked if either of you was in no mood to engage in sex. But when you did, perhaps, the burden was there, always lingering in the back of your mind. That the burden had become an unknown weight upon you, upon Oberyn. It would be nice to silence that burden for a while. 

“My love?”

You blinked and focused your gaze back on Oberyn. His deep brown eyes were studying you, patiently waiting for your response. You smiled softly at him. “You are right, my prince,” you agreed, and you watched as a triumphant look filled his eyes, the corner of his lip ticking up. You narrowed your gaze slightly. “Watch that ego of yours, husband.” Oberyn chuckled lowly and moved to grasp your hips. He pulled you tight against him, a wicked smile on his face.

“Or what, dove? Hm?”

“Or,” you started, lifting arms and wrapping the loosing around his neck and shoulders, “it will get you killed one day.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “Will it now? By whom?”

You held your chin up. “Me.” Oberyn laughed, the sound filling your shared chambers, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow. “You doubt me, my prince?”

“I do not doubt, your strength, my love,” he said through the laughter, which slowly began to die down as the milliseconds passed. “Or your cunning wit. However, I do know that you love me too much to even harm a hair on my head.” He paused and titled his head. “Well, unless in the throes of passion, of course,” he added, another mischievous grin pulling at his lips. “Then well?” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It cannot be helped.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, but you knew the smile pulling at your lips betrayed you. “Whatever you say, my prince,” you muttered.

Oberyn hummed thoughtfully. You had thought to say something else, but before you could even open your mouth to speak, Oberyn’s lips were on yours, his tongue licking at the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. And, you willing granted him entry. His tongue slid harshly against yours, warm, wet and unyielding. A small moan escaped your lips as your arms tightened around his neck, fingers tangling into the curls at the nap of his neck. You used your hold to pull yourself even closer to him, pressing your chest against his as you slipped your thigh between his legs, pressing it against his swelling cock. A low growl escaped his throat, one that was eagerly swallowed by your lips as his grip on your hips tightened.

There was a loud knock at your chamber door.

Oberyn barely pulled away, mumbling, “ignore it,” against your lips before sliding his lips against yours again. And, you had planned to, already lost in the taste of him. However, the moment his tongue had slipped back in to your moth, there was another knock. This time, much louder.

“M’lord?” It was one of the man servants. “Are you in there?”

Oberyn groaned and pulled his lips away from yours reluctantly. “Yes,” he responded, his voice stern, but somewhat out of breath. You smiled. “But.” One of his hands travelled from you hip, up to your side, coming to rest on your breast. He kneaded the flesh, and you let out a soft mewl, heading falling back, eyes closing. “I am very, very busy. So, if you’ll ex—”

“Your presence is requested, m’lord.”

Oberyn rolled his eyes. “By whom?” he asked, but he did not bother to move toward the door to let the servant in, only lowered his head to your neck. He gave the skin at the base of your neck a quick, hard nip. You let out a small yelp of surprise mixed with pleasure as you tugged on Oberyn’s dark locks once more.

You were sure the man servant now knew exactly why Oberyn was busy — or, more accurately, whom he was busy with.

“Your brother, m’lord,” he answered, his voice tight and proper.

Oberyn growled against your skin in irritation before he nipped the skin again, this time worrying the skin for a brief moment. “Oberyn,” you whined, the sound a little louder than a whisper. Another nip in the same area. You were sure you’d have a bruise within the hour. You straightened your neck and opened your eyes. “Oberyn,” you said again, trying to quell the ever growing arousal pooling between your legs. However, his name sounded too breathless and needy on your lips. You glanced down at him the best you could, and saw his dark orbs shining with lust. Oberyn gave a sly smirk.

“M’lord?”

You knew he didn’t want to go, that he would rather lose himself in your body and pleasure. However, you knew that if he did not go now, it would only mean more time away from each other later.

“M’lord? He wishes to speak with you as soon as possible. If you could please open this door, and—”

“Go,” you whispered, ignoring the man servant’s plea, scratching at the back of Oberyn’s neck and giving him a soft smile. “The sooner you meet with him, the sooner you are back in our bed.”

Oberyn raised his head, his eyes watching you closely. The hand resting on your breast slide up and over your shoulder. His callused fingers began to play with the strap on your gown. “And you will be waiting for me?”

“Of course,” you answered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Unless, you’d like to visit the brothel tonight?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a while, my prince, and that is my fault. I know I asked you, and you willingly followed my request. But, I do not wish to hold you back anymore. If you would like to share a bed again, I am more than willing to share tonight.”

Oberyn leaned forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, but before it could go farther, he was pulling away. He grinned down at you. “Perhaps another night, my dove. Tonight, I plan to keep you.” The hand on your hip slide off and over, his hand cupping your clothed and aching center. A small whimper escaped your lips, and Oberyn’s own lips twisted into a wicked smile. “And, this pretty cunt all to myself tonight.” He leaned forward, his lips hovering near your ear. His warm breath ghosted over the shell, making you shiver. “Make you come undone upon my tongue for hours,” he whispered, the word sending a fresh flood of arousal between your legs.

“Oberyn—” your voice sounded choked, hoarse, needy.

“Before I finally sink into that tight little cunt.” He pulled your earlobe between his teeth, and worried the skin. You groaned, eyes falling closed as you grasped at his upper arm for support. His teeth released your lobe. “And fuck you until the sun rises.”

You bite down on your lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape your throat. Oberyn pulled back, hand sliding from your aching center to your hip, and looked at you, that wicked grin still pulling at his lips. “Perhaps—”

“M’lord?” The man servant sounded terse, clearly annoyed that he was still standing outside the door. You glanced at Oberyn to see him roll his eyes, irritation clearly written on his face. “I am sorry, but, I believe—”

“Tell him I will be there in a moment,” Oberyn all but growled through the door at the man servant. You gently swatted at his chest, and gave him a look that silently told him to be nice. Oberyn sighed. “If you would be so kind,” he added, his voice much less demanding as he glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

“Um, I would,” the man started, “but he — he requested that I personally accompany you, Prince Oberyn.”

Oberyn rolled his eyes once more. “Of course he did,” he muttered.

You bite your lip once more, this time trying to stifle a giggle that threatened to erupt. However, it escaped — a meager sound, but a giggle nonetheless. “He knows you all too well, my prince.”

“That he does,” he muttered, and let out another heavy sigh before turning his head and attention back on you. “You’ll be fine, my dove?”

And, you knew what he was asking. He was not just asking if you would be fine while he was away, or if you would be fine for the rest of the day. No, he was asking that and more, much more. Oberyn was asking if you’d be fine from here on out with what you two had agreed upon. Would you really and truly be fine with forgoing your want for a babe? Forgoing the need you had created to conceive a child for the foreseeable future. Were you, for now, fine with only having him in your life? No children, only him, only your prince. Only your husband. Only Oberyn. 

You smiled sweetly, and reached out, placing a hand upon his cheek. “Yes, my love. As long as you promise to stay by my side until one of us takes our dying breath.”

Oberyn smiled, his dark orbs shining brightly with love and adoration for you. He reached out and covered your hand on his cheek with his, squeezing your fingers gently. “Promise.”

You nodded. “Now,” you started, letting your hand slide from his cheek, his fingers still grasping at yours, “go on. Before your brother comes and hunts you down himself.”

Oberyn scoffed, and looked toward the door. “That’ll be the day,” he muttered, and you chuckled softly, shaking your head.

“Go,” you said, voice a little stern as you gently pushed at his shoulder in an attempt to move him toward the door.

Oberyn laughed softly and untangled his fingers from yours. “Fine, my dove, I am going,” he muttered, leaning down to press a soft, quick kiss to your lips. “I will see you in a few hours.” Oberyn took a step back from you, his eyes never leaving yours. He grinned and took another step back. “Make sure you’re ready for me.”

You smirked. “Do not worry about me, my prince. I will be,” you said and he grinned, all teeth and wicked before turning on his heel, and leaving your shared chambers.

The door shut behind him with a resounding thud, but this time, it did not cause you heartache. There was no finality or dread that sank into your bones. It was just the sound of a door opening and closing, as they always do.

Perhaps, you had closed the door on your dreams of having little ones. But, it wasn’t locked; you could open that door once more, when the time was right. Or, perhaps, you’d find another door, another way. However, right now, you would enjoy the idea of a closed door.

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[let-the-dream-begin]

A Family of Our Own

After nearly nine years of being a widow, Claire has Jamie back in her arms and in her life. After a lifetime of stories, Brianna’s father is a real, living man. The family at Lallybroch must prepare to welcome visits from the English to check in with the former prisoner. They cannot afford any slip-ups; if Mister Malcolm is revealed to be Red Jamie, Claire’s widowhood will be restored. Permanently this time.

Claire cannot survive another pregnancy, and she and Jamie do feel that absence, a loss of sorts. Yet their little family grows in a way none of them expect.

Brianna’s illness remains an ever-present fear for Claire, and now Jamie, as he learns how to grapple with it. Can they keep a lid on it for the rest of her life? A story of second chances, of found family, and hope in the face of fear and uncertainty.

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

“It’s like flying!” she cried over the pounding of hooves and rushing of wind. “Aye, Da?”

“Aye, lass!” he called back, his stomach flipping with joy. “Indeed i’tis!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fergus and Claire occasionally blur into his field of view, but he could hardly see anything but the fiery tendrils dancing in front of his eyes, could hardly process anything over the whooping laughter of his daughter.

His heart physically ached with how deeply he loved her.

Her joy was putting a light inside of him that he did not think existed, was bringing to life something that he had thought long gone. He’d expressed to Claire that he did not think he could connect with children anymore, that his spirit had been too broken beyond repair.

But Brianna was putting his spirit back together, and she wasn’t even trying. All she had to do was squint up at him with that gap-toothed smile, or shake her head so that her curls bounced, or cry out with joy on her horse.

She was making him whole again.

My beautiful, sweet, cheeky, perfect lass. My flesh and blood. My daughter.

——

That night, Jamie led Claire out of the girls’ bedroom after having tucked Brianna in. She was out like a light after the first few minutes of Jamie’s story. They’d ridden hard and long today, and it was one of the happiest days of Jamie’s life.

He could not wrap his mind around the fact that this was his. This child, this wife, this life, was all his. He had the rest of his days to ride horses with his daughter, to tuck her in at night, to watch her fight sleep in a desperate attempt to hear her father’s voice for just a little bit longer.

His voice. She cherished his voice.

He had the rest of his days to take his wife by the hand and lead her down the hall into their bedroom.

And now that the mugwort had been delivered to them from Edinburgh, he had the rest of his life to lay her down and bed her properly.

She’d made herself a cup of tea with it after supper, finishing it on the edge of Brianna’s bed, her head on his shoulder, sipping intermittently. She’d take a cup every day with breakfast and after supper, and she’d be protected from any harm another child might bring.

Another child…

No, he would not let that thought in.

There was absolutely no question; Claire’s life mattered more than having more bairns. And having his life back was a miracle enough in itself.

He would not allow himself to think on how sad it would be to take her to his bed and then watch her drink away any life he might have planted in her. There was no point in following that trail of thought, so follow it he would not.

Or at least he’d try not to.

The trail was abruptly caught off, anyway, when Claire shut their bedroom door behind them and threw herself at him, kissing him mercilessly.

“I want you inside me all bloody night,” she muttered breathlessly against his mouth. He groaned in response, pressing his pelvis into hers involuntarily. They undressed each other clumsily, frantically. They’d had weeks to revel in the act, to appreciate each piece of skin as it was revealed to them anew, so tonight was not for reveling. Not until he’d pressed inside her at last.

He’d used her mouth in all sorts of positions, used the cheeks of her arse, even her breasts, Claire holding them tight around him. He’d made note of all these things, not wanting to abandon them completely once they were no longer the only option.

But tonight, he would have her.

Once they were finally, finally completely naked, Jamie picked her up and carried her to bed with her legs wrapped around his waist, kissing her sloppily with every step. She’d barely even landed on the mattress before she was clawing at his arse.

“Do it now.”

He needn’t be told twice. He lined himself up and thrust hard and deep. Claire screamed, digging her nails into him, throwing her head back, shutting her eyes. Christ, it was almost too much. He had to stay still or he’d lose it immediately.

And he’d promised to make it last all night. Dammit, he’d do so.

She dug her heels into him, begging him to move, but to keep hold on himself, he roughly kneaded her breasts, bit her neck, tweaked the bud between her legs. She squeaked and moaned, but she fiercely grabbed his face in her hands.

“I’m going to die if you don’t start fucking me, Jamie.”

He groaned with a shudder, nearly losing it again.

“God, Claire…” He pulled out the slightest bit, and upon reentering, she cried out hoarsely. “It’s too much...It’s been too long...I canna…”

“I don’t care!” she cried. “I don’t care if you spill in three seconds...I need...I need you…”

With another shuddering groan, Jamie let all of his restraint go, and he pummeled into her, over and over. He lasted longer than he’d thought he would, though it was really not long at all.

“Take me with you…” Claire moaned, clawing down his biceps.

Evidently, she was as overwrought as he was if she was ready to follow so soon. 

He touched their foreheads together, looking into her eyes as he redoubled his speed and brought his hand between them to touch her where he knew she needed most.

“Oh, Claire…” he muttered against her lips. Her keening reached its peak in volume and pitch, and then she stiffened with a harsh cry, clenching around him. God, it had been nearly nine years since he’d felt the bliss of her tightening and pulling him deeper into her… 

He spilled into her immediately, moaning loudly into her wide, open mouth. He saw stars for a long while, the only feeling her walls around his softening cock, the only sound her continued mewling in his ear. He came back to himself in pieces, feeling first her heels, still dug into his arse, then her hands, caressing his face with all the tender gentleness in the world.

He opened his eyes to see her staring at him, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. He kissed her temples, brushing the tears away with his lips, and with a cry, she threaded her arms around his neck, pulling him ever closer, weeping into the crook of his neck.

“I’m here,” he said gently. He held himself up on his elbows, not willing to abandon the warmth of her just yet to hold her properly. He couldn’t even if he wanted to; all her limbs clung to him with a fierceness that he did not want to fight.

“I’m here.” His voice became hoarse, suddenly overcome as she was.

When his arms began losing feeling from holding himself up, he took hold of her waist and flipped them so that he was on his back, pulling her onto his chest. He slid out of her in the process, but her arms remained around his neck, as did her legs around his waist, now straddling him.

“It was so real…” Claire finally spoke, her voice muffled with her tears. “So many nights I dreamed...and it never felt like that…”

He pressed a tender kiss to her neck, running his hands up and down her back.

“Aye. My own hands dinna compare to the feel of ye, Sassenach.”

She wept harder at that, clinging tighter. “I never even...all those years...I couldn’t...I tried, I really did...but the one time I...got myself there...I just...broke down and cried with my hand still between my legs.” She shook her head against him. “It felt so pathetic...it hurt more than it was worth.”

“Hush now, mo ghraidh,” he soothed. “That’s over now.”

He showered her head with kisses, and when she finally picked her head up, he captured her lips in a way that seared her to her core. God, she wished men were more like women; she wanted to sink down onto him and ride him into oblivion already. But his body was not ready for that yet.

She knew what she could ride into oblivion, however.

After swirling her tongue with his for a maddening amount of time, feeling Jamie’s and her own wetness trailing down her thighs, she dragged herself up Jamie’s body and straddled his face.

“Oh, lass…” He reverently caressed her arse, and she braced herself on the headboard. He peppered her inner thighs with kisses until she was trembling, and then he feasted.

Claire cried herself hoarse, white knuckled the headboard, and ground herself into his face until she fell apart, pulled to pieces by the expertness of his tongue and lips. It was a powerful, euphoric orgasm, but it did the opposite of leave her satisfied. All it did was leave her aching for Jamie’s cock to be the next thing to pull her apart.

After her hips slowed and she caught her breath as much as she would allow herself, she slid back down and reached.

“Ah,” she said, grasping him firmly, already half hard. “There you are.”

She stroked him fully back to life, and before he could even breathe, she sank down onto him with a low groan. She rode him slowly, deliberately, deliciously. She bent down, hovering over his lips with hers, and she pushed all her hair to one side.

“Still feel like you’ll spill in three seconds?” she purred.

He chuckled darkly. “Well, I intend to be inside ye all bloody night,” he said. “So I dinna think I will.”

He wasn’t inside her all night, but he was for at least another two hours. He let her ride him until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then he threw her off him, got her on all fours, and took her forcefully from behind until he was seconds away from climax. He took her with her bottom half lifted off the mattress, her ankles crossed behind his neck, he took her sitting up, facing one another, kissing gratuitously, then on all fours again. But he only let himself finish when they were once again facing each other, eyes locked, foreheads touching. Claire lost count after her sixth orgasm, but needless to say, she’d been well taken care of.

It also went without saying that she would not be able to walk tomorrow.

They fell asleep with little ceremony after Jamie’s second climax and Claire’s...however many she’d had. Claire felt like she was made entirely of jell-o, and she didn’t open her eyes again after squeezing them shut for her final orgasm. Jamie, however, was not too tired to tuck her limp form into his side like a ragdoll and kiss her sweaty head.

It was almost as if he couldn’t sleep without holding her so tightly.

“I love you, Claire.”

And though every ounce of breath was knocked out of her, and she’d screamed herself hoarse, Claire’s heart answered back, beating wildly, swelling, entwining with his.

And for the first time in nearly nine years, Claire fell into a deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep with a smile on her face.

——

Claire could see a gradual change in Jamie the longer he was home. As April settled over the grounds, so too did an easiness in Jamie’s disposition, tension slowly rolling off his shoulders. He’d been slow at retaining the names of all of Jenny’s bairns; wee Jamie and Maggie were easy enough, since he’d known them, and Michael was similarly easy, him being the only other lad, but he was always calling Janet Kitty, and Kitty Janet, much to both girls’ chagrin. Lately, he was getting it right more often than not, and Claire could see both her nieces glowing with pride that their uncle, becoming beloved rather instantaneously, remembered them.

Brianna, too, was more than completely enamored with Jamie. She often refused to do chores with the women and girls, preferring to trail behind Jamie in the fields and the stables. Jenny was none too pleased about this; the woman was set in her ways what was man’s work and what was woman’s work, but Claire could not see any harm in letting the girl spend time with her father.

She’d been without that time for eight years, and Claire could not bring herself to take it away from her again.

Either way, Jamie claimed she was quite helpful in the fields. According to his reports, she was always coming up with ways to make work easier, little tools that he and the other lads never would have thought of. Recently, she’d been marching downstairs for supper with a sketch in her hands.

“D’ye think you could make this one, Da?” she’d say, thrusting the sketch up to him.

“I’ll try my best, lass. But only if ye’re by my side while I do.”

“Of course, Da. I have to make sure ye’re doing it right.”

She was awfully brilliant for eight years old, if Claire did say so herself, and the sketches were quite good and elaborate. She’d be a great talent someday. She used to fret that she’d never catch up to Maggie in skill and ability, but she really was getting there, closer and closer with each passing day.

She’d gotten particularly fond of sketching wee Ian for some reason. Brianna had never been particularly drawn to any of the babies; not like Maggie had. But she was becoming a little obsessed, and Claire would be lying if she said she didn’t find it absolutely adorable.

Watching Jamie become more and more comfortable in his own home, on his own land, around his own family, was bittersweet. On the one hand, Claire basked in it, rejoicing in his rejoining of all that he had missed, but on the other hand, it was terribly sad that he had to relearn everything to begin with. This land was once his, theirs. No longer was he Laird; now he was Mister Malcolm, a farmhand. Of course the tenants knew better, but they could not speak openly about this. He could not even claim Brianna as his. The redcoats thought she belonged to Jenny and Ian. And though this fact hardly affected how they lived their daily lives, Claire could see him deflate every time it was mentioned.

But, this Lord Grey who’d secured Jamie’s freedom had been true to his word. They’d been entirely free of redcoat harassment since Jamie’s return, so they had little to worry about in that regard either way. Claire was eager to meet the man, to thank him for all his many kindnesses. The thought of Brianna never again living through the fear of a home search, the thought of Ian never even remembering one ever having happened…it made her heart light.

Life was truly starting anew…for everyone.

Jenny and Claire were in the kitchen with Mary MacNab, putting the finishing touches on supper, when a cacophony of noise startled the three women. Claire wiped her hands on her apron and pushed open the kitchen door to the outside, and her eyes welled up with tears at the simple sight before her.

Brianna was sat atop Jamie’s shoulders like a little queen, Jamie holding securely onto her small thighs. Fergus strode right beside them, young Michael on his shoulders, likely jealous of Jamie’s special attention to Brianna. Jehu trotted along dutifully at Jamie’s feet, ever mindful of his young mistress. Young Jamie trailed a bit behind, swiping at long grass and heather with a stick, and Ian trailed a bit further behind, taking his time. Janet and Kitty had been running around front with the dogs, and they clambered toward them, and Maggie trailed behind with the sketchpad Jamie had made her, holding her drawings close to her chest as Jehu yipped and nipped at their heels.

Janet clung to Ian’s good leg, and to spare his brother from bearing the weight, Jamie scooped the girl up onto his hip, switching his grip on Brianna to one hand. Janet kissed her father, then her uncle, and Kitty took Ian’s hand, patiently keeping pace with him

“Look, Uncle!” Maggie cried, turning the page up to face him. “Look, I drew the dogs. D’ye see?”

“Och, that’s fine work, lass,” Jamie said proudly. “Ye’ll have to let me look closer over supper, aye?”

“Aye!” she beamed, pressing the book to her chest again.

“Ye’re a braw wee thing,” Jamie continued. “Take right after yer mother.”

Maggie nodded proudly, her smile brightening.

Claire wiped her eyes and sniffled, and she was suddenly aware of a presence beside her.

“Such a simple thing,” Jenny said, her voice tight with her own emotion. “But it means everything.”

Claire nodded. “Everything.”

Jenny rubbed her back. “Go on to them,” she said gently. “We’re almost done anyway.”

Claire untied her apron and handed it off to Jenny, a beaming smile finding its way across her face. She gathered her skirts in her hands and began running toward the throng, propelled further by Brianna’s joyous, “Mummy!”

Jamie let Janet slide down to the ground and picked up his pace, leaving the Murrays and Fergus behind to meet Claire halfway.

“Hello, darlings,” Claire said breathlessly, kissing Jamie deeply until Brianna tugged impatiently on her curls. She laughed as she craned her neck to look at her. “How’s the crop looking today?”

“Just fine,” Brianna said. “My tool is working great.”

“That’s excellent.” Claire stood on tiptoe to pinch Brianna’s cheek, and then Jamie wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they continued their way to the house.

“Ye smell like dinner, Sassenach,” he breathed in her hair, then kissed her temple.

“You smell like manure and body odor.” She wrinkled her nose, but snuggled in closer to him anyway. “I don’t even want to know what you smell like, young lady.”

“I smell just fine, thank you very much!”

Claire rolled her eyes; Brianna was using that posh voice of hers to mock her mother’s tone and concern.

“No you do not!” A voice sounded behind them, and then Fergus was beside them, Michael still on his shoulders. “You smell like a dirty man, ma petit.” Brianna blew a raspberry at him, and Michael giggled incessantly. “And so do you, little man.”

“Either way,” Claire cut in, “you’ll be getting a bath tonight. And you should too, young man.” Fergus deflated only slightly in that way that teenagers who feel they are being mothered too intensely do.

Brianna groaned, slumping forward over Jamie’s head. “I don’t want a bath.”

“But don’t you like it when I brush your beautiful hair?” Claire looked up at her. “Doesn’t it feel so nice when it’s fresh and clean and damp?”

This gave Brianna pause, and she picked up her head slightly. “I suppose.”

Jamie snorted at Brianna’s chosen phrase.

“Alright. How about a quick bath and then a long hair brushing.”

She sighed in defeat. “Alright, Mummy.”

Jamie bounced her a bit, and she giggled, sitting up again. “That’s a good lass.”

Claire sighed in contentment, kissed Jamie’s jaw, his stubble a shadow over half his face, and they crossed the threshold for supper with their family.