#perhaps from silver's pov later.....

[llondonfog]

a little something based on this eldritch horror!silver concept because you lot encouraged me

Lilia knows that there must have been a time before the boy.

A time when he lived his quiet life in the woods alone, trapped in the same, mundane drudgery over and over again, as if the rhythmic pattern alone would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. A time when he kept to himself at the fringe of society's gaze, raw and aching for the healing peace of the forest he had roamed endlessly in his youth, seeking a familiar balm against the scars left by a great and terrible warfare etched into his mind. A time that must have been so bleak, so dismal that it hardly bears remembering, for it surely wasn't a life worth living without the bright-eyed, sweet-faced child snuggled like a priceless treasure in his waiting arms.

That's right, he thinks to himself, pleased in his confirmation as he tightens his embrace around the boy slumbering peacefully against his chest. There had been no meaning, no light in his life before Silver had found him.

The boy is properly exhausted, and the satisfied smile on Lilia's face widens even further as he hums tunelessly, fussing over the little pieces of moonlit strands that have fallen into the child's face. They had enjoyed such fun this afternoon, hiking together into the secret parts of the dense brush along invisible paths that only Lilia could see. With that little hand held securely in his callused and scarred fingertips, he had led the boy through the shadowed trees, pushing past gnarled branches and over raised roots as thick as a man's fist until the land itself seemed to yield and give way beneath their feet, dipping down low to expose a bejeweled cornucopia of wildflowers, swaying and bobbing their heads enticingly in the faint, dappled sun.

Silver had gasped in rapt wonder, fingers squeezing Lilia's with a giddy kind of gratitude as those eyes as brilliant as the flowers before them gazed upon the field with an innocent, childish glee. They'd stayed there all afternoon, Lilia content to sit at the edge of the glen for as long as the boy wished while Silver romped around happily among the dancing petals and occasionally bounded back to grace him with a clumsily made bouquets of beaming daisies and plump milkweeds, until the sun began to dip below the fluffy tops of the turning oak trees. It had been second nature to scoop the yawning child up in his arms, to walk the long miles back to the cabin with him propped up against his hip as if the fire burning along the old wounds of his back were mere twinges of irritating mosquito bites.

It had felt like a reward when that warm weight melted in his arms under the gravitational pull of sleep, and those feather-soft strands of hair tickled against Lilia's neck as the boy rested his head along the breadth of his shoulder like a pillow. It had felt like bliss, the likes of which he'd never known before— never mind the fact that he had scoffed bitterly over a pint to Baul at the prospect of being bullied into being a glorified babysitter for Meleanor's soon-to-be spoiled babe. Never mind the fact that his hardened heart had only crystalized into darkest coal after the gruesome monstrosities he'd witnessed and orchestrated by his own hand for the sake of their kingdom and country. Never mind the fact that he had growled at the boy to scram upon first sight, exasperated at the idea that some foolish parent had allowed their snot-nosed brat to wander off the forest paths unsupervised.

None of that seemed worthy of remembering now.

No one else seemed worthy of remembering now either, hazy memories that were easily shuffled away out of sight and out of mind by Lilia's own willing consciousness long worn down to make room for what was truly important: the sound of Silver's laughter, sweet and clear like birdsong on the breeze, a sound that Lilia would do anything to hear again and again; the benevolent grace of the boy's smile like a benediction for his bloodstained soul, the sight of which he would greedily hoard over all the wealth in the world; the adorable sleepy wrinkle of his son's nose as it scrunches up just before he wakes, squeezing Lilia's heart along with it in a funny ache just like it's doing right now—

" . . . did I fall asleep, Papa?"

That darling little voice is apologetic, fretting aloud over how his poor father must have had it rough to carry Silver all the way home, and it's all that Lilia can do to laugh and nuzzle their noses together despite the fiery waves of pain lancing along his spine.

"It's fine, my dear," he croons, savoring the way that those bashful eyes turn on him with such hope, as if it were Lilia who held the key to his happiness and not the other way around. "Your papa was happy to carry you home," and the title fits as naturally as a glove as it weaves itself into his heart, as if there were no other name he needed to be known by ever again, as if there were no other role he could ever imagine himself playing.

The boy smiles up at him, joyous and beatific— there are no words, and yet Lilia feels strangely like he'd been praised, a pleased rustle of something invisible that's taken up residence in the back of his mind that sweetens the dizziness swarming at the edge of his vision— and the moment passes the second that he blinks, leaving him oddly winded as if he'd just run a marathon and collapsed on the couch.

"Are you sure that you're alright, Papa?"

And how sweet of Silver to worry over him still, the child closely scrutinizing his face as he wrestles his breathing back under control. Lilia tweaks his nose playfully in answer to elicit a gleeful yelp that has the boy scrambling away in a flurry of limbs, escaping with laughter towards the kitchen in clear search of an early supper before his beloved father could spice it up with a few more inventive ingredients.

He's alright. He's more than alright.

How could he not be, with his precious son finally at his side?

[asterafroditis]

Hi! Could you write something about a gn!reader seeing Malleus in his prince robes for the first time at the end of book 7? And the reader is totally whipped or stunned or something. Thank you🤗

𐔌 . ⋮ royal treatment .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Malleus Draconia x gn! reader

𓏵 484 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 2nd Person POV, no pronouns used, fluff, flirty Malleus

this is kinda late for the book 7 hype (-"-;) but hot damn, this man so fine o(╥﹏╥) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

The aftermath of everything had left you exhausted, but you weren’t the only one. Night Raven College was still recovering, and with it, the people caught in the storm—yourself included.

Which was why, when you turned a corner and spotted Malleus standing there in his full princely attire, you nearly tripped over your own feet.

His usual NRC uniform was gone, replaced by something far more regal. The dark, embroidered robes draped over his shoulders, the deep emerald hues lined with obsidian-black fabric that shimmered under the soft light. A high collar framed his sharp features, and ornate silver details ran along the sleeves and chest, swirling in elegant patterns reminiscent of dragon scales. Even his horns seemed to hold more weight, like a crown suited for a king.

…Oh.

Oh.

You had always known Malleus was handsome, but this? This was unfair.

He turned at your approach, his gaze meeting yours with the same quiet intensity as always. "Ah, Child of Man," he greeted, his voice as smooth as ever. "You seem troubled. Has something caught your attention?"

Yeah, you.

You cleared your throat, trying (and failing) to keep your expression neutral. "Uh—no. I mean, yes. I mean—" You gestured vaguely at him. "What’s with the outfit?"

Malleus tilted his head slightly, as if your reaction was unexpected. "These are my royal robes," he explained. "Now that things have settled, Lilia insisted that I dress properly for my station."

Lilia. Of course. You made a mental note to have a word with him later (regarding how the sight of these precious robes have been kept from you for way too long).

"Right," you said, nodding quickly. "That makes sense. It’s just—" You hesitated, then finally blurted out, "You look ridiculously good right now."

Silence.

Malleus blinked at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped. Then—

A small, amused chuckle escaped him. His lips curved into a smirk, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I see," he mused, stepping closer. "So you are impressed by my appearance?"

You stiffened. "I never said that."

"You just did."

Damn it.

Malleus regarded you with open amusement now, clearly entertained by your flustered state. "There is no need to be shy," he continued, as if he weren’t making your life very difficult. "It pleases me to know you find my attire… favorable."

Favorable? Favorable?! Understatement of the year.

You crossed your arms, willing yourself to not combust on the spot. "Don’t get a big head about it," you muttered, looking away. "It’s just… a good look on you, that’s all."

"Hmm." Malleus seemed to consider this, then smiled. "Perhaps I shall wear it more often, then—if only to see such reactions from you again."

You groaned, face burning. This dragon knew exactly what he was doing.

And you were so doomed.

[kalims]

kiss your best friend | diasomnia

kiss your best friend and see how they react!

parts. one , two , three , four , five , six , seven

characters. malleus, lilia, sebek, silver

content. gender neutral reader as usual, mentions of murder by lilia's cooking, someone faints lol

note. finally last part after ten years /j

malleus

goes absolutely silent but his surprise is definitely there -> eyes widen, brows raise on a miniscule scale. you'd think the guy would be all lowkey about his joy but five seconds later and there are comical sparkles surrounding his face.

I mean. you had to formally confirm that you two were friends before, and you had off-handedly linked his name and best friend in the same sentence a few months later (he was bursting for like a week.) and now all that?

thrown away, nu-uh. you two are NOT friends no more, he doesn’t have a single care in the world. he's throwing the friends label off a cliff with his foot and skipping off with joy cause you just got upgraded to the next ruler of briar valley wink wonk.

or perhaps you'd like being referred to as his consort? he can always make the people refer to you as both.

if you're wondering why he's so silent all of a sudden; malleus: already thinking of how he'd decorate the castle when you move in with him. maybe... he can break down the wall to link your two bedrooms together—wait no he'd very much like to share the same room instead..

"child of man, do you prefer violet or green?"

"uh... green...?"

"excellent choice, you have my gratitude."

the thing you should be asking is 'why' because it's either the main color theme of your wedding or the gem he'd engrave on your ring (he's very happy it's green though, since it'd be a constant reminder of him.. oh he knows! he should get his a color of your eyes too—)

someone stop him.

lilia

spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses

more knowledgeable than malleus about the level up of relationships so he doesn't jump from best friends to newlyweds immediately. actually he doesn't even need a label, if you're going around kissing him he's just gonna act like you two are a married couple without a confirmation on your status'

"darling, could you hand me the sugar?"

"lilia, I hope you know that you're supposed to use salt for the sauce not sugar." <- *passes the right bottle*

ignoring lilia's attempts on lives he acts pretty normal.

ahem, besides the fact that your first kiss on him has made him come to the conclusion that he can now incorporate kisses in your daily routine since you've already done it, so apparently that means he can too.

kiss him once, he kisses you thrice I guess. it's either the occasional jumpscare from the ceiling since he felt like reminding you of his love through a pack or the times you blink and feel a sensation against your lips without seeing anything cause his affection can be silent as it is loud you suppose.

pov student you were speaking to who definitely saw that but you didn't midst your blink: 😨—

"lilia are we dating."

"i suppose it would make us more official like you humans like, so of course~"

he just accepts it without any complaints, just announce you're spouses and he'll accept that too probably.

#chill

silver

if we have spiderman kisses surely we can have the sleeping beauty kiss?

sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses

I reckon he would be a pretty light sleeper though the quantity of his sleep is more often than not so even though he accidentally passes out a lot he's really easy to wake. trained to be vigilant and all, courtesy of his murderous father (well, murderous through food?)

he knows the weight of certain things. a blanket draped over him, the feeling of something squirming on his shoulder—a squirrel, most likely. something on his head, a bird or some other critter. but this?

a light press on his lips, gone as quickly as it came. that, he isn't sure of. the animals don't tend to linger around his face so the unknown origin of it has curiosity opening his eyes.

and boy, he is trying to find every reason to not believe that you didn't peck him.

perhaps they touched it? he furrows his brows lightly, attempting hard at trying to avoid your gaze because he feels guilty at his first assumption, you're his best friend! you wouldn't do such a thing..

"did you touch my lips?"

"nah, is it fine that I kissed you?"

"..."

"..."

*passes out*

is he dreaming?

sebek

in what scenario will sebek even let you near him? hmmm.. I suppose being 'best friends' (he calls you self proclaimed, and that you guys aren't that close but still rages over someone and hits them with an essay why you're so much better than their insults) makes you more tolerable around to be closer.

totally not the fact that he might have a crush on you, which can't be right cause he can't be capable of having feelings for a *gasp* human!

scandalous. he knows.

raises a brow when you do anything but be discrete with your intentions of shuffling closer but he doesn't really double back, okay. he's getting a little concerned now when you continue getting closer, he takes a step back not because you're near or anything but this behavior is... just strange.

you're in his face already and before he can question (loudly) what in the seven's name you're doing before you just casually peck him on the lips?

WHAT IN TARNATION!

stiffens up immediately, his face looks like it's holding in a yell. maybe that's why it's getting so red? he's just standing there with shoulders so tense he looks like he's trying to seem big.

"..." WHAT JUST HAPPENED. DID THIS HUMAN JUST.. NO, WE ARE MERELY BEST FRIENDS—are we even friends.. NO! THIS IS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE ACT TO COMMIT. THIS HUMAN NEEDS TO KNOW BOUNDARIES. I mean he enjoyed that and all—I mean what..

"why are you so quiet."

if only you knew.

[jollyhunter]

Lucky Cat

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader, Soulless!Sam mentioned

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Dean’s POV, Takes place around early season 6, Angst, Dean and Soulless!Sam mentioned, eventually Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Reader is a hunter who had left the hunter life like Dean after Sam 'died', No use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean really didn't want to pull you back into this job, but with Sam's 'soul' problem, he's left with no other choice but to ask you for help. Unfortunately, as always, he will regret that decision. (I'm sorry, I suck at summaries, might edit it later)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,3 k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTE Moodboard is done by the wonderful @chevroletdean for their 500 Follower Celebration ! I hope this entry lives up to it. :D Congrats once more, dear! You deserve it all and much much more!! ♡♡♡ Big shout out to @ambiguous-avery for helping me with this! Thank you so so much again! I for some reason struggled a lot with getting to the core of this story, and now I might just continue this fun idea :D

Main Masterlist ❀ Dean Winchester Masterlist

The crescent moon grins down at Dean, its light barely enough to paint the outlines of crosses stretching across the horizon.

Dean’s back slumps against a tombstone, then slides down along it until he hits the ground. His feet are planted into grass. Hazy as the fog lingers between the graves and licks at his limbs like hungry souls.

‘Queen of the Witches - Freer of slaves - Glorifier of the oppressed - Daughter of Goddess Diana and Lucifer’. It all sounded like the perfect solution to your ‘Soulless-Sam-Problem’, when Dean and you had stumbled across the lore books about the Goddess of the Moon, Aradia, a couple of days ago.

And honestly, all was going well. You’d gathered all the ingredients thanks to Bobby’s support through the phone. Located a witches boneyard somewhere at the arse-end of the world while you'd made sure Sam was on a goose chase.

You made the hoodoo. Successfully summoned the Goddess.

So far so good. Fucking finally. No curveballs so far.

Until she had Dean pull a card from her deck, urging him to, ‘Bet your lucky star in exchange for your brother’s soul’.

Now his gaze travels up to the silver curve which has been mocking him like the Cheshire cat ever since he made that damn deal.

“You goddamn idiot,” Dean rasps out. His face tilts down, eyes locked onto the trembling card in his hands.

“Why’d you even come-“ Why the hell did you drop everything the moment I called? You idiot should’ve stayed away from me and this goddamn life like we’d agreed…

His thumb trails the golden letters edged into the black paper. “The World,” he scoffs the name out loud. Bitter. With a tinge of sardonic. Not like you’re his whole World without him realizing it.

He slides his finger pad further up and across the intricate illustration. Careful, reverend. Like he’s afraid he might break the white lines which depict you.

You’re sprawled out, like you’d been knocked unconscious and decided to take a nap inside a golden frame – that is, the image of you – or perhaps it was you-you? The Queen of Witches didn’t really give him much to work with.

“Damn it…” I shouldn’t have called you. You shouldn’t have come. Why are you so goddamn stubborn? … Why do you even care so much about me and my crap?

Okay, here’s the thing about you and Dean; You always talk back. But not the ‘sucker punch to the gut’ kind of talk back. But the ‘I’m here for you’ kind of. The ‘talk to me’. The ‘I’m not gonna judge you, promise’. The kind, Dean didn’t know how to deal with.

You’d ask, “How are doing?”, he’d reply, “I’m fine.”

You know better. Of course you do. ‘I’m fine’ is the equivalent to ‘I’m too broken to open up’.

So you try once more. “Dean, c’mon. Talk to me…” He on the other hand brushes it off more aggressively this time. “I said I’m alright, okay?”

This is the point where Sam would go ‘yeah, okay.’ and drop it. Maybe because he knows better than to push him. Maybe because he knows Dean will only clam up more and eventually lash out when put on the spot. Maybe because he’s just learned to accept his older brother’s stubornness.

You know all that, too. But the big difference is; you continue nonetheless.

“Dean,” you’d sigh his name, for some reason which is beyond him, still patient, even though it takes all of your nerves to not shake the emotions out of him. “Please. I can see that you’re not doing well. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

How can you be so damn caring? I’m literally a walking-talking broken time bomb.

And since you’re not raising your voice, that’s usually the point where he’d start to yell. Accompanied by a warning finger pointing your way. “I swear to God, if you ask me one more time to spill my guts, I’ll forget my manners and deck you.”

And guess what? You’d still fuckin’ pester me.

Even on our drive to this godforsaken graveyard you didn’t miss a chance to make me want to strangle you — to just make you shut up. You were meant to help me get Sammy’s soul back, not bare my soul to you.

He hated the way you saw right through him. The way you read him as if he was an open book even though you were one of the people he wanted least to see behind his facade.

And right now I wish for nothing more than your annoying voice. Prodding and pestering me about my emotional constipation.

Anything.

One word.

“C’mon, sweetheart… don’t do this to me…” he whispers. Voice hoarse. Raw.

Please.

But illustrations don’t answer prayers. And neither do regrets.

His hand trembles. Clenches. Fingers curled around the edge of the black tarot card. It dents under the calloused palm closing around it - then gets tossed through the air before it hits the ground between his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” he rasps out, the curse like a rip through the air before it sinks into the empty, silent night.

His empty hands are now both shaking. He drops his head. Face buried into his palms to steady them. To hold himself together.

But at this point it’s like he’s trying to hold a sinking ship together. Worst is, he’s not the captain. He’s the ship. He’s the one who failed the crew. Their only ground. When he breaks, everyone drowns.

Problem is, as of right now, not many are left for him to keep afloat.

This is my fault — I should’ve — I shouldn’t have asked you for help. It should’ve been me, not you.

“Why didn’t you just stay away from me…”

He pushes his fingers between his strands of hair. All the way back as he buries himself deeper.

I should’ve listened more to you. Every time you tried to make me spill my guts — you never gave up on my stubborn ass and I just —

A strangled sound wrecks through him. Muffled by his hands and barely loud enough to rip through the unspoken grief. Hanging heavy between the tombstones.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry - I’m so goddamn sorry - I-

He rakes his fingers down. Until the hair caught between them is pulled taught. The heel of his palms press into his stinging eyes. A poor attempt at damming the tears that threaten to break free.

“You wanted to know whether I’m fine..?” he murmurs. His voice is low and broken. Breath shudders as the raw admission forces its way out now. “You want the truth? I’m far from fine. Sammy’s gone. I’m left with his Terminator version driving shotgun with me and he freaks me out to the point that I’m sleeping with a finger on my colt’s trigger. Lisa and Ben are — they’re better off without me. I should’ve never even showed up on their doorstep.”

He pauses. Bites back a soft sound close to a sob. His voice suddenly drops to a raspy whisper, the sound of it taking on an edge of anger. Driven by disappointment and helplessness.

“You wanted me to open up? Fine. I’ll talk. I –… I’m afraid, when I’ll let someone in, I’ll shatter and you’ll be the one picking up the pieces. And– And that’s not supposed to be your job. I’m the one who’s doing the fixing. But truth is…” — his hands slip off his face, his rolled up eyes water and his lips press together to fight his tremors — “I can’t — I —… I am beyond repair, sweetheart. But the only thing that kept my messy mind together was—“ his voice cracks when he sheds a single tear. Squeezes his eyes shut as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Damnit… please… I’m begging you,” he croaks.

His hand reaches for the card on the ground. Desperate. The way he’d reach for the closest bottle of whiskey if he could. The grip on it tightens, his thumb digging into the centre of the paper where your curled up form is edged into.

“Talk to me —“ he pleads your name.

…

“What’s the matter?” Dean jumps to his feet as the voice pops up next to him. He whips around. Eyes narrowed at the familiar Goddess.

“What do you want?” he growls. His free hand reaches for the colt while the other holds onto the only thing left of you and instinctively pulls it closer to chest.

Aradia’s perched on a large tombstone as she tilts her head down at him like an owl, “If you crumple her body’s vessel like that you’ll crack her bones.”

“What?”

“The card, you snivelling monkey.” She waves a hand his way. Dean stares at her. Befuddled. She sighs and rolls her silver glowing eyes behind her glasses. Hops off the tombstone like a school girl as she prances over to him with her pretty golden shoes.

“You’re clearly not as emotionally dense as you make yourself out to be.” Dean’s eyebrows furrow and he whips his colt up which makes her stop in her tracks.

“Shut the hell up and get her back!” he demands, his voice deep and still hoarse. Aradia cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

She steps up to him, her blond, curly hair bouncing with every step. Way too close for Dean’s taste as he backs up until his knee pits hit a tombstone.

She leans in, corners curled up into a sweet smile. Dean’s lips twitch in response. Not good. Way too close for a skeevy mother of all witches.

Her index pushes the barrel aside. Her piercing gaze boring into his.

“Now, now… we don’t want to put any unnecessary holes into our contract.”

Dean narrows his eyes. But he knows she’s right. The witch-killing bullets would hardly be enough to make her flinch. Reluctantly he lowers the colt to his side.

She nods approvingly.

Her long fingernail trails along his arm, runs down his chest, and Dean’s hand curls into a tight fist around the gun’s grip. The anger flickers through every muscle that jumps under the force of his clenched jaw.

“Keep your damn germs to yourself.”

A chuckle skips off her pursed lips. “One would think you’d be a little more grateful. I’m willing to make you a new offer…”

She taps his nose - he startles, open-mouthed, a row of appalled curses forming on his lips - but she silences him when in the same motion her finger flicks against the edge of the card still in his hand.

Fucking hoodoo.

Sparks fly off the corner, like she just struck a match… with her oozing black-gold-glittery fingernail. His eyes widen as he watches in befuddlement, how your pictured form begins to squirm into the card nook while the burnt upper corner spreads in slow-motion.

Well. At least you’re moving. Means you’re still somewhere alive in there… right?

She snaps his attention from the now smouldering edge back to her.

“Want her body back and another chance on a certain someone’s other missing part?” The Goddess asks, then smiles knowingly as she continues, “Then find your lucky star.”

My lucky star..? Like Twinkle Twinkle Lucky Stars?

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” But she ignores him and turns on her heels. Dean’s desperation grows, mixing with anger as he bellows after her. “Hey! At least tell me what I’m looking for!”

She stops, turns to face him as she pushes her glasses back before she gives him that look his teachers always would.

“Oh but that’s part of the lesson, Winchester. Be grateful for it.”

“Hold on– Damn it!” Dean curses out loud as she vanishes into thin air right in front of him. Colt still gripped tightly in one hand, the card with you on it in his other.

He looks down at your image. How you’re cowering in one corner as the card smoulders at the other, almost imperceptibly, like a silent countdown. His teeth clench, cursing inwardly this time.

“Hang in there, sweetheart…” he mutters before he carefully shoves the tarot card into his jacket’s inside pocket.

Dean makes his way back to Baby, which is parked at the end of the narrow path of the graveyard. He wants to fish out the car keys from his pants pockets – when his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What the…” he pats down his front and back pockets. His green eyes widen in panic before they snap around the place in search of them.

Across from him and his Impala, sits a black cat on one of the square tomb stones. Its tail flicks as their eyes lock.

It greets him with a soft, muffled meeeow.

Then Dean’s focus is pulled down to the creature’s open mouth.

There it is. Hanging from between the feline’s teeth.

Baby’s keys.

“How did you –” his breath catches in his throat when it tugs the keys back between its jaws.

“Whoa- o-okay, okay, easy… c’mere kitty, kitty…” he holds his hands up in a placating gesture while he takes a slow step towards it.

The cat startles, then begins to chew on it. Dean instantly freezes up.

“Don’t…” he warns and perhaps his tone came off a tinge too aggressive, “Don’t you friggin’ dare –”

Gulp.

Dean’s face drops. “Oh you gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The next moment he lunges for the black cat. It tries to leap off the tombstone and make a break for it but Dean is quicker. He scruffs it, ignoring its hissing and thrashing.

Then shakes it like a Polaroid picture.

“Spit it out!” he yells in a mixture of panic and disbelief, “C’mon! Spit it out! Gimmi back my baby!!”

But the key’s long gone to the belly. The cat meows desperately while being rattled left and right, your golden eyes searching his in vain.

Damn it! Dean, it’s me!

EDIT NOTE: For anyone who saw my side note in brackets and was scratching their head 😂… It was 5 AM and I was dead on my feet when I posted this and forgot to delete it. Lmao I’m sorry, please just ignore all my weird wording and typos I haven’t found yet 💀

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @Ms-kayla-readinglover @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @nesnejwritings

[kikiutau]

RYOMEN SUKUNA: How to Get With Your Boss! Sukuna’s POV (Part 1)

CEO!Ryomen Sukuna x Reader Genre: Modern au, Office Romance, 18+, Smut, Fluff Content/TW: cheating, angst, smut, hate sex, rough sex, slight misogyny, degradation, dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation, spanking, manhandling, masturbating, unholy thoughts Word Count: 6.6k

Author’s Note I recommend reading the main story before this one! Divider by @/cafekitsune Series Masterlist

Wednesday, December 25

The clicking of dress shoes echoed sharply through the silent, cold halls of the corporate building walls. There was a weight in the air that followed him—an unspoken pressure, a steady rhythm of authority that seemed to resonate against the marble floors and glass panels lining the spacious lobby. 

Those clicks came to a pause as the man arrived at his supposed destination. With a quick click on the elevator button, he adjusted his cuffs, jaw tight. The silver watch on his wrist caught the sterile overhead light, a brief glint of sharpness before it disappeared under the fabric of his suit.

Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose.

Endless meetings. Endless paperwork. Not to mention the business dinner that had him considering whether gouging his own eyes out with a steak knife would’ve been more productive. 

The clients were absolutely insufferable. So were their snobbish voices and fake laughter. It grated on his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Unfortunately for him, he only escaped after being subjected to such torture five hours later. Still hearing the whirling of the elevator, Sukuna scowled, repeatedly pushing on the elevator button a few more times as if it would make it go any faster. 

News flash— it didn’t. His scowl deepened as the endless whirlwind of thoughts in his mind proceeded to pull out every damn thing that recently went wrong in his life. 

Silvia cheating. 

The fucking divorce.

Sukuna didn’t mind the cheating itself if he was being honest. However, it irritated him to the world’s end when he thought about how annoying Silvia went about it. It was the way she cheated, yet blamed Sukuna for the way things turned out. 

He recalls her incessant cries of “you don’t love me like he does” and “this wasn’t the marriage I wanted.” It was the way her words always seemed to twist and stab at his core, reminding him of his inability to love and his inability to be loved. 

Surely growing up with an absent father and a mother who preferred the fleeting euphoria of those little white pills over the responsibility of motherhood affected his ability to be a good husband. 

If he was truly being honest with himself, then yes. Deep down, Sukuna harbored guilt for the fractured pieces of himself he couldn’t offer to his wife. She had been looking for something he couldn’t give her—something he hadn’t known how to give in the first place. Sure, Sukuna wasn’t the type to write love poems and make grand gestures but he made sure Silvia was well taken care of financially and sexually. And he stayed loyal throughout the entire marriage, respecting Silvia’s position as his wife. Shouldn’t that mean something at the very least?

But it still wasn’t enough.

Sukuna made his expectations clear from the start of their arranged marriage. He told her he wouldn’t love her. Yet the passionate intimacy and soft caresses the two shared, perhaps stirred the longing found in Silvia’s heart. However, such things did not once warm his heart. When it came down to it, he simply saw marriage as a duty. 

Sukuna paused. Perhaps Silvia is right. Perhaps he is a cold-hearted bastard after all. 

Yet, that was something his ego wouldn’t allow him to admit out loud. 

Just as he was about to let his mind spiral once again, the sudden chime of the elevator stopped him mid-thought. He glanced up to see the doors sliding open. 

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he stepped forward into the empty space, prepared to get back up into his office so he could spend another restless night buried under paperwork and the lingering aftereffects of his own discontent. He had no intention of dealing with anything—or anyone—tonight.

Just when Sukuna was about to resume his previous thoughts, he noticed the lingering scent of freshly washed bed linen. It was faint. But it was present nonetheless. And it was familiar. 

An image of her face flashed through Sukuna’s mind. He catches the frigid expression on his face twitching in amusement through the reflection of the polished steel doors before reverting back to his previous frown. 

Crap. 

He inwardly groaned, brushing his hair back with his fingers. The strands slowly fell right back into place, aided by the hair gel he routinely applied in the morning. 

When was the last time he thought about that little intern he met all those years ago. Well, no longer an intern. 

But, still little. Sukuna smirked inwardly. 

Suddenly, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, the familiar whirr of the mechanism filling the otherwise quiet space. Sukuna's stomach tightened as he swallowed a groan. Just his fucking luck. 

Silvia.

Before she could step inside, he snapped, his voice low and edged with irritation. “What are you doing here?”

The briefest flicker of surprise crossed her face, before it contorted to one of indignation. “You weren’t home, so I thought—”

“Thought what?” Sukuna cut her off, his tone sharper now, more biting.

Silvia stood frozen in place, her eyes round, as she processed his words. She pressed her lips together, her eyes momentarily fixed on Sukuna as the doors closed with a soft chime. Sukuna could feel the heat of her presence as the doors closed behind her, the space now suddenly charged with an uncomfortable energy. His irritation was palpable, but something about it—something about his usual coldness being replaced with sharp frustration—made a small spark of hope flare up in her chest.

He was angry. He was irritated. But he wasn’t indifferent. She could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the tension in his posture. Silvia drew in a breath, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“I’m not avoiding you,” Sukuna bit back. Before he could continue, Silvia stepped towards the man, filling the space between them. The sound of breathing filled the suffocating space, with both parties staring at one another with no movement to be found. Somehow the silence was loud, a heavy presence that hung in the air, thick with unspoken words.

Silvia’s heart pounded, the sound filling her ears as she could no longer hear the mechanical whirling of the elevator. Feeling a lack of resistance from Sukuna gave her the boost of courage she needed. Under her breath she murmured, “Can we start over?” 

The words hung in the air like fragile glass. 

Not hearing a response, Silvia continued. “If we have a baby-” 

Almost instinctively, Sukuna’s jaw unclenched, his eyes glazed with indifference, his expression contorting to the poker face he’d perfected over the years. He let the silence stretch for a moment longer before his voice, low and cutting, filled the space between them. “A baby?” His tone was sharp, almost cynical, the weight of the suggestion crushing the air between them.

Silvia, sensing his retreat, pushed forward anyway. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “A baby could—” She faltered, trying to keep her composure, but the desperation in her eyes was undeniable.

Sukuna’s gaze hardened, his heart hammered in his chest, not from a sense of fear, but from an overwhelming sense of disbelief. With a ding, the elevator jerked slightly as it resumed its descent, adding an unsettling rhythm to the thick silence between them. 

Sukuna’s gaze never wavered from Silvia’s expectant expression. A cold smirk graced his lips as he bent down to her ear, his breath brushing against her skin. He let the silence drag on just long enough for the tension to grow unbearable before he finally spoke, his voice dripping with mockery.

“You want to play house? Go ahead,” he sneered. “But don’t think for a second that I’ll be playing along.” 

Sukuna’s hands appeared on her shoulders, as he shoved her aside. The sharp push was enough to make her stumble back. Hardly caring for her stumble, he strode out the elevator without turning back. 

“YOU ASSHOLE!” 

Sukuna didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder at the enraged woman before responding back with, “If I’m such an asshole, sign the goddamn papers.” 

He didn’t even know where the hell he was headed. This floor was definitely not his office, but no matter. Besides, this whole building was his anyway. Who the hell could stop him from wandering wherever the hell he wanted? 

His pace quickened, but before he could even go anywhere, he felt the impact of heels thrown right at his back. He spun around, eyes narrowing dangerously as he glared at the woman who had thrown the heel.

Silvia stood there, breath coming in quick bursts, her face flushed with fury. Sukuna’s brows furrowed, waiting for her to respond, his patience thin and fraying at the edges. 

Silvia opened her mouth, prepared to argue with him, only for nothing to come out. Her chest heaved as she stared him down, the words caught in her throat like a suffocating weight. Looking at his expression, a wave of panic washed over her. Lips trembling, she muttered, “You know… None of this would happen if you would just…” Her voice cracked, tears building up on the corners of her eyes. 

She looked down at the floor, unable to keep her gaze on her husband. Instinctively, she knew. She knew if she kept staring at his indifferent expression, she couldn’t contain her tears that were threatening to spill. 

If it was any other simple argument between husband and wife, Sukuna would have wordlessly wiped her tears, cradling her in his arms without offering any words of comfort. That was how it used to be—how it should’ve been. But now, as she stood there trembling, he remained motionless.

“Sukuna… You’re so cold-hearted. This wasn’t the marriage I wanted for us.” 

Sukuna watched her, unmoving, his face unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say a word. Although, that was quickly remedied with his cold jab. “At least I didn’t cheat.” 

Silvia froze, the words slapping her harder than she expected. Her breath hitched, and her eyes widened in shock. Like a released dam, Silvia placed her hand on her chest as if she’d been shot, her voice shaking with utmost hurt and fury. “At least he loves me! With him, I know what love feels like.” She points an accusatory finger at Sukuna. “Unlike you!”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his face twitching with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. “Love you?” He takes a few steps towards the woman. His gaze was cold, cutting through her, as if peeling back every layer of her facade.

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his words like knives. “He has a wife and two children, Silvia. If he loves you, then why hasn’t he left them for you.”

The tears Silvia was trying to hold back finally trickled down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting. She couldn’t give him an answer, because deep down, she knew her husband’s words were true. His words hit her like a bucket of ice water to the head, sharp and cold, shocking her into a painful clarity she wasn’t prepared for.

Unable to deal from the sting of his truth, she threw whatever was left of her dignity, deciding that the crazed frenzy she felt underneath the hurt and broken pieces of her pride was less painful to deal with than the latter.  

Silvia looked up at her husband in all his glory. Even with his disheveled hair and wrinkled button up top, there was an undeniable magnetism about him. Fuck it. 

She could no longer endure the icy grip tightening around her heart caused by the man in front of her. Yet, in the midst of her turmoil, she found a twisted solace in the warmth of the man she despised.

Standing on her toes, she grabbed the collar of Sukuna’s shirt, pulling him downwards as her lips crashed into his. 

She really fucking lost it. Sukuna judged, yet against his better judgement, he didn’t pull away. However, in retaliation, he bit on the bottom of her lips. In response, she gasped out of surprise. 

Sukuna took that chance to slip his tongue into her wet cavern, prodding, poking, teasing her as if this was his way of paying her back for all the humiliation she bestowed upon him. His eyes flickered with cold amusement as she squirmed against him. After a while, Silvia’s hands that were placed on his shoulders, squeezed the muscle, signaling to the man that it was too much. 

Sukuna feigned ignorance, deepening the seal of their kiss by pushing her down onto one of the desks. Just as her back met the table, papers of they-don’t-give-a-fuck flew into the air, some scaterring onto the nearby floor. 

Sukuna’s handsome face twisted into a sneer as he saw the desperate, wonton expression on Silvia’s face. “Already?” he mocked underneath his breath. His fingers caressed Silvia’s wet trembling lips before he slipped them down to the fabric of her dress. 

Without warning, he ripped the fabric exposing Silvia’s bare chest. 

No bra? 

His gaze immediately met Silvia’s pebbling nipples, seemingly at the mercy of the building’s cold AC. He gave a quick flick with a thumb, causing Silvia to arch her back, begging for just more. 

Sukuna wanted to pull away but was stopped by Silvia’s grabby hands, clumsily working on the leftover buttons on his dress shirt. 

So fucking desperate. Amused, he decided to play into what Silvia wanted. With a loud rip, he easily dealt with the only other piece of garment on her body. The wet and now-torn fabric ended up on the floor. 

“T-those were expensive,” Silvia mumbled. Her husband never responded to her comment. 

Silvia whined, closing her legs together, embarrassed at the sudden exposure which earned herself an eye roll from the tattooed man above her. Wordlessly, Sukuna grabbed her by the knees, pulling her legs back apart. He watched the clear, viscous fluid on her inner thighs stretched thinly before breaking apart. 

A wave of numbness washed over him at the sight. It was as if the initial arousal he had been holding onto vanished in an instant, leaving him in an unsettling void. A hollow emptiness consumed him, his thoughts empty. 

A foot at his crotch snaps him out of his trance. His gaze glanced right back up to Silvia’s face, her eyes widening. “You’re—” 

Before she could finish with her sentence, Sukuna roughly spun her around onto her stomach, forcefully bending her top-half down until she felt her pebbled nipples against the cold, hard desk. 

Sukuna knew what she was about to say. 

His cock was fucking soft. 

Whether it was his present lack of arousal or Silvia’s mere presence, Sukuna wasn’t sure which vexed him the most. Instinctively, he redirected his frustration towards Silvia’s poor asscheeks, toying with them as if they were his stress toy. Seeing the slight recoil, Sukuna let out a forced chuckle at the sight. 

Despite the onslaught of pain, Silvia let out unabashed moans whether it was because of pain or pleasure. She didn’t want to admit it but while performing marital duties (many many times) with her damned husband, he was able to slowly mold her body into one that accepts pleasure and pain as one— two contrasting feelings twisted into a singular pleasurable anomaly. 

Although, never would she admit that Sukuna thoroughly ruined her for any other man. And never will she ever admit, even to her death, that she had to fake her orgasms with Mr. Nakamura. She kept telling herself that sex didn’t really matter. After all, Sukuna in spite of his great aptitude in bed, could never sing the sweet promises of everlasting love and praises. What use were sky-high condominiums, expensive jewelry, and dinners at three-star Michelin restaurants when the man she married stayed indifferent to her confessions of love and sweet caresses even after years of marriage. 

At some point, Sukuna’s spankings became too much for Silvia to handle. Mind a mess, unable to voice her thoughts, the only thing she could do is to wiggle her hips away. Although, it didn’t do much as her relentless husband kept her in place with a hand on her lower waist. 

Seeing signs of disobedience, Sukuna responded with a spank on her bare pussy. 

“Ah!” Silvia cried out. 

The displeasure Sukuna felt from Silvia’s little act of defiance practically added additional fuel to the fiery pits of his temper. His jaw tensed, and a dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes—a warning, sharp and unmistakable. “You know,” he bent down to her ear, “I should really punish you for being such a disobedient little slut, whoring yourself out like that.”

Ouch. 

Too wonton and horny to care about the degrading comments her husband just made, Silvia pushed her buttocks towards the direction of Sukuna’s bulge, just begging— pleading— for more now that Sukuna stopped with his ministrations. 

Not the type to respond well to taunts, he pinched her abused clit. The sensation was so maddening Silvia, against her will, came all over Sukuna’s rough hands. Yet despite cumming, the man refused to give her any reprieve. 

A mocking laugh echoes within the room, low and venomous, like the hiss of a predator toying with its prey. “I can’t believe you’re getting off on this,” he drawled, his voice laced with cruel amusement. Silvia’s fists clenched, her nails digging into the palm of her hand, her breathing ragged.

Feeling the familiar clench of her pussy, Sukuna pulled away. He glanced down at his dirtied hand: hot wet, and slick with evidence of his wife’s arousal. He toys with the wetness, tapping his pointer and thumb together, watching the way the wet strands stretch every time he pulls them apart. Finding a sick, twisted sense of amusement from this, he finally turned towards Silvia, his expression devoid of warmth. “This is supposed to be a punishment. And you still find pleasure in this?” 

He accompanies this statement with a loud, resounding spank. “I must have trained you really well, haven’t I? I hope Mr. Nakamura enjoyed my cum dump while it lasted.” Silvia whimpered in response. 

Another spank. 

Sukuna’s eyes glared at her reddened ass. “Speak.” 

Mind a mess, Silvia could only stutter out a garbled yes. 

Sukuna let out a little hum, circling around Silvia’s poor, abused clit. New tears pebble among the ruins of her mascara, threatening to spill over like all her other tears. A moan escaped her lips as her eyes closed shut at Sukuna’s unrelenting ministration. The tears she was trying her best to hold in, finally dripped down her cheeks. Instantaneously, she cries out an apology. 

Quite frankly, it was quite a pathetic “I’m sorry.” A whisper barely audible, laced with shame, and yet it hung in the air, desperate and broken. She tries to explain but before she can get a word in, Sukuna interrupts. 

“But even your lover wasn’t enough for you, huh? Here you are, desperate running back to me like a cockdrunk slut,” the tattooed man mocked, his words venomous. “This is a little pathetic, even for you.” 

Silvia turned to look at the man, her reddened eyes meeting his unyielding gaze. Her tears, now cascading down her face, seemed insignificant against the weight of his glare. Yet, despite her tears, laid a love-sick smile on her face. 

He should’ve left it there. He should’ve stopped. Yet, his anger burned too fiercely, too intensely, for him to simply walk away. The bitterness in his chest clawed its way to the surface, urging him to speak—to hurt her in the same way she had hurt him.

Sukuna knew what Silvia wanted. To fuck and make up. To pretend. To wrap everything in a thin layer of gloss and act as if things could go back to normal. As if they could just carry on, as if none of this had happened. She wanted to get a baby too; to weave a new illusion where they could live their lives like some picture-perfect family, hiding the rot beneath a pretty facade.

He almost let out a laugh at the thought. 

A baby was the last thing he wanted. Heck, if he spent another second in that apartment with her, he might as well chop his dick off. 

Silvia expectantly gazed at Sukuna, waiting for the le plat principal of this evening, her gaze unwavering. Sukuna’s eyes searched her face, looking for any sign of remorse, any flicker of regret. But he only found a yearnful, frantic, and downright desperate expression. 

To hell with that baby. 

Reaching towards the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulls out his beloved Caran d'Ache Léman fountain pen. This pen had been a gift from one of the first board members and investors of Sukuna’s company. Coincidentally, that board member was none other than Silvia’s father. It was also the same pen he had used to sign their marriage proposal—an artifact that marked the beginning of something that, now, felt like a cruel play of fate. 

No need for preparation, Sukuna was already moving the rounded tip of his pen towards her gaping slit. Silvia flinched at the sensation before whining her husband’s name, unhappy Sukuna did not fuck her himself.  

Leaning down towards her, almost teasingly, the corners of his lips quipped up. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” he sarcastically replied. “I thought you wanted more. Was I mistaken?” Feeling his wounded pride swell with glee, he continued moving the pen in and out in slow motions. 

“I– This wasn’t what I meant!” she stammered, her comment earning her a harsh spank. 

“Manners,” Sukuna chided. 

Silvia groaned, burying her face into her arms. Picking her head back up for one last ditch effort, she pleaded once more. “Please please plea– FUCK! Pleaseeee, can you fuck me? I- I can’t get off.” 

So. Fucking. Desperate. 

If only Silvia’s socialite friends could see her like this. If only Silvia’s beloved lover could see her like this. 

What a pathetic sight. 

Bitterness— or was it pettiness— consumed Sukuna. “I don’t need to fuck you for you to get off. You sure found other alternatives during our time apart, didn’t you? I’m certain Mr. Nakamura’s cock was smaller than this pen.”

Sukuna made a point to press the pen further into Silvia’s wet cavern, earning him a violent shudder from the woman underneath him. 

With a bitter edge to his voice, Sukuna murmured. “And yet you went back to him, again and again. So…” 

Heart pounding, Silvia shook her head needlessly. She wanted to refute him but with how overstimulated she felt, she could not even muster a single coherent thought. Sukuna continued on with his ministrations, moving the pen further into her in a downwards motion. “I’m pretty sure you can get off to this.” 

Feeling the slight nudge of the pen towards her g-spot, Silvia unwillingly slips into pure bliss. Blood rushed to her head as she was brought to pure ecstasy. Sukuna sounded out her moans, purely focusing on her pussy fluttering witlessly around his fountain pen. Consumed by momentary pettiness, he slipped his pen out of her, refusing to fuck her through her orgasm. 

Silvia went limp after the shockwaves of her orgasm had subsided. Using the strength that’s left in her arms, she shakily turned around towards her husband. There, he stood with the same indifferent expression she despised. She reached out to him, hoping to continue— this time with his cock. However, much to her dismay, he stopped her. Before she could even say anything, he placed the christened pen into her hands. 

In her hands, the cold, polished surface of the pen felt heavier than she anticipated, its weight a silent reminder of everything that had led them here. The hairs on Silvia’s neck stood on end, the cold atmosphere around her biting at her skin. She wasn’t sure which was colder—Sukuna’s presence or the air conditioning blasting through the room. A sense of dread washed over her. No… It couldn’t be over. Her mouth gaped open, but no sounds came out as she shook her head, desperate to deny the reality setting in.

The silence grew oppressive. She needed him to say something—anything. But Sukuna stood there, his gaze unyielding, as if her plea meant nothing. Sukuna was the first to break the silence, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “My lawyer will come to your residency tomorrow. Make sure to sign the divorce papers by then” he stated. 

Silvia swallowed hard, the lump in her throat rising higher. Her hands clenched around the pen, the coldness of it now feeling like an accusation. Almost robotically, Sukuna made his way towards the elevators, his footsteps becoming more distinct with every step. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, but Sukuna didn’t even pause to look back. He stepped inside without a word, and as the doors slid shut, he was gone—leaving Silvia in the silence that felt so deafening, it swallowed her whole.

Somehow, the ascent of the elevator was slow, almost deliberate. His mind screamed at his poor decision making before he shut it down with a simple: It is what it is. No use dwelling on his poor decision making. 

One would think that his days of reckless frolicking ended when he graduated college and that the wild, impulsive behavior would have faded with maturity. But here he was, tangled in a mess of his own making, still chasing the same hollow thrills, guided by his good-for-nothing cock.

As he walked into his office, the cold, sterile environment did little to comfort him. He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, choosing to stare at the ceiling for a minute or two before going on to put on the extra dress shirt he has stored in his office. Silvia seemed to have broken two buttons during their frenzied one-sided amorous congress. 

Deciding to put off his original plan of going back to work— he doubted he could focus, not when his mind was still tangled with everything that had just transpired. He might as well head back to the apartment he rented out (the one he slept at whenever he would end up bickering with his wife in the middle of the night). 

Sorry. Ex-wife.

At the lobby, Sukuna was greeted with the back of a certain employee he was quite familiar with. It’s been a while, he ponders, wondering what the girl has been up to since their last interaction. 

“Y/n.” 

His low voice cut through the air. He watched her shoulders stiffen slightly before she slowly turned around, her expression unreadable at first. Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, Sukuna the subtle mix of caution and something else. Curiosity? Fear? It was hard to pinpoint. 

Her lips parted as if to speak, but she hesitated for just a fraction of a second, clearly trying to find the right words, or perhaps gathering her composure. She ended up smiling at him, although he noticed the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Hello, Mr. Ryomen. Heading home?” She greeted politely. Her voice was steady, almost as if she had mastered the art of keeping her composure in the face of authority like his.

Oh. That’s new.

Since when did he become Mr. Ryomen? A tinge of disappointment crept up under his chest. 

Oh. That’s strange.

The image of a younger y/n flashed through his mind—her in a loose-fitting dress shirt and skirt, an annoyed pout painted on her face as she muttered under her breath, “Nincompoop.” Sukuna’s lips twitched at the memory. 

Sukuna nodded in acknowledgment. “It’s late. I’m surprised you’re still here. I didn’t see you by your desk.” 

Y/n’s smile faltered slightly before reverting back to its polite, controlled expression. She shifted her weight, a subtle sign of discomfort that Sukuna caught in the corner of his eye. “I was occupied in the printer room.”

Sukuna hummed in response, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. A flicker of something stirred inside him—awkwardness, maybe? He cringed inwardly, a strange realization washing over him. It wasn’t just the situation that felt off; it was the shift in the air between them. The teasing, the banter they once shared, didn’t seem appropriate anymore. Like an old shoe that didn’t fit anymore.

Although, he didn’t linger on such feelings any longer than he already did. With practiced ease, he replicated y/n’s composed smile with his own, his expression returning to its usual controlled mask. 

The silence between them stretched just long enough for him to feel the weight of the moment. "It’s late,” he said, breaking the silence. “Let me give you a ride home.” 

Sukuna watched in sick pleasure as y/n’s smile dropped, scrambling to find an excuse. He could see the hesitation flicker in her eyes, the subtle panic rising within her as she fumbled for a response. A part of him reveled in it. A twisted satisfaction. He could almost taste her hesitation in the air. It was a familiar sight. The slight panic in her features, the way her eyes fidgeted from left to right as if seeking a reason to escape this situation... it was— he tries his utmost hardest to keep his smirk at bay— almost too easy. And, as much as he hated to admit it, a part of him enjoyed it more than he should.

“Oh no, it’s okay. Thank you so much for the offer though. I actually live nearby so I’ll be–” 

Before she could finish, the growl of thunder rolled through the night, a low rumble that echoed like a warning. Sukuna raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a teasing smile. He could already tell where this was going.

“You’re going to walk home in this weather?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

Y/n let out a defeated sigh. “I suppose not,” she nervously chuckled. 

Sukuna’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though his lips remained slightly curled in a knowing smile. “Right. I figured as much.” 

Perhaps this is the only time when he hopes for traffic. 

Sukuna found himself unusually quiet, his gaze fixed on the girl sitting beside him. She sat to his right, her hands tightly clenching the seat belt as she looked out the passenger window. Surely he could sense her discomfort, but that only made the moment all the more entertaining for him. 

What an asshole, he chastised himself inwardly. But then again, if not an asshole, then who would I be? 

Sukuna let out a breath, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. He stared at y/n once again. 

You’re not going to start talking to me again? Sukuna wanted to ask. Guess silence is your thing now, huh? He wanted to tease. 

He waited and waited. Yet, there was no response. The silence stretched, thickening between them like a tangible wall. It wasn't awkward—at least, not for him.

Ah, fuck it. 

“It seems a lot of people are trying to head back to their families for Christmas.” Sukuna finally broke the silence, his tone flat at best. 

Y/n slightly flinched at his sudden comment before humming in response. Unfortunately for Sukuna, it ended there. No comment. No follow-up question. No elaboration. Nothing. 

For a brief moment, he entertained his previous thought about being an asshole. Perhaps then y/n would at least take a glance at him. Fuck, he felt more pathetic sitting here than he did fucking his goddamn wife— to-be ex-wife. 

Sukuna huffed, his gaze flicking over to her. Instead of teasing her further, he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, burning holes into the back of her head. 

Meeting her gaze in the reflection of the passenger side window, he smirked, unable to completely suppress the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest at seeing her, even in the reflection, trying to avoid meeting his eyes.

You think you’re the only one who can play this game, huh?

He could feel her stiffening just slightly, like she sensed his eyes on her, even if she didn’t dare acknowledge it directly. He couldn’t resist a little push.

“Who would have thought I’d be spending Christmas with my favorite employee?” he drawled, emphasizing the favorite.  

A look of surprise washed over y/n’s face, but it was fleeting. It was replaced by a teasing smile gracing her lips. “Who would have thought I’d be spending Christmas with my favorite boss?” she quipped back.

Sukuna’s lips twitched in amusement, before erupting into a laugh.“I’m your only boss, princess.”

Y/n shrugged. “Still stands.” 

Sukuna took the subtle jab as a minor loss in their exchange, but oddly enough, it was a loss he doesn’t seem to mind losing. He then seamlessly moved onto the next topic, his eyes glinting with mischief as he decided to pry a little deeper, using the opportunity to poke into her private life. 

It was completely inappropriate as a boss. He knows. But then again, he is a certified asshole, and when have normal conventions stopped him before?

Sukuna leaned slightly forward, his smirk never wavering as he regarded y/n. “You got any plans for Christmas? You must be looking forward to spending time with your family and friends.” 

“Ah, well. They’re all overseas. So, I probably won’t be seeing them this year. The plane tickets are horrendously expensive this time of year.”

Oh? Perfect segway. 

“At least you have that boyfriend of yours from the sales department,” Sukuna said, his words deliberately casual, though there was a challenge in his tone as he remains relentless in his probing. 

Y/n’s eyes widened, staring at the man in disbelief. “Pardon?” A flush of red painted her cheeks as she shook her head, her words tripping over themselves in a sudden rush. “I-uh. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, more amused than ever. Oh, so that’s it. He could see the slight pink hue of her cheeks, the unease in her posture, and the way she quickly dismissed the notion.

A part of him wanted to keep pushing, to pry deeper. Sukuna felt a familiar spark of mischief flare up, his mind already mapping out ways to continue the interrogation. But as he considered it, a thought stopped him, if only for a moment. Maybe... Maybe not today.

But then again, there’s no harm in teasing her a little right? 

Sukuna flashed Y/n his signature smirk, leaning back casually in his seat, his eyes glinting with the same amusement that had been there all night. “Good to know,” he drawled, his tone a little lighter than before but still holding that edge of playful mockery.

An annoyed pout graced her lips. “Mr. Ryomen!” 

Now that’s a familiar sight. 

Sukuna leaned back into the seat, letting out a deep laugh that echoed in the quiet confines of the car. Alright, it seems he had his fill of teasing. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop teasing you,” he resigns. Sukuna, almost entranced, watched as y/n subtly bit her lip, clearly trying to maintain her composure. 

Instantaneously, his cock has taken the reins of his brain as he wonders about pressing his lips against hers, his mouth nibbling her bottom lip, his tongue entwining against her. He imagines her mouth wrapped around his cock, her eyes looking up at him as he moves strands of her hair away from her face. 

He takes a sharp inhale, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Without thinking, he reaches one of his hands towards y/n’s face, gently tucking that one stray strand behind her ear. The moment his fingers make contact with her skin, a strange, unexpected tension fills the air.

Sukuna looks away for the sake of his throbbing length, unable to look at the expression on her face lest he ends up ejaculating in his pants. Thankfully, the traffic in front starts to clear up, giving Sukuna an excuse to focus on driving instead. 

If Sukuna had to be honest, the rest of the car ride was a blur. After he dropped y/n off, he sped towards his rented apartment— almost on the verge of getting a speeding ticket on his way back. 

Fumbling with his keys, he rushed into his apartment, not even bothering to take off his shoes. The door slammed behind him, and he immediately dropped his keys onto the floor. He practically threw himself into the shower, with clothes still on, water ice cold. 

Fucking hell.

Not even the cold shower raining down on him could calm the searing fever inside of him.

He fumbled with his belt, taking out his twitching cock. Flushed, throbbing, and fucking needy. Absolutely begging for stimulation. And right now, it was the fucking bane of his existence. 

One of his hands fisted the wall in front of him as the other rigorously pumped his length, forgoing the usual teasing and edging he might indulge in from time to time. Sukuna exhaled sharply at the sensation, feeling so close to release. 

Y/n.

Y/n.

Y/n.

Y/n. 

What does she sound like? Is she a moaner? Screamer? Or does she bite those tantalizing lips of hers, muffling her moans. His imagination runs wild, visualizing y/n in a multitude of positions. Doggy style. Cowboy. Missionary. Prone bone. Full nelson.

Fuck. Now wouldn’t that be a sight to behold? 

Up until his very last moments before releasing, he recalls her voice—

“Mr. Ryomen.”

Just like that he came with a hoarse groan, milky remnants releasing from the slit of his bulbous head, dripping down his veiny hands, pooling right down the drain. 

His release was like a dam bursting, releasing the flood of feelings he had locked away years ago when he got married. Tinnitus rang in his ears and within that euphoric high, his disorientated self could almost hear y/n’s voice, light and carefree, as if he could feel her presence right next to his. 

In his hazy post-nut clarity, he chastises himself for the thousandth time. He doesn’t hate how easily she invades his thoughts. However, what he hates—despises— is the little bits and pieces of composure he keeps losing to her. He wanted her to be his so badly he could almost subject himself to abstinence if it meant getting to taste her. Feel her. Lick her. Just once. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus, trying to ground himself. Focusing on the pitter-patters of the shower head to the sounds of his heavy breathing, he looked down at his cock— still hard.

It hurts. But it hurts so good. 

Sukuna let out a defeated groan, his forehead resting against his bathroom titles. The coolness of the ceramic offered little relief against the burning frustration that gnawed at him. 

Shit. He was truly fucked. 

a/n: there will be multiple parts//parts will be separated by the different days (i.e. this fic being dec 25th, with pt 2 being dec 26th, and etc)! I’m planning on creating a taglist for those interested. If you are, feel free to comment or dm me :)

also feel free to send me thirsts or comment (im begging) my inbox is looking a little empty 👉🏻👈🏻

[sentientcave]

Masquerade

You've come to this masquerade ball to finally dispatch the man you've wanted dead for nearly ten years, but he's always ruining your plans, one way or another.

Contains: 2nd POV OC (sorry about all the blushing), werewolf MMC (sadly he doesn't do any fun werewolfy things he's just a guy with sharp teeth here), vague fantasy setting, murder attempts/reminiscence of murder attempts, a long and storied history only alluded to, what do you do when your bitter enemy turns out to be a silly little guy who just wants you to love him?, oral sex (w receiving), P in V sex, this spawned a whole ass novel and it's so so different but this lowkey holds up.

See end for Notes

~10k words - NSFW - 18+ MDNI

“My, don’t you look exquisite,” a voice purrs in your ear.

You freeze in place, glad that the mask hides the colour that springs to your cheeks. You feel like a naughty child caught with your hand in the cookie jar, an unwelcome guest at his masquerade. You thought you could escape notice, slip through the crowd of finely dressed nobles and plunge your knife into his chest at last. But he had managed to find you first. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t been to the garden to pick up your hidden cache of weapons, you had nothing but your silver hair-stick to dispatch him with.

His heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Don’t muss up your pretty hairstyle just yet, darling,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rasping like sandpaper. It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Or perhaps, after all these years, you’re simply predictable. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

You flinch at the cold press of his mask against your bare shoulder. You shouldn’t have disguised yourself as a guest. You feel defenceless, wrapped in silk and sheer chiffon, a neat little morsel delivered straight into the wolf’s jaws. He could shift in a second and shred you into little pieces, like he had threatened to do so many times before. You try to still your frightened, thumping heart, and pull away, turning to face him at last. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, because it’s worth a try at least, but he’s laughing before you can even finish, the smiling mouth of his gold wolf mask mocking you. His yellow eyes glitter from it’s depths, watching you.

“Oh darling, I would recognize you anywhere. I hoped you would be unable to resist my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

“Yes, dearest. All of this was for you. I knew you could not resist the chance to get so close to me again.”

“To kill you,” you remind him hoarsely.

He chuckles and takes your hand. “Perhaps. For now, a dance, I should think. You haven’t danced all night.”

You dig in your heels, trying to resist his insistent pull, but he simply wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “I don’t dance,” you tell him sharply. “Let go of me.”

“You’re a liar,” he replies, spinning you into place, one hand on your lower back, pinning you against his chest, and the other still clasped around your wrist, sliding up to engulf your hand. He simply tugs you along with him as he moves, sweeping you along to the music, holding you so unbearably close. He could lift you off your feet with ease, if he chose to, and you don’t have enough power to resist. His scent clouds your mind, cedar soap and clean, animal musk, one of many hints of the wolf that dog him even in his human shape. “You forget, I knew you in your past life. Or have you forgotten that I once sat in your father’s halls? I have seen you dance.”

It was so long ago now, another life, before he was only the wolf to you, and before you were the thorn in his paw, that you almost had forgotten. You had hardly given him a second thought at first, he was just another visiting knight, here one day and gone the next, handsome, but beyond the concerns of the girl you once were. “You failed to make an impression,” you tell him sharply, although it’s not true. You do remember his yellow eyes watching you one night, though he never asked you to to dance. He never spoke to you at all.

Not until after. He saved you, of course, from the bloodbath, because he had claimed you. He hadn’t so much as said a word to you before he burst into your bedchamber, monstrous jaws dripping with your fathers blood, yellow eyes wild. You still remembered beating him back with the fire-place’s iron poker, and jamming the tip into his chest before you ran for your life.

“I knew you were mine from the first,” he continues. He seems frighteningly aware of your thoughts, as if his own version of the memory is playing out behind his own eyes. “My lioness, avenging her wicked father with a poker. I still bear your mark, just above my heart.” He presses your entwined hands to his chest for a moment. “I’m certain you remember that, at least.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The only unfortunate part,” he says patiently. “Is that I did not take you as my mate that night.”

His words lance through you like lightning, burning everything in their path. Your knees nearly buckle, and if he were not holding you so securely, you would sink to the floor in a useless puddle of silk. How dare he make you weak, after everything he’s done to you? But anger gives you strength, reinforces your spine with steel, and you wrench away, glaring at him, wishing you could set him ablaze with your eyes.

The music falters. You look up, at the musicians gallery, then around the room. Everyone watches, pretending not to, jewelled masks concealing furtive eyes and whispered words. Your own mask feels insufficient, lightweight and flimsy under the wolf’s eyes when your eyes return to him. He takes your arm, his grip tight, but not bruising, and guides you out of the ballroom, into the cold night air. The dark gardens are just a little too far for you to jump down from the wide stone balcony, and there are no stairs leading down. If you jump, you’d probably break your leg, and then you’d be helpless.

“What do you think of our home?” he asks. “Have you snooped around yet, my darling? Planned all your exits and hidden away your weapons and armour? I made sure you’d have plenty of opportunity. I know how you love to prepare.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t found them already.”

“I have been busy with other preparations,” he says mildly. “But I thought I smelled something of you in the corridor by the library.”

You flinch, only confirming that you had in fact been there, hiding your leather armour inside a large vase. “Preparations for what?”

“Your homecoming. The king has made it clear that it’s time to reign you in, or he will have someone else deal with you.” He pulls the mask off at last, setting the golden wolf on the balcony. Sweat glimmers at his temples, catching light from the ballroom behind them. He offers you a wry smile, his sharp white teeth flashing. “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“Lenient?” you ask, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to kill you.”

“Those who attempt such things do not usually live long,” he reminds you. “I don’t often show mercy. I’ve allowed you to live free, in the hopes that you would come to me willingly, in time. Now it seems I can no longer afford to continue our little game. You will stay with me, or someone else will be sent to arrest or kill you.”

You press your palms into the smooth railing, wishing desperately that you could absorb the cool, dependable steadiness of stone through your skin. You look at him for a moment while he stares out over the dark gardens, his yellow eyes tracking movement you can’t see.

He’s always dressed in black, like a man in mourning, his black curls cropped short around his slightly pointed ears, beard neatly trimmed. He wears little jewellery for a man of his station, just the yellow-gold signet ring with it’s heavy, dark blue sapphire on his finger, and the gleam of jet buttons down the front of his tunic. You were more used to seeing him in his armour. The heavy black plate suits his brutality better than black-embroidered silk.

Silk offers no protection, no shield over his wicked black heart.

You pull the hairpin from your own neatly arranged curls and move fast, striking at his chest, but he catches your hand easily, his amber eyes meeting your fury with amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks. “Stubborn creature.”

He plucks the pin from your hand and spins you around, pushing you into the railing with the oppressive weight of his presence. Your protests are weak and hardly noticed, but you fall silent when you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the back of your neck. He gathers your hair up and pins it back in place, not as neatly as you had done earlier, but sufficiently.

“What are you doing?” you ask numbly.

He turns you around, still standing far too close. You stare forward, at the point where his skin meets the collar of his tunic, your eyes glued to his pulse. You wish for teeth as sharp as his own, so you could tear out his throat. His fingers curl under your chin, nudging your face up, forcing you to look him in the eye again. “Just returning your pin,” he says, smirking. “Why do you seem so flustered, darling?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you ask. Your hand lifts up to knock his away, but you touch him instead, fingertips ghosting over his knuckles. You know he’s capable of crushing you with hardly a thought. You’ve spent the last ten years learning all you could about him, hunting him down again and again and again with a single-minded determination. He likely could have killed you a thousand times over, if you’d been just a little less careful, or he a little less eager to capture you instead. He should have killed you. You don’t know how to stop anymore, you don’t know how to let go of the terrible anger that burns you up every time you think of him. You want him to suffer, to lose everything, to hurt the way he hurt you. “I’ll never stop.”

There is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and it pings against your heart uncomfortably. “I never could,” he says, all traces of his smirking, superior air gone. His thumb strokes along your jaw. “I begged the king for your life. Your father may have been a traitor, but you were an innocent girl, and I do not enjoy killing innocents.”

“I’m not innocent anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve committed no crimes that I cannot forgive.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” Your voice is hardly more than a hoarse whisper. You want to shout, but his hand on your skin seems to leech all the power out of you.

“You have it regardless,” he whispers back, low and intimate as a lover. He touches his forehead to your mask, his eyes boring into yours, twin suns scorching everything in their path. “And someday I will earn yours.”

“Never,” you hiss. You return to your senses and push his hands away, shoving hard against his chest. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”

He tugs your mask off and tosses it to the side, tired of pretense. “If you hate me so much, why does your heart beat like that?”

“I’m afraid of you,” you snap.

He laughs harshly. “No you’re not. You’ve never been afraid of anything, my darling. It is one of the things I love best about you.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. You can feel his breath on your skin, the sharp smells of whiskey and mint setting your nerves on edge. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you, and you freeze, heart pounding, face turned towards him, waiting for the axe to fall.

But he withdraws instead, leaving you to face the consequence of unrealized want. His words prick at you like the point of a sword. Love. As if he would know the first thing about it. As if he knew you.

But he does know you, you realize with a start. He made you. His actions had set you on your path, and his choice not to kill you, each time that he should have, had created the determined, single-minded, furious woman that you had become. The carefree girl who you had been was long gone, dead the first time the wolf’s jaws closed around your throat. It burns you to think that he’d shown you mercy all along, that you had escaped capture or death by his leave, rather than by your own cunning and skill.

His eyes remain on your face, reading your thoughts like you’re a book laying open, waiting for him to happen by and discover all your secrets. “You have become worthy of me,” he continues ardently, pressing your hand to his chest again, anchoring it with both of his own. “I would have kept you like a bird in a cage if I’d taken you then. A pretty thing to amuse me and adorn my halls. But you are no trophy, my love. You will not survive in captivity. Even now, with the king’s sword hanging over your head, I will not force you to stay.”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“I used to wonder the same thing. A cruel trick of fate, that my mate would hate me so fiercely.”

“You killed my father,” you hiss at him. You yank your hand away, desperately stoking the anger that has kept him at bay all these years. Each time he calls you mate and darling and love your resolve quakes, and you have no sword in your hand to make him regret it, like you usually would.

“He was a traitor. I had orders.”

“And what comfort will that be when your orders are to kill me?” you ask, sneering up at him. “What will you do when your orders are explicit and undeniable, and you are to kill me on sight?”

“I’ll never see you again.”

You aren’t sure what you expected, exactly, but it always trips you up when he speaks plainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

“What do you think it means?” He hurls the words back at you, his anger lighting from your own. “It means I would pluck my own eyes out before I’d kill you. If the king ordered me to hunt you down I’d stay one step behind you until we reached the very ends of the earth. If he came outside this very moment and told me to snap your neck—” He shudders, shaking his head like a dog shakes off the rain, and when he looks back at you the anger is gone, hidden away again behind his steely resolve. “Loyalty only goes so far. He knows not to make an order I cannot follow. If he truly wants you dead, he’ll ask another.” He glances over his shoulder, keen yellow eyes fixing on a point somewhere inside. “I hope it does not come to even that.”

“But why?”

He lets go of your shoulders and turns around, stalks a few feet away, and turns again, pushing both of his hands through his hair in frustration. Because I love you!” he snarls. “You had me the first day you tried to run me through. Oh I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, beautiful thing that you are, but it was the first moment that you tried to cut my heart out that I knew there could be no other. You have no idea what it’s like, to love such a stubborn, foolish, bitch of a woman? Do you understand what it will do to me, when you leave? But I have never been able to keep you by force.”

“But you let me go,” you say numbly. “You said—”

“Let you go?” He laughs, striding back towards you. “Oh my love, you misunderstand. Just because I couldn’t kill you does not mean I didn’t try to keep you. But you have slipped every chain I’ve placed upon you. I’ve never pulled my punches. I would not disrespect you so.”

“You called it a game—”

He inclines his head towards you. “I did. Perhaps I should not have. But it was easier to think of it as a game. A test of my own worthiness. I admit, I have always looked forward to your attempts on my life. It’s good, I think, for a man to be beaten once in a while, to keep him sharp. Otherwise he forgets to be vigilant.” He sighs, touching the edge of an old, silvery scar on your shoulder, brushing a loose strand of your hair out of the way. “Besides. We’ve both made our marks upon the other.”

“I’ve gotten you more times than you have me,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously. “Two or three times I really thought I’d finished you off.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

You think about it. “Yes.”

“Care to make a wager, dearest? If you’ve left more marks on me than I on you, you may ask anything of me.”

You draw in a steady breath. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Not so confident now, are you? I only want what is freely given, so you needn’t worry. You can name your own penalty.”

“How magnanimous.”

“I can be,” he says. “Now, shall we inspect each other here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

The thought of being alone with the wolf makes you shiver, but it’s not revulsion that you feel, it’s something far worse. The dark, cold balcony seems a world away from the golden ballroom with all it’s legions of beautiful, elegant guests, but it’s only panes of glass that separates you from them, hazy from condensation, opaque enough that you doubt anyone can see through them. It makes no material difference, in the end, but it’s winter, and the cold seeps through your dress easily, your skin only warm where he touches you. “Ah, yes,” you say nervously. “Perhaps somewhere more private.”

“And warmer,” he adds. “As stunning as you look, I do not believe you are dressed for the weather.”

As if on cue, a snowflake descends from the dark sky. You reach out your hand, catching it against your palm. A moment later, the sky is thick with snow, fat, fluffy flakes catching the light and turning the world white. You look back at him. He looks softer, somehow, with that little dusting of snow catching in his thick curls, melting flakes glittering like diamonds on his shoulders. For the first time, you’re struck by how young he looks. He was a man grown at your first meeting, and you had always thought of him as much older, but you know now that he couldn’t be ten years your senior. You suspect it’s much less than that.

It changes something in your perception of him. Softens him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, stepping in close again. Although you’ve hardly moved an inch since you came out to the balcony, he’s full of restless energy, moving away and back again like he’s tethered to you by some invisible string. He tilts his head to the side, his keen predator eyes practically glowing in the soft light.

You were glad your face was already flushed from the cold. “I was just thinking. You look so…” You trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

“Handsome?” he suggested. “Strong? Irresistible?” He wiggles his thick black eyebrows, grinning wickedly, making you laugh despite yourself.

“I was going to say young, actually,” you say. “I was wondering what sort of boy you were.”

He holds a hand out to you. “I’m sure there’s a portrait somewhere, if you’re curious. Now come along, pet, I don’t want you catching a cold out here. I do have a wager to win.”

You hesitate. All the ancient, bitter anger and sadness wars with something new in your chest. It’s been so long since you wanted anything more than vengeance. Ages since the last time you felt deep, aching want for someone’s hands on you, if you ever even had. The obsession between you, at least, was mutual, and you had traded the excitement of romance for the thrill of the hunt, the clash of your sword against the wolf’s. His taunting sounded better than flowery poetry to your ears, and you could not help but seek him out every time the loneliness of your new life became too much to bear. He had been your focus, your centre, your reason for existing for so long that you can no longer deny what this is.

Love is not always kind. Between the two of you, it’s become a desperate, wretched thing, living on scraps of attention and hungry looks traded in battle.

His fingers close around yours, and you realize that you’ve reached out and taken the offered hand. You look at him, and he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen before, half-hitched up on one side, almost shy.

He twines his fingers through yours and leads you back through the ballroom, slipping around the edges of the crowd like the wolf he is. No one seems to pay either of you any mind, although you feel curiously bare without your mask, as visible as a hare in a field to the eyes of a hawk. But your hunter is holding your hand, his thumb stroking over yours soothingly, like he can sense your unease.

Despite that small reassurance, you’re grateful when you step into a nearly empty corridor. A few well-dressed servants carrying trays bustle between the ballroom and the kitchens at the far end, but your wolf leads you the other way, through a few hallways littered with decorative items and portraits of long-dead nobles with eyes that seemed to follow you. You had been there only a few days earlier, but it looks different now. Perhaps it’s that you aren’t on constant guard for the wolf. He’s already here, holding your hand, pretending that he’s not watching you, just as you pretend to look at the portraits and statues and expensive looking vases you pass by, stealing glances at him only when you think you can get away with it.

The silence between you is almost comfortable, both of you too caught up in your individual tumble of thoughts to put anything to words. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. You wonder if he feels like he’s won already, but there’s none of his usual taunting or his infuriatingly handsome smirk. He looks serious, black brows lowered in a sort of pensiveness that you’ve never seen from him. Of course, you had only once gone so long in his company without attacking him physically, and you had been tied to a chair, at the time.

“Do you remember, a few years ago, the hunting lodge just above Lake Pym?” he asks.

You laugh. “I was just thinking about it. Why?”

He stops in front of a door and leans against the frame. “Do you think you’ll be able to go as long without trying to stab me this time around?”

“That depends on whether or not you tie me up again,” you quip back.

“Don’t say such things,” he warns you, opening the door and holding it open, letting go of your hand for the first time in ages. Your fingers feel cold without his touch. “You’ll give me ideas.”

“You’ve made far too many confessions tonight for me to believe that you didn’t already have ideas,” you tease. Funny how easily that comes, like you’re old friends and not enemies. A tidy little fire burns in the stone fireplace, with a cozy arrangement of rugs and furs laid out before it. A low table sits ready, carrying wine and glasses and a few plates of the sort of interesting finger-foods that they had been serving in the ballroom. Raising your eyebrows, you look back over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the way in, which meant that it had been all prearranged.

He closes the door behind himself and leans against it, grinning sheepishly. “I live in hope.”

The room - his room- is neat, a big bed with four posts carved like small trees, green-velvet curtains tied back neatly, is the first sign that he might actually like colour. You imagined him always in sombre black and white, dark hair, white teeth, dressed like the reaper and often so employed. But perhaps he isn’t as stark as you’d always thought. His furniture is solid and well-made of warm-toned wood, and the bookshelves that flank the fireplace are stuffed with books, the odd space cleared out for knick-knacks and trophies. You had never considered that he might like to read. It isn’t something that has ever come up before.

The wolf sits down on the furs and nudges a black lump by the fire. The shape uncurls into the biggest, fattest, blackest cat you’ve ever seen and pads over to you, sniffing your skirts suspiciously.

“You have a cat?” you ask, because it seems unlike the picture you’ve built up of him over the years. Another thing you missed. You had been so focused on him as an enemy that you had hardly stopped to consider him as a man. You sit, and the cat drapes itself across your lap, purring already in anticipation of a good scratch.

“I don’t have a cat,” he corrects you loftily. “Smudge is the matriarch of a proud line of excellent mousers, and she is a valued member of the household. One cannot own a cat, I have learned. One co-habituates with cats.” He leans over and gives the cat a little scratch under the chin, his knuckles just barely brushing your knee as he withdraws. “She isn’t usually very friendly, but she must recognize a fellow assassin when she sees one.”

“I’m not much of an assassin, I’m afraid she’d be terribly disappointed in me. I’ve failed to kill my only target, and I have been at it for quite some time.” You give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “I’m sure her record is much more impressive.”

He frowns and looked at you in a funny way. “Have you never taken a life?”

“I’ve tried very hard to avoid it. You’re the only person I ever wanted dead, and I— I wanted to be better than you. I wanted my hands to stay clean, so I could beat you and still keep my sense of…” You look down at the purring black puddle of fur in your lap rather than at the wolf. “Oh I don’t know. Righteousness, I suppose.”

“So sweet that you wanted me to be your first,” he teases.

You know he means first kill, but you turn pink anyway, and there is no cold wind to blame for your rosy cheeks this time. There were many firsts that you had missed out on, in your bid for vengeance. “Perhaps I still do,” you snap, not thinking about the double meaning until after the words have left your mouth. You scramble to clarify. “My first kill— Not— Ugh.” He begins to laugh, and you cover your face with both hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Stop laughing!” Your voice is muffled by your hands, but there is no way that his keen wolf’s ears don’t hear you perfectly. “That’s not what I meant!”

He snorts. “I know, pet. It’s a bit late for that, I should think.”

You peek at him between your fingers, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Darling.” He leans over and gently takes hold of your wrists, prying your hands away. He is mercifully no longer laughing, but the look in his eyes only makes your face burn hotter. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never taken a lover.”

“There was never a good time,” you manage to squeak out. It was half true. There had been offers, and moments when you’d been sorely tempted to share someone’s bed for the night, but the few fumbling kisses you’d shared with young men had failed to thrill you the way that crossing swords with the wolf did.

He sits back with a groan. “You’re always throwing wrenches into my plans.”

“How on earth could that have anything to do with your plans?” you ask hotly.

“Darling, don’t be so naive. My plans were obviously to seduce you into my bed so I could out-perform every man who had ever touched you, forcing you to admit to yourself that we belong together. But I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Too easy!”

“I would never imply that you would be easily seduced, my love, only that I am fairly confident that you would have a harder time denying what we are if I were to employ my considerable athletic ability with the task of making you come undone.” He smiles ruefully. “But seduction isn’t fair if you’re a virgin. I’ll have to win your heart the old fashioned way.”

“The old fashioned way?” You stare at him, incredulous. “What, you’re going to court me?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” he says, turning toward the table to pour you a glass of wine. “It’s the long road, but you’ll find I’m usually more than willing to take the scenic route.”

“You’re insane,” you say weakly, accepting the offered glass. “You must be.”

“Must I be? Like you said, I’ve made far too many confessions tonight, you must know that I do not mean this as some passing fancy. I think it would be a waste to continue this bloody crusade of yours. For both of us. I confess my bias in the matter, as I rather enjoy living.” He shrugs, looking at you over the rim of his own glass. “Do you? Has your life been all you wished for, these past ten years? You’ve forgone comfort, education, friends, romance, children— Do you want none of those things?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then take them. Everything you want is yours if you stay.” He takes a sip of wine and winces, face screwing up like a child tasting something bitter. “Ugh, I hate wine.”

“I know. I was wondering if you were going to drink from that glass you’ve been waving around.”

“I just wanted to indicate that it wasn’t poisoned.” He sets the glass to the side, still grimacing. “Just in case you were wondering if I was still trying to trick you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He stretches out in front of the fire, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve laid down my arms. If you must end this once and for all to free yourself, so be it. But I do think my alternative is better.”

You set your wine to the side as well and reach back to pull the silver hair-stick from your curls. You consider it, for a moment, pressing the point into your fingertip, not quite hard enough to draw blood. He watches with an inscrutable expression, making no move to disarm you. The cat slips out of your lap and stretches, moving off into the shadows again, either unaware or uncaring of the danger to her house mate. Or perhaps she’s simply more aware than you that there is no longer any danger.

You reach out and place the make-shift weapon on the rug in front of him.

The crackle of the fire is the only sound for a long moment. The wolf was rarely rendered speechless— getting him to shut up was usually the more difficult task. But he simply looks at you, like you’ve performed a miracle in front of his very eyes.

You slide one of the plates of food off the table and set it on the floor between you, something to hopefully distract his attention a little. You pick up one of the little triangle pastries and take a bite, catching crumbs with your other hand. You eat two more, realizing that you haven’t eaten in hours, and wait for him to break the silence.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, tucking both hands under his head. Firelight dances over his skin, burnishing his features like well-polished bronze. Although you have known him a long time, you’ve never studied him like this, while his eyes are closed and his usual grin is smoothed out into a peaceful smile. He looks noble, like a hero from the epics you used to read as a girl, more like you remembered from the days before everything changed.

“You’re staring,” he says without cracking an eye.

“How would you know? You haven’t opened your eyes in ages.”

“And how would you know that, if you haven’t been staring?”

He has you there. “Alright, fine. I suppose I was. I was just thinking about… about before.”

He opens his eyes. “How long? We do have a rather storied history, don’t we, love? I myself have been thinking of Lake Pym.”

You smirk. “I bet you have. I had a feeling you were rather enjoying yourself.”

“I was. It would have been more fun if you were a more willing guest, or if I at least didn’t have to keep you tied to a chair the whole time.”

“You wouldn’t even let me feed myself,” you lament, though you can’t help the traitorous note of amusement in your voice. “It was terribly humiliating.”

“Revisionist drivel!” he snarls playfully. “I did untie you so you could feed yourself, and you tried to stab me. You forced my hand.”

You blink. “I suppose I did.”

He leans closer. “I suspected you just wanted me to take care of you. You were too proud to ask me for what you wanted, so you forced the situation. And snapped at my fingers the whole time like an absolute menace.” He holds up his right hand and displays a white mark around the first knuckle of his thumb. “That’s one, by the way.”

“I only bit you because you stuck your finger in my mouth,” you reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose I did get a bit carried away, didn’t I? There was just this moment when I touched your lip…” He reaches out as if he wants to repeat the remembered gesture, perhaps hoping for a better outcome, but he hesitates, dropping his hand. You almost wish he hadn’t. “Are you still too proud, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He senses your weakness. The way the answer drips with doubt like blood from a wound. “Will you let me kiss you?” He moves closer, anticipating your answer before it leaves your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Yes.”

At long last, he closes the distance between you, hands cradling each side of your face. He just barely brushes his lips against yours, and holds you back when you try to chase him, his familiar wolfish smile lighting up his face. “Not so fast, my darling. You’ll have to ask nicely, if you want a proper kiss.” He unbuttons the cuff of his black shirt only a moment later, his eyes dropping away from yours for a moment, and then rolls up his sleeves. “Two and three, respectively,” he says, pointing out two more scars along his forearms. They were both from similar situations. Two times that you had disarmed him and made him bleed for it. You reach out and touch the silvery marks, feeling the smooth gap in his arm hair and the fully repaired muscle underneath the flawed skin. “You’re a better swordsman than I,” he says, reaching up to unlace the top of his tunic. “I might have had the edge of experience, at the beginning, but you quickly caught up to me, didn’t you? It was a good thing you were so scrupled about killing people other than me, or I’d have lost far too many good men to your blade.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“Is it working?” He pulls the tunic and shirt off in one go, baring his chest. There are a few scars there that you could not claim, and two that you can, although your eyes are drawn to one in particular. The ugly, uneven star right next to his heart, where you had run him through with the iron poker on the night of the wolf. “This one is my favourite,” he tells you, pressing one of your hands to the scar. “The first time you tried to kill me. Jon had to half-heal me himself, or I wouldn’t have made it to a proper healer in time. It’s partially why there’s such a scar. He’s always been terrible at the more subtle magics, but if you want something blown up, Jon’s your man.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you also note, in that treacherous little mind of yours, that he will not employ his considerable magical gift with the task of making me explode. He is still rather fond of me, even after all these years.”

“It is good, I think, to have a king that is so well-versed in the art of restraint,” you say mildly.

“Oh yes, I imagine it is.”

“So is it really just the five scars?” you ask. “That’s all?” Despite the truce the two of you had settled into, you felt strangely disappointed that your obsession with killing him over the last decade had resulted in only a handful of scars. It all felt like a waste. You try to console yourself with the knowledge that he heals more rapidly than most men. The scars you have left are despite that.

“There’s one more, on my thigh, but I imagine you probably don’t want me to take my pants off.”

You do want him to take his pants off. “Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you,” you say instead. “I suppose you’ve won, anyway. I have a lot more than six scars from you.” You had expected that his life as a warrior would have marked him more significantly. You’re covered in scars, faded and fresh alike, and there is no getting around the fact that you feel like you’ve stitched yourself up so often that you look as worn down as your oldest, ugliest shirt.

The disappointment in his eyes is gone so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, won’t I?”

“You’re just trying to get me out of my dress,” you say hotly.

“Obviously. You look very lovely in it, of course, but I have been hoping for the chance to peel it off of you.”

You shake your head. “I think you’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“Never. What would possibly deter me at this point, darling? If stabbing me through the heart didn’t erode my affections, what could?”

“Oh I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could have scales, or a tail—”

“I have a tail,” he reminds you. “And I’m quite positive that you’re human, so I’m not worried about scales. Or strange birth-marks or stretch-marks or scars, either, by the way.”

You take a deep breath and stand up, turning your back to him. “It would help if you could undo all these buttons for me,” you say, sweeping your hair in front of your shoulder. “There are so many of them.”

He jumps to his feet and scrambles to help. A few buttons plink to the floor, torn free in his haste. “I’ll have it fixed,” he says hastily. “And I’ll buy you new gowns. As many as you can stand.”

You glance over your shoulder, nervous laughter stilling on your tongue when you see the look in his eyes. You turn forward again, sliding your arms through the sleeves and shimmying the gown to he floor. He gives you a hand to steady yourself as you step free. “I— I don’t want— I won’t stay.”

He hums in response, gathering up the gown and laying it over the back of a chair.

“I won’t,” you repeat yourself, as if the words will sound convincing the second time. They don’t.

“I already told you, darling, I won’t make you stay. It’s up to you.”

He draws you back to your seats in front of the fire, and you offer him your arms. You’re riddled with fine scars, most of them faint, little nicks from his blade. His hands slide up to your shoulder and gently tug the capped sleeve of your chemise to the side, baring the imprint of his jaws. His thumb runs across the marks, his other hand landing on your knee.

“I wondered if I’d bitten you that night.” He moves closer, his tongue moving over his sharp canines as he sighs. His fingers trail down your arm as his touch drops away. “You never turned, so I wasn’t sure.”

“It doesn’t always take,” you say, using his shoulder to help you back up to your feet. “I think it depends on the moon. New moon, that night. If you were any other wolf you never would have shifted.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He settles back on his heels, looking up at you. “I can’t say I’ve thought about why some bites take and some don’t. I’m not as observant as you, my love.”

Laughable, when his senses are many times greater than your own. It’s not his observations that are the problem, it’s the connecting cause and effect, thinking about consequence for more than a moment. He’s faced so few consequences in his life that it doesn’t come naturally to him. You, on the other hand, are a mess of consequence, action and reaction measured and weighed, failures poured over until you can see every mistake you’ve made, follow the tracks to how things could have been, if you’d done it all just a little differently.

You pull your skirt up so you can untie the ribbon that holds up your stocking, and he slides it down to your ankle. “This one’s only indirectly your fault,” you say, angling your leg so he can see the trail of pocked scars that wrap around your knee and up your thigh. “When I jumped down that ravine. Scraped myself up on the rocks.”

He tuts, hands reaching for these scars too. It’s just an excuse to touch you, certainly, but you make no move to stop him. You just hold your skirt up, giving him unfettered access to your skin. His amber eyes flick up to your face, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee.

There’s no halting the soft “Oh” that falls from your lips, but he would have heard even the softest catch of breath. There’s no hiding from him, and it terrifies you, leaves you so unsteady.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his exhale warm against your skin. “You shouldn’t show me any more,” he tells you. “I find myself wanting to kiss every inch of skin you show me, and I worry that you won’t stop me if I try.”

You sink back to his level and pull your stocking back up, tying the ribbon around your thigh again. “Would that be so bad?”

He groans and lays back on the furs, hands neatly folded on his stomach. “I am trying to be a good man for you, darling. You deserve more than I can give in one night. I need at least a few weeks to make you fall hopelessly in love with me before I can do anything that would tempt me to take you to bed.”

You run your palm over his stomach, feeling the soft pelt of hair over his warm skin, letting your curiosity guide your fingertips. You feel the expansion and contraction of muscle as he breathes in and out, tucking one hand under his head so he can watch you more easily, his eyes barely open.

You have to admit, he is handsome, especially relaxed like this. Only a few short hours ago you would have found the idea of him kissing any part of you abhorrent, but now you find yourself similarly compelled. You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

“Come here, you little minx,” he growls, trying to pull you down on top of him. You pull back, and he lets go, still worried about pushing you when you’ve made so many overtures in such a short time.

You had expected him to hold on tightly, however, and overbalance, tipping over the other way with an inelegant little squeak. He laughs as he sits up, and you do too as he helps you back upright. He lays back again, and there’s no resistance when he takes you with him this time. He tucks you into his side, and you look down at him, chin propped on your hand.

“I rescind my earlier statement,” he says.

“Which one?”

“You don’t have to ask nicely for a kiss, darling. I worry that you’re too prideful to admit that you might like one, but if you can steal one whenever the mood strikes you, I might be lucky enough to receive a few impulsive ones that your good sense isn’t fast enough to stop.”

You huff. “Is this your way of asking for another?”

“It’s my way of asking for as many as you might want to give me,” he says. “There is, of course, a standing offer of anything you might like that is within my power to supply. I think it prudent to remind you.”

He’s a ridiculous kind of man. You’d always thought his tendency toward verbosity was just him grandstanding, but now you see it for what it really is. He wants to be understood by you so desperately that each sentence becomes overwrought, less clear for his efforts to imbue each word with meaning. Your own tendency toward blunt, inelegant language is an almost laughable counter. You say little, and hide everything you can, and he reads you plainly. He speaks like a poet, puts everything out in the open, and you misunderstand him on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see this for what it is a long time ago. If you were not so determined to make an enemy of him, perhaps you would have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at you as though you’re the sunrise and set, like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky.

You kiss him, before he can open his mouth to speak again. There’s nothing lacklustre about the way your lips slide over his, the way your breath mingles, the way he makes little noises of satisfaction, unable to be quiet even with his tongue flicking over your top lip, encouraging you to open up for him. Angling your head to keep your noses from smushing together, you oblige, letting him lick into your mouth, his arms circling you, holding you tight against his body.

You can't put a name to the feeling that sparks between you, but it's the thing that's been missing from every kiss you've had before.

The heat, the need of it all burns away all that remains of your carefully maintained resolve. He loves you, fool that he is, and you're not sure you could survive without him now. Is that what love is? To mourn even the thought of their absence from you, to cling tightly and never let go? To sink into each other until you're one, two halves of the same whole?

He kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen from the tug of his sharp teeth, jaw curiously sore from moving in a new way. You pull back first, braced on one arm as you look down on him. He's beautiful, more than human, wild-eyed and fey, but solid and warm beneath you in a way only a man could be. His imperfections make him dearer to you, not just the marks you've drawn on his skin, but the gap between his two front teeth, the way one brow arches a little more than the other, giving him that permanently skeptical look that had always made you feel he was making fun of you. The crooked smile, the notch in one ear.

You know his face more intimately than your own, but you still want to look at him, especially through this new lens.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” you admit. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I don’t see what difference it makes, really.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I’ve taken enough from you, I don’t want you to regret it.” He gazes up at you, tracing along your jaw with careful touch.

Your heart races rabbit-quick in your chest, and although you're the one looking down at him, you feel pinned in place by the wolf's eyes alone. "Then make sure I don't," you say softly. "I can even promise not to make another attempt on your life until the morning."

"Darling…"

"Please. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but tonight I think I want your hands on me."

"You think?" His fingers catch around the back of your neck, as though he's waiting for some cue before he pulls you back into his arms.

“I know.”

He pulls you down for another kiss, rolling the two of you so his big body stretches over yours, your underskirts bunching up as he slots his thick thigh between yours, pressing against your core. He holds most of his weight off of you, but you’re still trapped beneath him. For the first time in a long while, there is no panic, no desire to fight furiously for freedom. You feel quite content where you are, especially when his thigh flexes, rubbing against you firmly, sending a shower of sparks through your belly. You gasp against his mouth, your hands skimming down his sides gingerly. When he does it again, you dig your fingers into the muscle of his back reflexively, murmuring apologies as his lips leave yours and slide down your bared throat.

“Don’t,” he growls against your pulse, dragging his tongue roughly over your skin. “Don’t apologize. You won’t hurt me.”

His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder, finding the older scar from his lupine jaws. You let out a shuddering gasp when he bites down lightly, not even hard enough to leave a mark. There’s a part of you that wants him to leave a mark, a bruise if not something more permanent, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him out of gentleness tonight.

He kisses down your chest, grinning up at you when he reaches the top edge of your corset. “You are still wearing far too much clothing, my love. Come here.” He stands in a smooth movement, and you’re untethered without the weight of his body against yours, but only for a moment. He helps you to your feet and leads you to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and pulling you between his knees, turning you so he can loosen the laces of your corset.

You shed the garment as soon as you’re able, as well as the extra petticoats. Your chemise is thin, loose material, obscuring little, but you leave it on while you sit beside the wolf, toeing your heeled slippers off and nudging them under the bed and out of the way. Hands folded, you wait, heart beating like a drum. You feel so strange, almost outside your own body, watching him unlace his boots and tug them off impatiently.

He stands to strip off his trousers, and you quickly avert your gaze, looking down at your hands rather than see him in his fully undressed state. You have a rough idea of what you’d find, you’ve been in the public baths more than a few times, and even doing your best to be respectful, it’s hard not to see something. But seeing something in a setting where everyone is minding their own business is a lot different than seeing something up close, especially when you might be expected to do more than just look.

“We don’t have to do this, love,” he says, kneeling in front of you, clasping his hands around yours. Your eyes fly back up, landing on his face. His chuckle makes your cheeks burn. “If you’re nervous—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I’m just— I hate not knowing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that darling. It’s your first time, I should think the responsibility rests on my shoulders. All you have to do is tell me when you like something and when you don’t.” He leans forward, forcing your thighs apart to accommodate the bulk of him, and kisses you, all sweetness. “And if you want to stop, we stop. Anything more than that can wait at least until the second or third time.”

It sounds so simple, put like that.

“Besides,” he adds, giving you a wicked grin as his hands move to your hips, the movement rucking your chemise up further on your thighs. “You’ve always been a quick study.”

Well, he’s right about that. His lips find your throat again, pressing languid kisses down your chest until he reaches the edge of your chemise. His eyes flick upwards, seeking permission before he goes further. You untie the simple knot with one hand, the other petting through his soft curls.

He noses aside the thin fabric to find your nipple, latching on with a contented hum. The act sends tremors down into your core, intensifying as his tongue flicks across. You pull in a shuddering breath, and your exhale becomes a whimper when his teeth nip at you, his other hand coming up to grope at your other breast, his touch warm and appreciative before his grip slides down to your hips and he tugs you to the edge of the mattress.

He pulls away from your breast and kisses you properly again. “Do you want more?” he asks. “Can I taste your pretty cunt, darling?”

The desire in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, and he sits back on his heels and kisses all the way up your thigh, although he pauses and pulls back to your other knee, kissing his way up again, this time sinking his teeth into your inner thigh, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make you jolt, your pearl begging for any kind of friction. When he passes over your cunt to mouth at your other thigh, you whine, shifting even closer to the edge of the bed. You can feel your cunt dripping, the air strangely cool on your wet skin.

A pair of mischievous eyes glance up at you. He’s doing this on purpose. He started all of this, and now he has the gall to tease you. Glaring in response, you grip him by the hair and pull him in, determined to put his clever mouth to better use than smirking and biting you when you need him elsewhere.

To his credit, he makes no complaint and does what he’s directed, slipping his tongue between your folds, lapping up the slick arousal. His big hands push your thighs up so he can get a better angle, and he kisses your cunt with as much passion as he did your lips, if not more.

The feeling is electric. His mouth scorches, sets you alight in ways you’d never imagined, the occasional scrape of his too sharp teeth against you thrilling. It’s too good, has you fighting his grip even as your fingers are still tightly wound into his hair, holding him close. It’s too much, but if he stopped it would be so much worse.

If he minds your writhing, he doesn’t show it. You can’t help the sounds he pulls from you, but he’s louder, as though this is more for himself than for you. He groans when your hips buck against his mouth, pants when he lifts himself away enough to breathe, his amber eyes gleaming, fixed on your face, except the few times they flutter closed, just for a moment, savouring your taste.

His nose nudges your pearl as his tongue presses inside you. You grip him so tightly to your core, your hips shaking so hard that you’re surprised you don’t break his nose. The hot, molten cataclysm that’s been pooling somewhere behind your belly button overtakes you, sweeping you away, limbs seized, unable to out-swim the current. You can’t see past the stars in your eyes even after your legs relax and you force your hand to unclasp his hair, finger by finger, so you can lay back on the mattress, breathing hard.

He crawls up onto the bed and pulls you toward the centre, a self-satisfied grin on his face. His cock presses into your thigh, insistent for attention, the tip peeking out and leaking against your thigh. He ruts against you when he kisses you again, his close-cropped beard soaked with your arousal. You can taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and bitter-sweet.

You lay twined together, forehead pressed against his as you both catch your breath. One hand gently brushes up and down your spine, the other pulling your leg up over his hip. “How was that?” he asked.

There may not be words for what you feel. Maybe there are, but they’re beyond you right now, washed away with all the resistance in your body. You settle on nice, which makes him laugh.

“Only nice, hm? I suppose I’ll have to work harder.”

“Better than nice,” you assure him. “I— I liked it a lot.” It’s still insufficient, so you kiss him again, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

He does, after a long moment. “Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?” you ask. “Or— for you? Do you want me to—”

“No, there’s no need for you to do a thing, love. The next part is for both of us.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him effortlessly. He reaches past you with one hand while he kisses you sweetly, tongue pushing into your mouth at the same moment you feel his cock slot against your entrance. He pushes in gently, halting when he meets resistance, fucking shallowly into you until you relax enough to let him bury himself deeper into your body.

You tuck your face down against his chest, focusing on the feeling of his cock stretching your cunt, so deep inside you that his presses against your womb. He tries to keep himself still, but his hips buck slightly, tearing a groan from your chest. There’s no stopping the way your cunt squeezes down on him in response, nor the way your hips grind against him. He makes a choked sound, breathing out shakily when you push yourself up to look at him.

The angle change nearly has you collapsing back down, but he takes pity on you and flips you both so he can take the lead. “Hello, pretty thing,” he says, giving you another kiss and a firm grind into you before he starts moving his hips, slowly working himself in and out of your cunt, lips settling against your ear so he could tell you how well you’re taking him, how good you feel around his cock.

Any ability to respond is quickly fucked out of you, your breath punched out with every deep thrust, your world shrinking down to a handful of sensations: his lips on your ear, the weight of his body and the delicious drag of his cock against your inner walls.

He works his hand between you to rub at your pearl, the heel of his hand pressing down on your lower belly. The thought that he can feel himself inside you with your hand is one of the last fully formed ones that cross your mind, because he growls and picks up the pace, unrelenting until you’re shaking and babbling and clinging so tightly to him that you’re certain you’ll leave permanent marks.

He drags you up another precipice and throws you over, his forehead pressed to yours, watching your face as you shake and cry out. He ruts into you, and you can feel him fill your cunt, his cock twitching, rooted firmly inside you. He doesn’t pull away, just throws himself onto his back, holding you tight to his chest.

His heart beats like a drum under your ear, slowing gradually as he catches his breath. His cock slips free, and you stiffen slightly as his spend leaks from your swollen cunt, spilling onto his belly. He pops his head up as soon as you tense, and huffs out a laugh, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Sex can be a bit messy. Come on, love. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Your legs wobble when you try to stand, but he happily slides a supportive arm around your waist, leading you into the adjoining tap room. Once you’re both cleaned up, he coaxes you out of your sweat-soaked chemise and wraps you in one of his shirts and you both sit back down in front of the fire.

You pick up your abandoned wine glass, holding it with both hands as you eye the wolf. He looks content, satiated, like he’s had his fill of you. There’s a little tremor of unease that settles in your belly. Now that the chase is over, will he still want you? Do you still want him to want you? At the beginning of the evening you had been determined to kill him, and now…

He looks back at you through half-closed eyes, and unfurls his arm. “You’re too far away,” he tells you, voice a warm purr. “And you’re thinking too much.”

It’s still unfair, how easily he reads you. An open book, pages left open for him to flip through at his leisure. Despite your trepidation, you walk forward on your knees and sit against him, knees tucked under his arm. His fingertips trail up your thigh, over your knee, down your calf, and back, over and over, as he waits for you to speak.

“What happens now?” you ask at last. “Do we go our separate ways?”

Hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it behind a neutral mask. “If that’s what you want.” His fingers continue retreading their path while silence builds between the two of you. At last, he pulls in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you want?”

There’s raw desire in his eyes, not tempered in the least by your coupling. He offers you everything so easily that it feels like it must be a trick, but he wouldn’t work so hard to hide his feelings if he didn’t care for you, if this were a trap. If you stay, it has to be your choice, not made because of his own want for you to remain by his side.

The anger that kept you warm in all your years out in the cold is gone. Killing him won’t bring your family back from the grave, it would just place another soul in one. The desire for revenge truly burned out a long while ago, and you couldn’t admit that only embers remained. It was why you were so desperate to end it tonight, to close the chapter and look forward to something new.

It’s so like your wolf to ruin your plans. This time, you’re not sure you mind.

“I’d like to stay,” you say at last.

He’s on you so fast that you drop your wine glass, spilling red over the furs. It’s hard to stop laughing enough to kiss him back, trying to point out the mess to him. He growls something about not giving a damn as he gives up trying to kiss you through your smile, and presses his lips to your pulse instead.

In the end, with all the history between the two of you, what’s one more mess?

It's been almost five years since I started writing this short story, and I had fully expected not to finish it. I was caught up in the story in the peripherals, the potential history between Cat and Valter. This scene no longer fits in the overall narrative, even if there are still threads of it that remain unchanged, so I feel like it's safe to share. I'm working on the third draft of The Night of the Wolf, sorting out the mess of my second draft (so many changes it might as well be a second first draft) and I think there's a very real possibility that I can actually finish it, and that's in no small way thanks to all of you. I have been writing for a long time, but it's only been in the past year that I've shared my work with anyone, and it's been a really lovely experience. Thank you for reading my silly fanfictions, thank you for reading this, and I hope to share more bits of original work going forward, if there's any interest. (But don't worry, I'm still gonna finish the fanfictions. I show no signs of stopping yet)

C. T. Cutter

(Also, special thanks to my best human person @dragonnarrative-writes for making me finish this and being so so kind to me about my work and encouraging me always. I am bad at accepting compliments but I appreciate them all the same)

Image Credits: 1 - 2 ~ Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 12: Dinner

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: Dearest gentle reader, welcome to another chapter of Nyra exists and Azriel is obsessed because who wouldn't want a morally grey, shadow-wielding, winged male obsessing over them?

Warnings: Azriel's wrath. It's mad. He's the Spymaster for a reason. Hints of lust here and there because he's obsessed with his mate.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Azriel's POV

"You're a real piece of work." Amren said, examining Nesta like a cat with her silver eyes.

"Why do your eyes glow?" Nesta asked coolly. Nyra looked at Amren's eyes, noticing the glow for the first time. She tilted her head, an action that indicated her confusion. Azriel felt a semblance of peace at how adorable Nyra looked like that. Like a curious innocent female he wanted to corrupt so badly.

"Don't you already know why?" Amren looked at Nesta and then at Nyra.

"Decorative purposes?" Nyra asked, knowing completely well that was not the case. Azriel felt mischief rise within her. She was starting to forget all the guilt and grief in relation to Feyre. Amren shot her a glare and Nyra raised her eyebrows, her chin dipping just a bit, inviting challenge.

"We are the same." Amren announced. The twins blinked and sat straight. "Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones..." Her eyes narrowed. "But... I see the kernel. The two of you did not fit—the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not fit. And then the path changed. I know what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was."

"You're that old?" Nyra asked. Azriel couldn’t help but be in awe at the way her moods changed. From a bloody fucking panic attack not an hour ago, she’d hopped on to confusion and then a whole load of guilt and in between all of it, she’d flirted with Mor, started a weird sort of banter with Amren and he could not even understand her enough to predict what she’d feel the next moment. 

And this was… refreshing. 

A storm of emotions and how she carried all of them so openly. 

Nyra’s concern for Feyre after they met after the latter was Made. Scolding her sisters for going for each other’s throats during dinner. Laughing at the entirely wrong time when Nesta ignored Cassian and trying to cover it up with a cough. Her knowledge of the political situation in her part of the world. And the humour—fucking brilliant sense of humour. Flirtatious on occasion. Serious too. And she owned every last one of her feelings with such grace. 

Those newborns… they were born because of her. Because of how fascinated he’d been by her as their first meeting progressed.  

He remembered what he told her back then before leaving after Rhys had caught the Attor. “If fate wills it, we shall meet again.” The memory of him kissing her hand had the shadows around him fluttering. 

"Speak carefully, girl." Azriel returned to the real world when Amren delivered a warning. She took a sip from her goblet filled with blood and licked her red lips, her eyes narrowing into glare as a warning for Nyra. 

"A manner of speech unlike anyone else here despite the age gap of five centuries between us and them. Are you perhaps older?" Clearly, Nyra Archeron found it far too amusing to notice or if she did, she did not heed it but Azriel could feel the power rising to the surface. That feeling charged him from within.

"I am ancient." Amren watched like a predator ready to pounce. Nyra simply hummed. The petite female frowned.

"Older than ancient ruins?" Nyra felt the power within her rising. Allowing her to see so much about this seemingly delicate female.

Amren's silver orbs remained on Nyra. And Azriel's hand was already ready to unsheath the Truth-Teller. 

The ancient one smirked and raised her glass towards Nyra. "When you strike, girl, cleave through providence." She turned to Nesta. "And when you erupt, make sure it's felt across worlds." And she emptied the goblet, the blood staining her lips as she continued to smirk. "And keep off your silly dagger, shadowsinger."

Azriel continued to remain wary even as all eyes turned to him. His shadows danced wildly around him. Watching. Waiting for anyone to breathe wrongly. Mistress went into the shadows. Azriel froze immediately. He commanded more information. She was upset earlier. We went to her and took her with us. Her twin found her. He looked at Nyra in shock and slight fear. The shadows had claimed her. They had already started claiming her, even when she was mortal and now, they'd cemented it. She was crying. They sounded upset. 

For now, there were a few mysteries.

The shadows had only ever used words and phrases with him but now, they were using proper sentences.

The shadows never did anything without his instructions. Until Nyra. The little shits were always touching her. And now, they had taken her to the realm of shadows on their own accord.

How did Nesta find Nyra when she was in the shadows? Did it have anything to do with them being twins?

As he contemplated these new developments, Azriel watched the twins. Nesta Archeron had piqued his interest. He knew from Nuala and Cerridwen that twins shared a certain bond that siblings with age gaps did not. It had something to do with an exclusive connection forming between them during their time in the womb. And it was another matter that the Archeron twins were thrown into the Cauldron at the same time. Was there something more because of that?

Azriel figured the best way to distract himself tonight would be with the varieties of delicacies served for dinner tonight. He looked around, trying to identify which ones he'd prefer. The shadows kept telling him about the twins and how Feyre served the first dish to Nyra and from then on, the twins served their own food and passed the dishes around. Lucien Vanserra is nervous. Azriel looked at him to see the male looking at his food and looking around. He had been unconsciously placed at the head of the table with Nesta and Amren by his side.

"You get used to it—the informality." Feyre addressed Lucien.

"You say that, Feyre darling, like it's a bad thing." Rhysand served himself some trout before passing it to Feyre. She served herself before looking at Nyra questioningly. Nyra shook her head, took the dish and passed it to Nesta. Azriel observed her hesitation. She does not like trout.

"It took me by surprise that first dinner we all had, just so you know." Feyre's comment had Cassian snickering.

"Oh, I know." Rhys grinned.

"Honestly, Azriel is the only polite one." Cassian and Mor cried in outrage as Feyre said that but Azriel smiled a little and took a dish from Mor. "Don't even try to pretend that it's not true." A small ball of delight hit the shadowsinger in the chest when he saw that Nyra had taken the delicacy he had just served himself. Chicken roast. She might like it. He certainly did and now he'd wait for her verdict.

"Of course, it's true." Mor sighed. "But you needn't make us sound like heathens."

Azriel watched Nyra pick up her fork and play with the food for a few seconds before she took a bite. Her eyes widened a little and she took her next bite, thoroughly pleased by the taste. Azriel made another mental note. She likes roast chicken.

And that was enough information for the shadows to have another celebratory dance. The older shadows around him loved her but they could control themselves. In a sense, they were mature. Clearly not mature enough to go through one dinner without complimenting her, but at least they weren't singing and dancing like the younger ones wrapped quite literally around her fingers. They were small, their touch featherlight and they had already ascended to her wrists and above to give her space to handle cutlery.

“Do you like chicken?” Mor asked, a smile on her face. Nyra slowly nodded. “Then you should try it with this.” She passed a bottle of sauce but Nyra simply stared at it and looked back at Mor. What if she turned her gaze and looked at him? After all, he was sitting right next to Mor. And he fought a smile. A very difficult battle but he won.

Just as Nyra extended her hand to take the bottle of sauce, the younger shadows around her wrist darted forward to take it from Mor’s hand, taking care not to make contact with the latter’s skin. They opened it and set the bottle near Nyra’s plate. She smiled gently and whispered. “Thank you.” 

“Try it. Mor likes it and I tolerate it. It’s chili sauce. Spicy as it is, it’s quite good once you get used to it.” Rhys spoke as he looked at her. Nyra nodded and took a tentative bite and her eyes snapped to Mor who waited for the verdict. Nyra nodded with soft enthusiasm and then hummed before looking at Rhys who grinned with the raise of his glass. Azriel was observing everything. She liked it with that sauce.

The shadows near Azriel's ears were dancing with joy and subsequently, tickling his ears and irritating him. He banished them away from his ears and focused. He was the Spymaster. Surely he could spy on one female sitting across from him during dinner without his shadows.

“Thank you.” She addressed Mor once she had chewed and swallowed the piece in her mouth and then turned to Rhys and nodded at him. The High Lord lifted his spoon in acknowledgement and ate his peas.  

“So, what are your favourite foods?” Mor eagerly began. 

Nyra was silent for a while before she replied. Chocolate, Azriel noted. "My diet was regulated owing to my illness."

"You have no illnesses now." Amren spoke up. "Take complete advantage of that." Azriel hoped Nyra would enjoy the world and all that it had to offer now that she was no longer ill and had a long, immortal life ahead of her. Explore places. Eat foods from all over the world. Meeting new people, not in a romantic capacity else he'd accidentally slice their necks. Enjoy the weather—the sun, the rain, the snow. Everything she wanted, he'd lay down at her feet.

Nyra hummed thoughtfully, cutting through a particularly large piece of broccoli and asked. “Do you eat flesh too?”

The ancient one smirked. “What makes you think that?” 

“Bloodthirsty people being flesh eaters does not sound too odd.” Rhys spat his wine. Mor and Cassian laughed and Azriel smirked, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to restrain the laughter. Nyra and Nesta were the only ones who did not laugh—the former looking amused while the latter looked grumpy. Why was Nesta so grumpy?

“Troublesome female.” Amren spoke after the laughter had died down, a wicked smirk on her face as she imagined something that nobody was too eager to know. Nyra did not reply and resumed her meal. The chicken and potatoes and the broccoli, she decided, were too delicious to be ignored in favour of a bloodthirsty midget. "No, I don't." Amren's voice had Nyra looking at her again. "I don't eat flesh." 

Dinner progressed with Nesta telling Feyre about how she understood the difference between the food in Prythian and in the mortal lands. It was when Feyre brought up training with Cassian that Nyra paid attention. "What time are we back in the training ring tomorrow?"

"I'd say dawn but since I'm feeling rather grateful that you're back in one piece, I'll let you sleep in. Let's meet at seven."

"I'd hardly call that sleeping in." Feyre muttered.

"For an Illyrian, it is." Mor sighed again. Azriel was already starting to get irritated at the banter between Cassian and Mor and at his stupidity for situating himself between them. His peaceful observation was being interrupted by these loudmouths. His shadows were also joining that group anyway.

"Daylight is a precious resource." Cassian's wings rustled as he took mock offence.

"We live in the Night Court." Mor countered.

Cassian grimaced and turned to his brothers. "I told you that the moment we started letting females into our group, they'd be nothing but trouble." Azriel did not bother paying him any mind.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. "As far as I can recall, Cassian, you actually said you needed a reprieve from staring at our ugly faces, and that some ladies would add some much-needed prettiness for you to look at all day. And now, we have more pretty ladies with us." Rhysand threw a welcoming smile at the twins who were suddenly overwhelmed at the sudden ball of attention thrown towards them but they did acknowledge him with a nod of their heads.

"I was a young Illyrian and didn't know better." The movement of Azriel's shadows caught his attention and Cassian pointed a fork at his brother. "Don't try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing." Azriel sighed, annoyed at Cassian for not shutting up and letting him watch Nyra in peace.

"He did not." Mor objected. "Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you." Cassian stuck out his tongue. Mor mimicked his action. Azriel, who sat between them, now regretted his choice of seat. He should have chosen the seat on Mor's other side. He would have had an easier time observing Nyra without the two chatterboxes of the millennia breathing down his neck.

"You'd be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They'll cause nothing but trouble." Amren's words surprised Lucien. Nyra focused on her food while conversation progressed regarding the High Lords' Meet but then the mention of a Court of Nightmares seemed to have caught her attention.

"What is the Court of Nightmares?" Nyra asked Rhysand but it was Lucien who answered.

"The place where the rest of the world believes the majority of the Night Court to be. The seat of his power. Or it was." Nyra looked at the red-haired male.

Azriel was beginning to feel even more irritated. This Autumn-born was an unwelcome guest in their Court and he was already stealing her attention. Something within him stirred with rage. The thought of anyone other than him trying to do anything for her woke up all the wrath he had carefully concealed. And even when Cassian slung a seemingly friendly arm behind him, Azriel felt the strength in the warlord's grip.

Rhysand's presence waited for him outside his mind's realm. I urge you to calm down, Azriel. The Vanserra is here for his own mate, not her.

Then he should stay away from her. Azriel's response was cool but he knew that Rhysand understood his rage. He is responsible for their transformation. It was unbearably painful and traumatising for them.

Partially responsible, yes. Rhysand countered, trying to placate him but Azriel was having none of it.

The Cauldron did something to her. And her sisters. She died in there, Rhys. Very painfully. And he was complicit in how things turned out for all four of the Archeron sisters even if he has a mating bond leading to one of them. I don't understand why we are dining with him instead of taking him to the prisons. Azriel knew he had spoken more than he usually did. It was uncharacteristic of him but then again, he'd already lost his mate once and that made him immensely protective of Nyra. And the rage within him rose like the icy wind it was. Cold and unforgiving. 

Azriel knew his anger was something everyone feared, even Rhys. And this was the most powerful High Lord to ever exist. And that cold, cruel feeling continued to swirl within him like a blizzard. 

Azriel. Cassian's voice spoke. They're simply talking. 

He, who is responsible for the pain she endured, be it partially or wholly, is not worthy of her words or attention. Azriel declared his verdict. He could feel himself shaking.

His shadows were trying to calm him down by saying good things. Sweet memories of his mother. Her latest letter. How lovely his mate was. And how he had yet to tell his mother about his mate. The anticipation because his mother, the sweet female, had been waiting for him to bring home someone. Had prayed for him to meet someone who would love him. And here she was. The only female he was capable of loving. The shadows panicked and danced around him, ready to take him to the realm should he snap in front of Nyra. 

Oh, how he’d carve this Autumn-born. He’d start with that metal eye. Rip it out of him and crush it. He’d pour whiskey into the bleeding socket before pushing the crushed metal eye back into it. And Azriel would take his time. He’d cut and carve into his skin with the Truth Teller. 

Mistress is looking here. And at that, he froze. He finally noticed Nyra looking at him, doubt in her gaze. He noticed the ironclad grip on his shoulder by Cassian. Mor and Amren seemingly invested in the conversation but radiating their power subtly enough to put forward that they were ready to strike. By then, Rhys had taken over the conversation but the High Lord was ready with the night to restrain him. 

And then there was her. 

This beautiful, wonderful female. 

The way she was looking at him, ocean blue eyes wide and questioning. 

She’d guarded the heart of her youngest sister, the newest addition to his family, his sister. And now, he was ready to beg her to protect his own because he’d seen Feyre so happy whenever she talked about Nyra, was talking to Nyra, was even near her. The comfort Feyre had found in this female was something he’d started craving. He could see how Nyra sitting between her sisters was a good arrangement. Both Feyre and Nesta craved the comfort she’d offered. And in their own flawed way, they returned it. 

Was he capable of offering her comfort? Since it was for her, it could not be anything less than perfect and he was anything but. And that thought saddened him more than he expected. 

“Are you alright?” She mouthed the question, trying to ensure secrecy but everybody was focusing on their interaction except for Nesta and Feyre. Everybody pretended to be in a conversation to indulge the other Archerons at the table while she was asking him. How beautiful she’d be with his cock in that pretty mouth. Or maybe, he should make her beg. Or even scream. 

“Yes.” Azriel mouthed back. Erotic fantasies about Nyra were better than murderous fantasies about the Vanserra. Anger dissipated like the fog and she then smiled at the shadows which had tugged at her fingertips. She then looked at him with that smile and Azriel swore the moon rose in those blue eyes. 

Has she always been this impossibly enchanting? 

And what was that smile? 

Was she happy? 

If he kissed her right now, as her lips smiled at him, would he get a piece of that happiness for himself? 

Azriel stood up and nearly began leaning towards her before Cassian caught his arm and jerked it. He came to his senses and immediately knew everyone was looking at him. He spotted the first dish near her and took it, pretending that he’d needed to stand up for his hands to reach there. Just as he sat, Cassian coughed rather loudly. Of course, the bastards he had as brothers caught him. 

"It still is to everyone outside Velaris." Nyra turned to Rhys who had spoken. He nodded at her once before looking at Mor. "And yes, Keir's Darkbringer legion is considerable enough that a meeting is warranted."

"Why not just order them?" Nesta questioned, her brows narrowed. "Don't they answer to you?" At this point, the three Archerons turned their heads to Rhys simultaneously, waiting for him to answer.

Azriel watched them in surprise. The three Archeron sisters with startlingly similar features turning to look at Rhys was an incredible sight. Golden brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin glowing under the golden faelights. All of them were wearing something dark. When a lock of hair escaped their respective hairstyles and fell near their left ears as they immediately turned to face Rhys. When they placed their cutlery on their respective plates in unison. The way their hands rested on the table and they assumed the same posture as they waited for Rhysand to speak. It hit him too hard that these three were sisters, in blood and bond. No matter how fractured those bonds were.

"To think there's another one of them upstairs." Amren muttered, taking a heavy gulp of blood. It seemed the stark similarity in looks, postures and overall disposition as it seemed at the moment had caught everyone unawares.

"Unfortunately, there are protocols in place between our two sub-courts regarding this sort of thing." Cassian spoke, his back straightening when Nesta shifted her gaze from Rhys to him. "They mostly govern themselves with Mor's father—their steward." Nyra looked at the warlord sitting to Azriel's left. The shadowsinger noted how particularly different Cassian behaved around Nesta and how Nyra had noticed the same.

"The steward of Hewn City is legally entitled to refuse to aid my armies." Once again, the three sisters turned to Rhysand. "It was a part of the agreement my ancestor made with the Court of Nightmares all those thousands of years ago. They would remain within that mountain, would not challenge or disturb us beyond its borders... and would retain the right to decide not to assist in war."

"And there are no loopholes in this agreement?" Nyra asked. He could feel her thinking. He could not discern her exact thoughts but he was glad at the way her mind had been distracted from the grief and guilt she was consumed by earlier.

"None that we have identified so far." Rhys answered.

"And have they refused?" Feyre asked.

Morrigan's fumbled response brought Nyra to another realisation. And as dinner progressed, Azriel felt her as she let her grief be a forgotten thing. The conversation continued regarding the Court of Nightmares and Feyre's training with Cassian.

"Let's train at eight tomorrow. I'll meet you in the ring." Feyre spoke after the silence in the wake of their discussion on the Court of Nightmares.

"Seven thirty." Cassian countered with a grin.

"Eight." Feyre tried to. negotiate. "Care to join, you two?"

"No." Nesta's answer was final, not inviting any negotiations.

"Nyra?" Feyre tried. Nyra was in the middle of looking at the table for broccoli. She looked to her right to her youngest upon being called. 

"What exactly are you training for?" Nyra asked and then took a bite of the chicken, resuming her search.

"Combat." Cassian grinned at her. "What are you looking for?"

"Care to elaborate? I'm looking for broccoli." Cassian noted that the bowl of vegetables including the broccoli was next to Mor. He spoke to Nyra and tried to keep her attention as much as possible while Mor discreetly pushed the bowl as quietly as possible to Azriel's part of the table. The shadowsinger looked at her once and nodded.

"You'd learn to be a badass like me."

"I highly doubt anybody wants to be like you, Cassian." Mor interjected. Azriel quietly lifted the bowl and stretched his arm. Nyra extended her own arm to take the bowl from him.

Azriel always wore fingerless gloves and today was no exception. It concealed his scarred hands as much as possible but the fingers were bare in case he needed to write or handle small objects. And right now, he felt Nyra's fingers brush against his under the bowl as she took it from him. He froze and slowly withdrew his hands. Soft hands. He wanted to hold them. Feel her hands on his chest, his neck. Wanted them tugging on his hair. And he’d die if one of them ever descended and snuck inside his pants.

"Moving on from that unsolicited comment, you'd be learning to control your breathing, balance your body, work on your muscles, throw nasty punches, wield weapons. Basically, you'd be a badass at fighting like me." Cassian already sounded excited at the possibility of teaching another Archeron how to fight.

"I'm sorry, Cassian, but I cannot participate."

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you want to stay grumpy and read all day like your twin." Cassian's gaze turned to Nesta who was doing her best at pretending that she was not the centre of his attention. Azriel did not know whether to envy his brother at being able to confidently look at Nesta even when the female seemed confused between killing him and fucking him.

"Reading is fun." Nyra frowned. "Being grumpy is not my preferred method of passing time. But I want to focus on training my magic. It is,” she lifted her left hand and looked at it. Lightning crackled between her fingertips. “Rather dangerous and I might end up hurting someone if I don’t learn how to control this.”

“I’ll help you with that.” Rhysand offered. 

“Nonsense. I’ll teach you. Both of you.” Amren declared and waited for anyone to challenge her decision. Nobody dared. Azriel wondered how this little demon would be while teaching the sisters. He’d have to monitor for the first few days at least. Cauldron knew whether the mouse-sized female would terrorise Nyra. And maybe not even the Cauldron would know how Nyra would react to that. As endearing as it was to him, Nyra’s moody self might not be appreciated everywhere. 

“Why the sudden interest, Amren?” Feyre asked teasingly.

“Your sisters, High Lady, possess powers like no other. They require training not only to wield it effectively and efficiently but also to keep themselves from harm.” Amren left it at that. 

****

"The King of Hybern." Feyre breathed deeply. And at the mention of the scum, everyone felt the power shift. The Archeron twins' eyes began glowing, albeit faintly. Nyra gripped the arms of her chair and Nesta clenched her fists. Azriel swallowed, trying to keep away the envy against the arms of the chair. To keep away the question as to why it was not his hands or arms that she was gripping so tightly. Those beautiful hands, as small as they were in comparison to his own, had quite the grip as observed by his shadows. Would she hold his arms or shoulders that tightly when he’d thrust into her? Would she scratch his back and mark him? 

"The king is trying to bring down the wall." Nyra began calming down, her curiosity taking over her rage slowly. She turned to Feyre, a silent command to continue speaking. "By using the Cauldron. There are already holes in it and he wants to expand them. I might be able to patch up these holes, but you... being made of the Cauldron itself... if the Cauldron can widen those holes, perhaps you can close them, too. With training in whatever time we have."

Nyra looked at Feyre, as if she were assessing something. "Fine. I'll do it." She turned to Amren. “Do you have anything introductory for me to read through the night or will your lessons be completely practical?” 

Amren brought her palm forward and a few books appeared. And then they vanished. “They’re in your room. Read as much as you can before tomorrow morning. We start at ten. And before you ask, it’s their responsibility to bring you lot to the city whenever you need.” 

“How do you expect her to read those overnight?” Cassian sounded outrageously shocked. 

“We will see that tomorrow.” Amren smirked at the spark in Nyra’s eyes. A challenge had been ignited. Azriel felt Nyra’s determination to win. What he did not realise was the quiet wave of encouragement he had sent across the bond. Nyra’s eyes widened at the warm feeling rising within her and before she could dwell on it any more, Feyre addressed Nesta.

"What about you?"

The sisters stared at each other impassively. "Fine." Nesta spoke in the same tone Nyra had—giving up the stubbornness.

"Good. We'll go to the Court of Nightmares with you and find objects for practice." Amren clapped her hands once.

"What?" Feyre immediately looked at the delicate female, the idea of her sisters going to the Court of Nightmares appalling to her. 

"Let the girls get a feel of something like the wall or like the Cauldron." Amren added when Azriel seemed poised to object. "Covertly."

“Is there something in the Court of Nightmares we should be worried about?” Nyra asked casually but the silence that followed was not so casual.

“The Night Court does not exactly have the best reputation.” Lucien spoke, breaking the silence. Cassian cursed and Azriel could feel his anger rise again and be a palpable thing that demanded he tear the red headed male to shreds. Nyra looked at Lucien and Azriel would have roared in anger if it weren’t for Rhysand’s presence right outside his mental shields, trying to subdue the beast that was him. 

Nevertheless, the Autumn-born continued oblivious to the bloodlust rolling off the shadowsinger. Bloodlust that was warded by Mor and Amren, Cassian physically restraining him and Rhys casting and maintaining a mental shield. 

Lucien continued. “To outsiders, this place is cold and cruel and Rhysand is a merciless High Lord. They believe it to be a structure of Hel in the land of the living and equally, if not more miserable.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Nyra spoke, her impatience rising. 

“This reputation stems from the way he holds court and from now on, how Rhysand and Feyre will hold court. He rules over them with an iron fist like some dark lord and it feels like a mausoleum in there. Blood and deceit coat those walls. People adorn masks to pretend like every gathering is a luxurious party when it’s just the inhabitants of Hewn City putting up a performance so that Rhys is not displeased.”

“And what happens when Rhysand is displeased?”

“The general executes. The spymaster tortures. Anything could happen.” 

And Azriel froze at what Lucien had revealed about him to Nyra. At the implications of it. How it could influence her opinion on him. On his family. He looked at Rhysand. Why did you not silence him?

She would have found out sooner or later. She will make her judgement after seeing us in the Court of Nightmares. Rhys sounded worried even after he said this. As if it was not only meant to convince Azriel but also himself. 

She deserves to be at peace. You of all people know how being strong can tire your spirits. She needs time to process this transition before she’s introduced to other horrors. Azriel all but yelled at his brother.

And I have no doubt you’d make it painful for anyone who dares to breathe wrong near her. Rhysand nodded once. We all will. The sisters won’t be harmed, not by any member of my Court or by any power in the Night Court territory so long as I’m alive. This is my promise. Azriel felt the tingling sensation of a bargain near his left waist. And even with a bargain, the shadowsinger was not in favour of this. 

Nyra could be taken to the Court of Nightmares after some time. After she had time to process all the trauma she had been recently subjected to. He seriously debated what was worse—facing horrors one after the other or facing them all at once. Nyra did note once that the former was what Nesta had gone through. He’d understood enough to know that Nesta’s mental health was in a very fragile condition.

Azriel only wanted Nyra to have enough time to process the transition before she learned about everything. He’d personally teach her as much as he could. He had no intentions of hiding or sugarcoating anything. He simply wanted her to have enough time to cope with the trauma and the stress it brought. 

Silence ensued. Feyre waited for Nesta to say something because this Archeron had been glaring at her plate for too long. To kill all hope. But she posed another question. "Why not just kill the King of Hybern before he can act?"

The shadow of death seemed to loom above them. Cassian, the Lord of Bloodshed, and Azriel, the shadowsinger, seemed to thrive off of it. Nyra and Nesta felt at ease, as though they were home. Death really seemed to be a comfort space for the four of them.

The room descended into the cold as Nesta’s eyes burned silver. The younger shadows around Nyra were trying to create a wall between the twins out of fear for their mistress’ safety. A few of his older shadows joined the endeavour. His hand went to the hilt of the Truth Teller. And with everyone on guard at how Nesta could release her mysterious power, Nyra’s hand broke through the shadowy barrier and grabbed her twin’s hand. Lightning crackled just a bit. Enough to jolt Nesta out of her trance. 

Silver bled into blue and Nyra released her hand. Nesta looked at her twin once and nodded. The twins resumed eating as though nothing had happened. As if Nesta’s presence had not suddenly made them feel like they were in a battlefield with their lives endangered. 

"If you want his killing blow, it's yours. Both of you." Amren said, her voice taking an understanding note. 

And as Nesta looked at Amren with the eyes of a predator, Nyra clenched her hands. She had already abandoned her cutlery but the way her power roared like a storm within her was becoming too much. She needed an outlet. The shadows around her wrists started tickling her hands and she was too scared of releasing her grip. Too scared of letting the power go away. And the storm was becoming uncontrollable. 

Azriel was beside her in an instant, his large hands covering her own. “Let it out.” That was all she heard. 

Thunder roared in the skies above Prythian. Lighting flashed a great many times. Nyra’s breathing became heavier. The shadows swarmed around her body and the darkness consumed them. She felt herself in an embrace, warm and strong. Nyra whimpered, her power starting to become painful. And through the bond, Azriel felt it all. And he held her through all of it. 

She released her power in that realm of shadows, enough to tire herself out. Azriel was surprised by how welcoming the shadows were. How the realm had welcomed the roar of her storms so easily. And he realised that this was not a change. It was a preexisting factor. And that the shadows were waiting for her just as much as him, if not more. The compatibility of his shadows with her lightning was showing itself. 

Her eyes glowed and her neck craned. She trembled under the weight of her own power, groaning and nearly screaming under the weight of her own power. Mistress. Lightning. Perfect. The shadows caressed her arms and hands. Azriel’s hands were on her waist and head, holding her close. 

“Nyra.” He called out when the lightning had stopped roaring. 

“Azriel?” Her voice was so small and confused, he was beginning to worry. “Where are we? Why is it so dark?”

“We are in the shadows.” He responded, worried about how she’d take that news but he couldn’t lie to her. She did not deserve to be lied to.

“I think I was here before.” Her voice was a clear indication of her tired state. She had released so much power that he clearly understood that she could take down all the High Lords and their armies easily. He could imagine the extent of her power if she were to be taught how to control it.

“Yes. The shadows told me that they brought you here earlier.”

Nyra did not say anything and he continued to hold her. 

“Are you embracing me?” Nyra asked. He could feel her hands trying to move around to analyse their surroundings only to fail because he was holding her close. 

“Yes.” His grip on her loosened and his soul faltered at the possibility of her not wanting his touch. After all, how could these desecrated hands touch her? However worthless he was, he did not want her to remain in the shadows if she was uncomfortable here. 

“Do you want me to release you? I must tell you that we do need to maintain contact to navigate back safely but we can simply hold hands.” And even when he’d used the word ‘simply’, there was nothing simple about holding her hand. How had he not already fainted? 

Nyra’s hands rose and her palms found his chest, fingers curling to grab the fabric. Azriel was suddenly afraid of breathing. Of making a single sound. He would have willed his heart to still if he could since it was beating so loud and fast. Her fingers were so gentle as they found his shirt to hold. 

“Did I hurt the shadows?” She asked softly. Azriel could hear the shadows whisper to him. How touched they were by her concern for them. “Did I hurt you?” It was a good time to fall into a ditch and stay there because Azriel severely doubted whether his knees had enough strength to stand and to not falter as he held her. 

“No, we’re fine.” He felt her shift, move just a bit to the back. If they could see each other, they would probably be looking at each other’s faces. 

“Are you sure?” She sounded determined to know if she’d hurt him or the shadows even in the slightest. And with that sweet voice of hers, she’d awakened something so wholly pure within him that he’d doubted whether that feeling would be corrupted by existing inside someone like him even if it was his own. 

Azriel had already believed that he was in heaven as he embraced her. Was it not the best thing to be able to touch her even though he was an undeserving bastard from the dirt? But he was a selfish bastard. And that selfishness demanded that he take every scrap she’d leave in her wake. Anything she’d throw at him. 

“Az?” That was the first time she’d called him by that nickname and his heart leaped to his throat at the realisation.

“Yes?” He held her because he was afraid to let go. And it felt good to take a page from her book and start acknowledging that. Not that he’d ever say it out loud but he was afraid. He’d lost his mate once and he certainly had no intentions of letting her go to some place he couldn’t follow. Or maybe, he could. He could follow her. The shadows let him travel anywhere and if she were to go to the afterlife like last time, he’d simply follow. The Truth Teller was always with him so he wouldn’t have much trouble arranging his own death. 

“I’m so tired.” She felt so much fear and pain and confusion and Azriel felt it all. He wondered whether being able to feel her through the bond helped her. If he could at least take a part of that pain for himself. 

“Go to sleep, Nyra. I’m right here.” The hand on her head began patting her. After a few moments, the hand stopped patting and began stroking her hair. Azriel pushed wave after wave of calm towards the bond and he felt her breathing slow down. And like a baby, she was asleep in his arms.

****

TAGLIST:

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[anarchiii]

Worlds apart-13 —ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part Thirteen | warnings: angst, blood, violence, | Azriel x Celaena Sardothien

Summary; pain and sorrow one after the other, Azriel decides that maybe he isn’t meant for this world, but maybe for another…

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Azriel’s POV

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Amren snapped, clearly having enough of his tensed body and impatience, everything, he almost wanted to say, everything was wrong, it had started an hour ago when he woke up to a nightmare where he watched as Celaena choked to death on her own blood right infront of a door, a human man simply watching her die, he stood there and could no nothing. It had felt so real. So real in fact that his love seemed to watch him as she lay there, tears falling from her beautiful eyes.

“She’s in danger,” he finally said, whispering more like it, what if she was dying right now, dead even? “Who?” He could barely think straight, she could be suffering right now and he wasn’t doing anything, “Celaena, I can feel it, I need to help her.” She looked up at him. Her eyes a blazing silver, she nodded once, eyes landing back on the book she was reading, after a few more minutes she said, startling him, “I’ve got it,” he immediately got up. A small spark of hope filling his chest but he ignored it.

“Let’s do it,” he said, before she could say anything, “right now, this very moment,” this was the first time he had seen the Firedrake look concerned but she didn’t disagree, besides, if it didn’t work, Rhysand and the inner circle would never know, they didn’t have much time if what he suspected was true, his family would understand, they had to.

She nodded again, running out of the Day Court library and down a long winding staircase, he didn’t ask where she was going, just followed, by the time they were reaching the bottom, he was out of breath, the exhaustion of running and barely sleeping for weeks could come later, love first.

“Grab Truth-teller and make a semi-deep cut along your forearm, don’t ask questions just do,” Amren snapped, dropping to the cold stone floor and flipping through the book violently, he indeed didn’t ask questions, just did, he made the cut, his blood flowing quickly. The ruby liquid like a river. Amren grabbed his harm harshly before dipping her child-sized fingers into the liquid and drawing marks on the ground, the same marks Celaena had drawn, though there was a difference between then and now, he was not afraid, he would not be afraid.

-

He forgot how terrifying it was, standing infront of the sickly green portal that would lead him—hopefully—to his darling, if he could even call her that, perhaps he would come all this way and show himself fully to her just for her to send him back home, when she didn’t realise that she was his love, was this all for nothing? Was he so pathetic that the first person that had shown him a love that wasn’t platonic made him think and act like this? No, this couldn’t all be for nothing.

He shook his head, trying to disperse those thoughts, Amren was eyeing him but said nothing, she had been incredibly patient, it was almost like she knew something he didn’t, there was no other reason for her to act in such a manner, she started tapping her foot on the floor impatiently, but still stayed silent, everything was so odd— right. He had to go now. If it was anything like last time then the portal would not be here much longer.

Breathing in deeply and exhaling, he went through it, picturing nothing but her lovely face, that pure smile that made her look goddess-like, the strawberry blush that covered her cheeks when he said something about her, the way she put her hands on her hips to prove a point not realising that she was like a beautiful siren to his sailor, the beautiful maiden seducing the unprepared guard, she was his temptress without even trying. Lovely.

-

He landed face-first on a marble checkered floor, the first thing he noticed was the haughty laughter and clinking of glasses all around him, he got up, groaning as the pain retested in his nose, he ignored it, everyone around him was in dresses and suits, except him. People around him were eyeing him and some blushing as they took in his body but relatively ignored him, Azriel bestowed the same upon them.

He also noticed a mousy-brown haired man watching him from a wall, in the same moment, another plain looking man appeared and instead walked up to him and offered a glass of champagne, he refused a couple of times but the man didn’t stop insisting so he grabbed the glass but didn’t drink it, he keep surveying his surroundings but there was no sign of Celaena anywhere, but if his dream was right, then she was near a wooden door. And she looked like she was in a hallway. The servants quarters, kitchens, or even power-rooms were his guesses.

He didn’t think to hard on it as he started running down halls and rooms, his surroundings seemed to become more familiar from the dream so he kept going, he was nearly there to where I knew Celaena was when something hard hit his head, he slammed into a wall but got up instantly and drew Truth-teller—the blade mercifully staying with him this time—he turned and faced the wait from before. He drew a simple long dagger and threw it—aiming for his head. Thankfully, he missed, moving to the side before welding his blade and slicing along his neck, the man bled out instantly and fell to the floor, not even a worthy opponent.

He didn’t linger long, wiping the blood off of his blade quickly and breaking out into a run as he raced to find his love, small puddles of blood lay on the floor, the further he went the larger they became, what the Hell? Bodies started appearing, the inflicted wounds janky and uneven, their eyes still open. Gazing to the covered sky. No matter what they had done—he still sent a silent prayer for them to whatever Gods inhabited this world, the Mother was not here to save him, she never had. Anyway.

He slowed down as to not slip and stopped, listening for anything, anything that could help, he heard gurgling, choking even, he turned another corner and beheld the sight in front of him, there she was, her sweat-covered forehead leaning against the doorframe of that oak door. Blood spilling out from her wicked mouth. Her lovely skin covered in old—and new—blood, blood, there was so much of it.

He slammed to his knees and came before his lovely Fire, her eyes flicked to his but held no emotion, the golden ring in them gone dull, she was dying, the woman he had dreamed about every second he had been away from, dying—suffering, he didn’t know what to do. Azriel had planned everything he was going to do and say to her when he was here but now. . . Now he was here. He was completely lost.

Her expression grew pained as time went on and he got enough sense to act, he took off his shirt and ripped it up into strips, wiping away all the blood to see what he was working with, she bore many wounds but he knew those were not the main cause, it was invisible, poison. He looked to the oak door and, before he could think straight, put his whole body weight into it and started shoving into it, it didn’t take long for the door to snap off its hinges and bang open, he rushed to the sink and started collecting water. Washing Celaena’s wounds and making her drink the liquid. He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t very familiar with poison, only using it a handful of times, and the Cauldron knew what poisons people used in this world, Azriel had no antidote. He was useless.

He started crying then, utterly useless, perhaps this was his punishment for all the horrible things he’d done in his lifetime, forced to watch his heart stop in front of him, he didn’t stop the tears, didn’t stop them as they fell onto her pretty face, she was crying as well, neither could tell which tears were their own. He rested his brow on hers, closing his eyes and wishing to anyone that would listen to save her.

He heard the panting of breath first, he turned his head slightly to see Dorian rushing their way, covered head to toe in blood, a dagger hanging from his grip, his face laced with anguish as he took in his friend—friends, Celaena made a small whimpering sound as she spotted him, the Prince got on his knees as grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb across the scarred-skin, “I’m sorry,” he breathed, “I’m so damn sorry. Cel. I left you for five minutes and they attacked me, I fought them off the best I could—I see you did aswell,” a soft laugh accompanied by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “it was my Father that sent the men, he tried to take us both out, I should’ve known this would happen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .” The Crown-prince was shaking with barely contained tears.

This was all his fault, it was his fault Celaena Sardothien and Dorian Havillard were suffering, being punished for being good, being fare, these humans were infinitely better than him and yet they were suffering, it was cruel, it was torture. It was injustice.

He distantly heard panicked yelling—for the Champion and her friend, not him,—the stomping of feet and clashing of swords against swords, yet no one moved, there was no point, not when time was running out, her heart would only beat so long. A person could only be so strong for so long.

He heard a shocked gasp as those loud footsteps stopped, he didn’t turn around this time, though, he did react when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, he just kept staring at those lovely eyes, the dulled blue that had once been brighter than the sky, she was the light he had been searching for-for centuries. And now that light was going out. The fire in her was getting smothered.

“Azriel!” He heard someone yell in his ear, he came to, realising it was Chaol, he turned his head, looking into the man’s eyes, he didn’t move, just met eyes with her again, watching as her breathing turned slower, how she closed her eyes and didn’t open them for longer periods of time, he heard the Captain swear—a colourful combination—he pushed him aside and ran to his friend, holding her face in his hands. Azriel just watched. He watched as Chaol yelled for the antidote, watched as Dorian was dragged away by struggling guards, their expressions apologetic.

He watched, just as he had done his whole life, the only thing he had ever been good at—apart from killing and torturing, but that was and never would be something he was proud of,—he watched as one of Chaol’s men shoved a strange liquid down Celaena’s throat. Blood kept flowing from out her mouth but she swallowed. Nothing happened, it was too late, it would never work, he saw the truth in her eyes, she knew this was the end.

He crawled over the blood to her, putting his scarred hands that were so beautiful to her on her face, the marks looked so strange on her un-marred skin, beauty and the beast, he kissed her lightly, his lips staining with the scarlet liquid, he looked deep into her eyes. Hazel orbs meeting those of cerulean. Water and earth. The perfect clash.

In that moment, he used all the power he had to beg to the Gods, to anything, that he would do anything to let her live, even if that meant the end of him, he used everything he had to ask for mercy, he felt a strange thing flow through him, like a curious cat rubbing against his legs. Though its voice was older than the obsidian blade that lay discarded mere-meters away, “and what would you give me in return?” It purred. “Anything” he whispered, anything.

“Your soul, even?” Curious, to see what he would do for love, “my soul, yes,” it made a humming noise, like it was contemplating its options, if it could even do that, “your love will live, but you will not be standing by her side while she does, that is your price, if you visit this world again I will see to it that your Fae girl will perish.” It said. It’s voice cold and cruel, and—Fae girl? Celaena was fae, well, that wasn’t much of a shock but. . . Why didn’t she tell him? It made so much sense now, that un-earthly grace she held, the beauty she possessed that no human should have. Fae. He would’ve laughed in any other circumstances. But not this one.

“Okay, yes, i agree, but give me at least ten minutes with her,” he said at last, Chaol and Dorian were giving eachother wary glances as they watched Azriel talk to himself, he didn’t care, though, not when he felt the thing nod its head and watched in wonder as Celaena’s face brightened ever so slightly, her breathe evening out, it had worked, it had damn worked!

He kissed her again and again, he knew his time was running out now but he had enough time to kiss her, everyone else excused themselves, their faces full of shock and amazement at Celaena Sardothien’s recovery, but he didn’t care. He looked at the assassin again. Fearful for their time to end.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, brushing his fingers down her cheek, his beautiful, wicked thing, the woman with a heart of fire, his Fireheart, he had to leave her and yet he had never loved her more, the lady who walked with death by her side, the girl that smiled at the sun that rose and frowned at the sun that set, the female that kissed the scars on his hands and called them beautiful, she would make a great queen. And an even better lover.

He kissed her once more, the last time before grabbing a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and placing it in her hands gently, she didn’t move to pick it up or read it but that was fine, she didn’t have to, he didn’t cry this time, no, he smiled. Smiled as he looked deep into her eyes and said, no pain in his voice, “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you, you were—and are, incredible. Never in my five hundred years of existence have I met someone like you. And I damn well hope the person that steals your heart realises that, you and I both knew this wouldn’t last, no matter how hard we wished it otherwise, there is a female in my world who is just as amazing, and I think you would love her, she’s not you—and never will be. But I think it would be easy for me to love her. As easy as it was to love you.” She nodded her head slowly, still dazed but seemed to understand what he was getting at.

“What is her name?” She got out, her eyes held no agony or jealousy, just pure, unfiltered love, he smiled, showing all his teeth, “her name is Gwyneth Berdara,” she smiled at that, copying his, she hit his shoulder in a playful way before saying, “very well, send me a solstice card,” he laughed, it wasn’t loud but it was full. Gods he adored this woman.

“You can count on it,” he said, she laughed softly at that, he kissed her head in goodbye before getting up, Azriel Shadowsinger was still smiling as he grabbed Truth-teller and made a return portal, and he was still smiling when he arrived back in the Day Court library, he was moving instantly, hugging Amren quickly before flying back home to Velaris.

-

He landed hard on the main balcony of the House of Wind but shook it off and made his way to the library, Clotho letting him in with a wink and a smirk, he ran through stacks and stacks of books and papers, the Priestesses curious but didn’t stop him, he kept running. And then he saw her—

He pulled to a stop right in front of her, her copper hair shining in the light of the candles, she didn’t reject him when he put his hands on her face, warm skin meeting that of cold, nor did she pull away when he put his lips against hers, no, Gwyn just kissed him back.

Yes, both Azriel and Celaena had a lot of healing to do but that would come with time, he knew the assassin was strong and would survive and not only that but flourish, but him on the other hand? He wanted this incredible Valkyrie by his side as he did, he wanted to wake up to her teal eyes sparkling and know she wasn’t going anywhere, to know she saw all of him and embraced it.

Celaena Sardothien and Gwyneth Berdara were similar in a lot of ways, but also so, so different, and he loved that, Azriel would never stop loving the haughty female that shone like the sun but he also had a lot more love to give, love that was reserved for the sassy red head and her only. His Oristian.

-

Celaena’s POV (bonus)

Everything hurt, and not just physically, not as Azriel said what he had said and handed her a piece of paper and simply left, she knew things would end badly but like this? Celaena had no idea what or who he had been whispering to before—because she’d slipped in and out consciousness many times—but all she did know was that whatever he had done, had worked. And she was so, so grateful, but. . . Now he was gone, she was alone again. Well, not really.

Dorian sat next to her, his eyes vacant as a few Royal healers patched him up, said Healers did the same to her, working quickly and quietly, no more than ghosts, she had stopped crying some time ago but her eyes still burned, her body still shook. She had nearly died. That wasn’t something someone got over instantly, Celaena had a feeling it would be a while of healing. Especially with the news.

It had gotten out that the King had attempted to assassinate his Champion and Son and the public had been outraged, revolting against him and seemingly snapping, it seemed all the citizens had gotten sick of the Rules he’d in-forced, and, rightfully so. Many people had-had enough of their family members being sent to Endovier or its sister camp, Caculla, the Assassin couldn’t help but agree with them.

But what had shocked her the most was that one of the King of Ardalan’s court members had gone rouge and killed the man, stabbing him right through the heart with his Rapier, she had been incredibly amused to hear that, apparently the old bastard was right, there were a lot of traitors working for him. Though, Dorian hadn’t found it amusing, simply nodding and staring at nothing, like he had been doing for two hours now.

She couldn’t find it in her cold heart to feel sorry for him. No, not as she remembered how much the man had made her and her family suffer for so many years, he deserved it, everyone in Erelia could breathe.

Sighing, she finally decided to open the folded paper the Shadowsinger had given her, it was relatively new but still had a few ink stains on it and lots of folded marks, as if he had opened and closed it many times before giving it to her. She breathed in—this was the only thing she could ever remember him by, faintly, she could smell the night-chilled mist and leather of his sent, and if she tried hard enough. She could almost imagine that lovely smile of his that she adored so well, her Azriel—closing her eyes for a second, she exhaled and began reading. . .

‘Celaena Sardothien-

I write you this to tell you all the things I could not voice out loud, if you are reading this then we did indeed not last, it pains me that we did not get to see how far our love went for one another but I think, even with the short amount of time we had together, that it was one of the happiest few weeks of my life, I have lived a long life but experiencing such a short amount with you has made me realise how unfulfilling it was without you in it, you made me feel alive.

I hope this letter finds you well and I hope that you are happier now or are getting there, you deserve all the joyous moments that you will have, I have never meant anything more than that—except for when I told you I loved you, perhaps I love another person when you’re reading this but you will always hold a special place in my heart, I hope the man that steals your fiery heart is worthy of it. And I hope he knows how damn lucky he is. A piece of my heart will forever belong to you, even when we both are nothing more than dust, I am yours and you are mine, just in a different world. Star-crossed lovers, remember?

—Azriel Shadowsinger’

The End. (Actually)

Note: this series is finished, I know it might not seem like much to some but this series kept me going when I was having a rough time and that is why I want to say a special thank you to these people;

-A big thank you to @cynthiesjmxazrielslover for supporting me through this all, I know we are only mutuals but you are a great friend to me and I couldn’t have done this without you, you’re my motivator and my inspiration, I love you girl, stay amazing. 🫶

-A big thank you to @azrielslittleslut for liking and believing In this series from the start, your stories are a huge inspiration and I aspire to one day write as beautifully as you do, Mwah. ❤️

-A big thank you to @shadowsingercassia for loving all of the chapters and making me want to keep going, you appeared halfway through the series but you might as well have been here since I started writing, your love for what I do has helped me more than you could’ve imagined, I know I am not a very big or popular writer but the one little like you give me amounts to hundreds others could give. I love you so, so much. Keep being the person you are. 🫶

-some thank you’s to @aelincaddel, @yashiw, and @snoopyspace for loving this series so much that you asked to be on the taglist, that little thing has meant so much to me. Thank you, lovelies. ❤️

Thank you once again everyone, even if you just liked one of the chapters from this series and no other, or rebloged one or even commented, thank you, that small gesture of appreciation made my day. The epilogue for this series is already written and I hope you all like it. I know some people wanted Celaena and Azriel to end up together but—sadly—that didn’t happen, but I hope the ending was still good. If anyone has any questions about something in the series. Please do ask.

I love you all so much and I hope to make more stories that are just as entertaining. ❤️❤️

-

[sarahreesbrennan]

Hello! If IOL were to get adapted into a TV show (or film I suppose), what are some things you'd be excited for, or things you'd want revealed that we don't get from Elliot's POV?

(also fun fact: my name is Elliot too! It may or may not have been very helpful in getting me to read the book three years ago)

Hi Elliot! A fine name. :)

The silver screen by its nature allows us into more points of view - it’s why my TV tie-ins always had more and briefer PoVs than I usually write, to give the same effect as a moving camera. And In Other Lands is a very limited third by design, since we really have to feel Elliot’s feelings to be in it with him. So immediately a visual, more-on-the-surface medium would open the story up to more reveals - there’s a lot to be done with Serene and Luke, and (for my money) with Captain Woodsinger, Golden, Adara and Myra.

The question also arises what the director’s or showrunner’s vision is, because the showrunner would not be me. There are so many different ways to tell a tale.

If they’re going gritty child soldiers, there’s more to be done with the wars between the different peoples, with dryads and dwarves, and with Delia Winterchild and her lost twin. If they’re going, say, romcom like a fantasy Heartstopper, we’re probably putting Wings In the Morning and In Other Lands in a blender and starting with the characters 15 and up. If they’re doing children’s adventure a la (gayer, weirder) Percy Jackson, we might meet the key three waking up in their respective settings on the day they head off to the Border camp - Serene exiting in a rebellious huff after blazing row with her mother, Luke worried under the weight of loving expectation, Elliot totally clueless and friendless in another world - are these children going to meet? What will hap— Holy SHIT the redhead is being rude! But we’d get it, because we saw where he came from.

The mood of a story is often dictated by what information you parcel out when.

And TV throws curveballs. (Movies less often.) What if the Elliot and Adara actors had lightning-in-a-bottle chemistry? What if Luke and Dale did? I hardly dare imagine. But then again, if it was a She-Ra-style animated series, that would be far less likely. So it’s hard to say what I’d be excited for, as I wouldn’t know what to expect!

I’d be really excited if they did any kind of series, because that’s such a show of faith in my work. And it would mean more job security, and new covers, and more chances for me to get more readers and perhaps most important of all to write more in the In Other Lands world… which (more on this later) I would love to do.

A show is always a wild shot - I’d always try to think of the books as my first concern, as they might do something totally bonkers with an adaptation. (Me, if Luke and Serene fell in romantic love while Elliot died a cowardly weasel’s death: What Show? I Cannot Perceive the Moving Pictures, I Just Do Not Know.) Buuuut, if it ever did happen, I would love to see more of the interdynamics at the Border camp, stuff that flew totally over Elliot’s head. I’d love to have Golden introduced earlier. I’d love to have the harpies in sooner, but as a sinister presence until the big reveal. And of course, channeling my inner Elliot, I’d love to see the mermaids. Throw the whole budget at mermaids!

Thanks for asking, and dreaming with me. 💜

[crowns-of-violets-and-roses]

Some Desperate Glory

Earth has been destroyed and 14 billion humans are dead with it. A handful of courageous survivors hide from the aliens who killed the earth and strike back as much as they can. Kyr (short for Valkyrie) has been raised since birth to avenge the earth and she fully intends to do so. Given the title and marketing around this book I don't think it's a spoiler to say that the human survivors aren't as heroic as they portray themselves; I will try and be relatively circumspect about the actual plot but if you're planning to read it and sensitive to spoilers you may want to skip this post.

It's Emily Tesh's debut novel though her novella Silver in the Wood was critically acclaimed and won her some major awards. And what a debut it is! I enjoyed Silver in the Wood but never picked up the sequel, this has done much more to pique my interest in what she will write going forward.

Gaea Station

The book begins on Gaea station where Kyr is shortly going to come of age and receive her assignment in the war this remnant of humanity is waging. It will be clear to the reader practically immediately that Kyr has been indoctrinated. The story is told from her POV not to set up a shocking twist that Gaea Station is evil but to explore the psychology of a teenager who has been indoctrinated from birth by a fascist cult. In the acknowledgements Tesh lists a series of books on cults and fascism that she read while writing the novel and the influence of them on the book is clear.

This is where the books excels. Kyr buys into the ideology of Gaea Station with fervour and is fully dedicated to the cause it fights for. It's an entirely convincing portrayal not just in terms of her beliefs but her emotions and even what she subconsciously avoids thinking about. The beginning of the books where the reader is immersed in her perspective is a fascinating perspective of someone who has been indoctrinated to the point that they don't examine the worldview that has been imposed at all.

If this aspect of the book has any flaw it's that Kyr's indoctrination is in large part the result of manipulation and abuse by the man who runs the station. The vast people majority of people in a fascist regime or even a member of a cult that has attained any great size is unlikely to receive such personal attention from the leader and it's one point that lacked verisimilitude.

Along with Kyr Gaea Station is where we're first introduced to the majority of the significant characters. Kyr leads The Sparrows a group of teenage girls training to join the war once they reach adulthood. Kyr is a cruel taskmaster to The Sparrows to put it mildly. Kyr's brother Magnus is interesting in his own rights and even more so when viewed in contrast to Kyr and their relationship while rarely the central focus is compelling. Commander Jole the leader of the station is seen for the first time but it's only later we'll get a in depth sense of him. Magnus's friend Avi is perhaps the most significant character introduced here and is often terrible in a way that feels similar yet distinct to Kyr.

Crucially, Tesh is willing to let Kyr be horrible. Some of the other characters are just powerless and trying to survive but Kyr treats both people she's close to and everyone else terribly. She's harsh to her teammates to the point of driving them to tears, punishes younger children ruthlessly and all the time is unbearably smug and self-righteous about what she's doing.

Until that is, Kyr inevitably leaves Gaea Station and becomes gradually disabused of her commitment to its ideology. While I say gradually in practice it happens remarkably quickly. There is justification for the speed it happens in the plot so I won't complain on the grounds of realism. Nevertheless it's a shame that there wasn't more time given to focus on Kyr getting deprogrammed.

Even as she changes her previous actions are not forgotten. With the exception of a handful of people at the top the book doesn't condemn those who were complicit with Gaea Station but neither is it willing to absolve them.

Humanity, Fuck No!

I expect most people reading this are familiar with the internet subgenre of stories called Humanity Fuck, Yeah!, described by a popular subreddit that collects such stories as "all media exhibiting the awesome potential of humanity, known as HFY or "Humanity, Fuck Yeah!", or I once saw concisely summed up as "human chauvinism" science fiction. On Tumblr you're probably most likely to have come across it through humans as space orcs posts and stories. Some Desperate Glory seems as if it is in part a critical response to these type of stories

Even before Kyr leaves Gaea Station we see what the greater universe things of humanity through excerpts from texts written in the settings. I adore using documents written by people in the setting as a framing device when it's well executed and it is here. As we see more of how humans are viewed, first through the excerpts and later through Kyr experiencing the wider universe - seeing Kyr's initial reactions to people not raised in a fascist cult is a highlight of book - it is clear that humanity fits an inverted HFY mould where the characteristics HFY stories idolise made humans the terror of the universe and ultimately led to their doom.

It does frustrate me that this follows countless other novels that insist on humanity being special (or so unremarkable that they are remarkable in their unremarkableness). It's far from the worst offender and "humanity is uniquely terrible" is a little less tired than "humanity is uniquely great" but it still felt repetitive.

The portrayal of humanity as a violent yet honourable primitive species with bizarre customs also mirrors how empires view people they are colonising. It's unclear how intentional this is but the book never actually does anything with this so that parallel just hovers in the background.

The Majo

The Majo, the society of aliens that inhabits most of the universe and annihilated the Earth, are not an empire. You can tell because the book goes out of its way to tell us they aren't one. Which isn't to say that they are an empire but there are enough similarities that I would have liked to see it addressed more substantively. Chalk it up to this book being way less concerned with imperialism than fascism, I suppose.

The various alien species never feel truly Alien. Nothing so cheap as just humans with rubber foreheads but their mindset is never incomprehensible.

At the centre of Majo society is The Wisdom a godlike supercomputer capable of doing basically anything to the point where we might as well just consider it magic. Princes of a near extinct alien species control The Wisdom and are the ones choosing which course of action to take (including say destroying the earth).

Yiso a young Prince of the Wisdom, comes into focus during this section. The training he undergoes to prepare him for his role had clear similarities to Kyr's own childhood which could have been explored more.

As the book leaves behind a tight focus on Kyr in Gaea Station it begins to stumble occasionally. Aspects of the wider setting are introduced but not given enough focus. Nagging questions are left unanswered. Some parts race by too quickly. There are parts of it where I wasn't sure what the books was aiming for and I'm not convinced Tesh knew either. Despite not quite living up to the standard set by the excellent early chapters it continues to be a deeply engaging book.

With the Wisdom introduced the stage is set for the next section of the book. It poses an almost philosophical question. Would it be better:

1. to kill 14 billion humans.

2. let humanity conquer the universe.

These are the only options. In a thought experiment you can just declare that your only choice is whether to pull the lever or not but stories are not thought experiments. The presentation of those choices as the only two possible options is unconvincing. In a short story you could just gloss over it but in a novel length work you need some sort of justification for why they can't do one of a hundred other alternatives. It's far from a grievous flaw but it bothered me.

Alternative Universes

In the penultimate section of the book we move to the viewpoint of Val a version of Kyr from another universe. After being immersed in Kyr's head from the beginning of the book the shift is jarring in the best possible way. Even the name even though it's a potential shortening of Kyr's own feels wrong.

In this universe humanity won the war against the aliens and now is an empire expanding across and endangering the universe. I don't want to belabour this point too much but this section puts another mark in the "Tesh is significantly less interested in imperialism than fascism" column as any focus on imperialism itself is dispensed with perfunctorily.

Val though lacking Kyr's specific indoctrination is still eager to serve as a soldier in the conquering human military.

Before long Kyr gets her memories of the old universe back as do some of the others. Although notably not Magnus who everyone agrees shouldn't get his counterpart's memories which provides a good moment in itself. Cleo, one of the Sparrows, was already interesting from the little we'd seen of her before and rapidly rose to one of the most interesting characters when we got to see her with two lifetimes worth of memories.

It could fairly be suggested that the number of characters from the original universe who Val has significant relationships with in the new one is contrived but frankly I don't care. It's great to see how they develop in a radically different context and my only complaint is that this section isn't longer. Both seeing the alternative versions of the characters initially and then seeing them integrate a lifetime of memories provides some of the books best moments.

The end of the section undermined the dilemma of whether it's better to kill 14 billion people or let humanity develop into an imperial power by changing the stakes that not destroying the Earth will ultimately lead to the annihilation of countless worlds. The initial dilemma was compelling once you suspended disbelief about the lack of alternatives the new one stacks the deck towards destroying the Earth to the point where the question is less interesting.

More focus on the human empire as an empire and not changing the terms of the consequences of destroying earth so starkly would have been great but the character writing in this section is brilliant enough to more than make up for it.

The Old Lie:

While most of the book after the initial section takes place planets and universes away from Gaea Station it looms over the narrative and as inevitably as Kyr left the climax must return to Gaea Station with the lies it's built on now laid bare to Kyr. Unfortunately this is by some distance the weakest part of the novel. If in the sections after Kyr leaves Gaea Station the book stumbles here it faceplants.

Kyr quickly starts working to undermine Gaea Station and brings The Sparrows on board with her plan and then it quickly becomes clear that apparently Kyr was the only one who ever actually bought into Gaea Station's ideology. I exaggerate but not that much. It's hard to think of a named character who is on board with it. The Sparrows are instantly ready to betray Gaea (and not out of any personal loyalty to Kyr most of them don't even like her), middle ranked officer are shown to be acting out of a mix of self interest and fear and the few at the top are just nakedly self-interested under a thin veneer of justifications.

It makes Kyr's earlier genuine belief appear as a rare if not unique exception. When you combine this with the focused personal manipulation of Kyr from Jole (a couple of scenes do a great job of conveying his charisma and skill with influencing people) we don't see anyone who has been indoctrinated to actually actually in circumstances typical of the average person on the station. Something like having one of The Sparrows betray them or at least have to be argued into going along with the rest would have improved this a lot.

This section of the book moves to directly address racism and sexism on Gaea but I often found the manner it did so awkward. Half the time it was just showing something about Gaea Station that we'd already seen and then tacking on "and that's bad because it's racist/sexist" when that was already obvious. A little subtly wouldn't go amiss. There are some notable exceptions including memorably an excerpt from a book written about Gaea that talks about it in a manner that the framing made feel much more natural than when it came up at other points. Interestingly by contrast homophobia was left more implicit. It's more directly addressed later in the book but even then it's more of a light handed show not tell approach.

The ending itself is no better than the rest of the final section. It pulls it's punches and gives a happy ending that feels two easy after everything that happened. It jars with the rest of the story.

Some Desperate Glory tends to be better the smaller the scale it's operating at is. When it's laser focused on Kyr it's damn near perfect, when it's about Gaea Station or the handful of major characters it's still amazingly good but when it pulls out to a larger scale it's still interesting but a lot more flaws start to show.

If it gave the parts with The Wisdom some more thought, allowed Kyr's deradicatilisation a higher page count and showed others who genuinely believed Gaea's ideology, addressed imperialism with if not as much focus as fascism more than the book gives it, and doubled the length of the section with the alternative timeline I'd have no complaints that weren't quibbles. Even so this is an amazing book and I'm eager to see what Tesh writes next.

[the-cinnamontography-is-amazing]

I'm thrilled to bring my first submission to @blind-dates-fest! Thank you to the wonderful @mercurygray for hosting this event! I've been saying forever we need more women in the OSS around here, so for the Band of Brothers fandom, I'd like to introduce my OC, Charlie Ayres! Here's a little vignette between her and our favorite S-2 officer, Nix, guest starring Harry Welsh. This is my first time diving into fanfic, so what better way to test the waters? I also love any chance to info dump about the OSS. This piece is in 1st POV, and heavily inspired by the song, No Choir by Florence + The Machine. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys!

REPORT: LONDON STATION, OSS: 02/1945 AYRES, CHARLIE (SO) Agent en route to LONDON via MOURMELON, FR. Waiting on contact:

“Un autre verre, Madame?”

“Non, merci.”

My hand was tingling from the lack of circulation as I peeled my big head away—if my big head was smart, I’d down about three more drinks and continue to pretend I was back New York. Springtime, when the final grasps of winter eased up, and a cool breeze would sweep across our faces—before I let myself spiral into a deeper yearning, I stood up from the bar. Perhaps one day, I’ll yearn for this moment too. That’s what frightened me. Would I be able to stop the idealization of a place that I hardly existed in?

“Combien pour la boisson, Monsieur?” I asked the tired bartender.

“Deux, s’il vous plaît.” 

I dropped a couple of coins on the counter, and lugged on my coat.

“Merci, Madame. Au revoir.”

“Bonne soirée,” I gave a halfhearted smile, and slipped out onto the corner of the street. 

It felt much later than it truly was. The overcast of clouds made the sky darker, illuminating the wet streets in a blue haze, and although it was a bit warmer than yesterday, few people were out enjoying the shitty weather. A few soldiers here and there trying to escape boredom, trying to forget...

I headed down the cobblestone street, around the corner, and up to the hotel I was billeted at. My room was small, and if I was staying for more than two days, I might have gone crazy in the close quarters. I stripped off my coat and uniform jacket, tossing them on the chair in the corner of the room. I wasn’t sure if I should try to sleep, pace around like a caged animal, or stare at the chipped paint on the walls. 

I settled on reading, and pulled out a book from my small suitcase—my only form of ‘off duty’ entertainment in these last few months. Intelligence doesn’t offer a lot of closet space. I threw myself on the creaky bed, noticing the dust fly up around the lamp, and opened where I left off. I only made it through the first page before I couldn’t stomach any more fantasy or adventure. Another thing I will miss about my pre-war life, my attention span. It seemed like the only things I could focus on were the timings of detonations, risk analysis, and the intra-political dealings of resistance groups.  

I considered a second attempt in fixing the small radio propped on the side table, but I wouldn’t have the option to quit in a rage again. It would be considered in poor taste to show up at the bar for a second time in one evening.

I got up and dug through my bag to pull out a cigarette. I thought I had carefully planned out my stash, but only one laid in the silver case. I had promised myself that I would have the last one on the plane back to London. I didn’t smoke much before the war, and didn’t want to continue after. I don’t think I would be able to bare the taste again, taking my mind back to all those nights I’d rather forget—cheap cigarettes and incendiary powder… I started to get restless, irritated even. I wanted to be in London now, but was also disappointed I’d been called back. I had hoped for some closure for my time here, but it’s all ended with a quiet irreverence.

I walked over to the small window overlooking the street and threw it open for some air. Below, there were a two men enjoying a loud conversation. I didn’t like this aggravation that seemed to plague me over innocuous things. I’ve always been good at focusing my anger towards the things that matter. Maybe that was my problem… I haven’t blown anything up in awhile.

In my attempt to slam the window down, hoping that would grant me the catharsis I needed, a piece of the wooden ledge below the window frame came loose and fell two stories down. The two men jumped behind them starting at the splintered wood, then up at me. 

Son of a bitch. I opened up the window again. 

“Sorry.” I yelled down to the inquisitive eyes. 

I quickly raced out of the room, down the stairs and onto the street while wrestling my jacket, all witnessed by a few concerned citizens as I rounded the corner. I slowed my gait and approached them hovering over the two by four, like they were watching bugs under a rock. I caught the edge of their eagle patches. Paratroopers.

“I’m so sorry, the window…got stuck.” I lied. 

The men looked up at me with bright eyes. I braced for impact at the numerous ways this could go. One was shorter than the other, curly blonde hair, a lieutenant. The other man, completely opposite—tall, dark eyes and hair. A captain. 

“It’s fine, windows have the tendency to fall out.” The Captain smirked as I picked up the wood. 

“It’d be swell if they didn’t while I’m around.” I gazed up, "This is going to be fun to fix."

“Just charge it to Uncle Sam.” He smiled. 

“One Sherman, one window…” I muttered. They both seemed to enjoy the joke. I let out a breath and focused back down to the sidewalk. 

“Harry Welsh.” The Lieutenant stuck out his hand, wasting no time. “Or should I salute…Captain?” He gazed at my bars on my epaulets. 

“Handshake is fine.” I smiled, awkwardly moving the wood piece to my other hand. “Charlie Ayres.” 

“Pleasure,” Harry smiled.

“Lewis Nixon.” The Captain extended his hand. 

“Hi.” I nodded, returning the pleasantries.

“So what brings you to Mourmelon? You with the WAC’s?” Harry asked. 

“I’m with Intelligence, actually. Just passing through.” I bit my lip, wondering if they would actually believe me.  

“Boy, you’re in luck,” Harry shook Lewis’ shoulder, “Nix here is our trusty, S-2 officer.”

“Ah,” I glanced towards the Captain, he was looking down, humbled at his friend’s flattery. 

“I’m sure you both have a lot in common,” Harry slyly glanced between the both of us for several uncomfortable seconds.

“Weren’t you on your way to send a letter Kitty?” Lewis teased, breaking the stagnation.

“Yeah, I am.” Harry narrowed his eyes, all too aware of what he was alluding. “I also better go make sure Dick isn’t having a wild night out.”

Lewis laughed, “Yeah right. I’ll catch up with you later.” It seemed like there was a joke between them I was not privy to.

“Captain, pleasure to meet you. Good luck with the window.” He half saluted—almost bowed over for that matter, and turned on his heels.

“Thanks.” I nodded. We awkwardly stood there for a moment, watching Harry fade into the distance. I examined the dumb piece of wood—It’d be a good piece of shrapnel to plant somewhere. 

“So, intelligence huh?” Lewis asked. I shifted my weight, pretending like I just wasn’t planning a detailed method of destruction,

“Uh huh—you don't have to stick around on my account, I think I can manage—” 

“OSS?” he nodded to the pins on my jacket.

“Well, I’m not SOE.” I quipped. 

“Right.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placing one in between his lips. “I’ve come across a few of you, well not—”

“A woman?”  

“Yeah,” he said after a few painful seconds. I don’t think he knew how to respond to my bluntness. He offered the pack over, as to make up for any possible inconsiderations. 

“Thanks, I was just teasing.” I stuck one between my own lips. “Though I should be offering you some, since I almost killed you with a window.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time dodging things from the sky, ” he snickered and lit his own, then offered me the light. 

“I’m sure.” I took a full drag. “You guys in the 101st got the hell beat out of you.”

“A few times.” His tone was less playful, but still blasé about the whole thing. 

“I should also apologize for Market Garden on behalf of intelligence.”

“What?” He laughed with an edge of nervousness, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“Actually your grievances should lie more with the British. They didn’t trust the Dutch resistance groups…” I stopped myself from saying anymore out loud. Although the war was pretty much decided at this point, the Germans were still hanging on. I better not test any luck. 

“Can’t disagree with that.” The Captain sighed. 

“Holland is a great place to jump though. All flat.” I smiled.

“You jumped into Holland?” He turned to me with furrowed eyebrows.

“No,” I took another drag. A smug smile crept across his face, one that all men share when they are proven right. 

“I was too busy jumping in and out of France. My Dutch isn’t all that great anyway.” I returned the smug disposition. Outside of bad timing and poor communications, SFHQ sent the Jedburghs in the day of the invasion. No time to mount a true resistance against the Nazis. In France, we spent months coordinating sabotage and resistance after D-Day and beyond. The Netherlands seemed to be the middle child in the invasion of Europe. 

“Anyway, doesn’t really matter now,” I snapped back into reality, forgoing my detailed explanation, “There’s nothing wrong with extending things for six more months.” I shrugged. 

This time he let out a genuine laugh, “Yeah, wouldn’t want to end the fun.” 

He looked ahead, finishing the cigarette while gazing down the street. It seems like we shared the same dark circles under our eyes.

“You wanna get a drink?” He abruptly asked. I quickly looked away to avoid being caught staring, 

“Maybe one. I’ve already reached my limit for the night.” I said.

“It’s only six o’clock?” He looked at his watch. 

“I like an early start, so by the time happy hour hits, I can go straight to regret.” I dryly said. 

“Right, a spy can’t loose their inhibitions.” He teased.  

“I’m not a spy—in the technical sense.” I muttered. “But don’t let me stop you, if you had something else planned.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” He smiled.

“What did you have in mind?” 

“How about that small place around the corner?” 

“Would you believe that’s the exact place I reached my limit?” I cocked my head back towards the building. 

“You think the bartender took the night off after you left?” He smiled.

I shrugged, “If he’s a good union bartender.” 

“I suppose we could go back to my side of town?” He suggested.

“I don’t know, I’m not quite used to…standing out.” 

“Why would you? You’re a captain, you jump out of planes?” He reassurance was strangely comforting. 

“Right, nothing else unusual about me.” I pondered my options—a bartender that might judge, or some decent quarters to hang out in with the risk of ogling paratroopers. Lewis caught onto my contemplation, 

“We can sneak you in the back, if you really don’t want to be noticed. Should be easy for a spy.” He smiled. “I think it’d be fun.” 

I rolled my eyes, “I’ll come if you stop calling me a spy.” 

“I didn’t think you were a real spy…in the technical sense?” He quoted me almost perfectly. 

“You should know saying that out loud, has the potential to be very compromising.” I snipped. 

“You think Germans are around?” He stepped closer. “Next to an airbase full of paratroopers?” 

“I see you didn’t watch your training videos.”

“It’s been awhile.” He is charming, I’ll give him that. 

“Let me go up and grab my coat,” I realized the wood was still in my hand,  “And dispose of this.” 

“You need help with the window?” 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to come up to safety.” 

We made our way back around the corner,

“So is Charlie a nickname?” He asked. 

“Yeah, I don’t like Charlotte.” I said. “And it also lets me…blend in more, on paper at least.”  

“Makes sense. How long are you here for?” 

“Uh, until tomorrow night.”

“Then to?”

“Back to London, the states, maybe east, I don’t know.” I had a feeling my field work would be over and I’d be stuck in a lab with Dr. Lovell or at that uppity country club, training men who won’t listen.

“Damn, no jumping into Berlin?”

“Afraid not.” I exhaled. 

“I’ll send a postcard.” 

“I’ll be looking out for it.” I looked down, trying not to smile too much. It felt strange… We got back to the hotel, and I ran into the receptionist on our way up the stairs.

“Ah Madame, je suis désolé pour la fenêtre…” I quickly explained what happened as Lewis lingered a few steps behind me. The woman was very forgiving, even apologetic. She took the wood, and of course, her face was painted with that specific look of judgement, while passing Lewis on the stairs. That would not be happening tonight. Lewis looked a little embarrassed himself.

"You have good accent." he said.

"Thanks. It could be better."

"Better than mine." He confessed.

We continued up the stairs and to my room. The door was locked,

“Shit,” I dug around my trouser pockets. 

“Do you have a key?” He asked. 

“Yeah, in there.” I sighed. “It must’ve latched while I ran out.” 

“Should we call after the woman?” 

“Let me see if I can break in first.” I started to jiggle the door handle. “Oh, so the window falls apart but not the door?” I groveled, as I shoved my shoulder into it.

“Let me try.” Lewis offered, attempting the same move to no avail. 

“You’ve gotta have some sort of spy gadget on you, right?” He smirked. 

I glared at him while I was already pulling out a hairpin. I knelt down and started picking the lock. 

“Did they teach you that, or was that a prerequisite skill?” He continued. Despite many fellow members of the OSS having nefarious backgrounds, the principle of the comment irritated me, 

“No, they taught me, but if you must know, I have a background in engineering. Picking the lock was the easiest option, sans blowing off the door.” 

I got it unlatched and kicked open the door, obnoxiously waving my hand, gesturing for him to enter.  

“Engineering, huh?” He said, while walking in. He seemed to be impressed. 

“Yeah, know any?” I quipped, following him into the room. 

“I may have studied some of it.” 

“Where?” I headed towards the window. 

“Yale. You?” 

I was glad the sound of the window closing covered any physical cringe I may have shown due to my under-assumption, Of course he comes from wealth...I turned back towards him,

“Cornell. Physics and chemistry—on a scholarship.” I didn’t want him to think my parents bought my way in. I was proud of working my way up from nearly nothing. “I was working on my doctoral degree when this all broke out.” 

He whistled, “Impressive.” 

“Cause I’m not a man?” I laughed, grabbing my coat off the chair. 

“No, not at all.” he started to get flustered. “I mean, good for you. That’s great.” 

I was being unfair, he has been nothing but gracious. I’m always primed for a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thanks. Did you like engineering?” I asked. 

“Yeah, it was alright,” He didn’t seem interested in talking about himself. I had no interest either. For once in my life, I was content with inconsequential conversation. 

“But let me guess,” he followed up, “You’re in demolitions?”

“Something like that.” I narrowed my eyes, I don’t enjoy guessing games.

“Don’t worry, I won’t pry. Classified information.” He mocked. 

“Physical sabotage is only a small part of my work, even if could tell you, there isn’t a whole lot of interest to share.” 

“Oh I’m sure there’s at least one crumbled bridge in Europe with your name on it.” He mused. 

There were buildings, modes of transportation, even people, all with my name on them. I shook my head, as if I could erase it all. 

 “Only one bridge, but that was a group effort.” I admitted. 

He enjoyed the comment, “I don’t know, that’s pretty interesting.”

“I appreciate the support.” I let out a quiet, involuntary laugh as I took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I hardly remember doing it.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you will when this is all over.” 

“That’s a frightening thought.” 

“Oh I know.” He took a few steps over and sat in the chair. “It’ll make for a good story.” 

“I’m not going to be in any history book.” I relaxed, fumbling with the buttons on my coat.

“You could write it yourself?” He suggested.

“And do you, Captain Nixon, have a desire to write a book?” I leaned towards him, lifting the corner of my mouth.

“Why would I write about all this? Then I’d have to re-read it.” He scoffed.

“I don’t know, for someone else too? Historical representation?” I agreed with his sentiments, but I’d like to think there could be a greater purpose to it all. 

“Then what’s stopping you?” He retorted. I knew he was trying to get an answer out of me. I sighed, gazing down to my boots, 

“I don’t know. How often do you think the whole story gets told in those books? I’m not good at exaggerating things.” 

“There is always some truth to it somewhere.” His gaze was on the edge of the chair, fidgeting with the old threads.

“I’m not so sure I could do that either.” I furrowed my eyes, forming my lips into a straight line. “I’m too good at censoring my own thoughts.” I attempted to laugh to lighten the mood, but instead it was just a shaky exhale. 

“Yeah, better to forget the details...” His smile slowly faded into a stark indifference, but his eyes gave away something deeper. We said nothing for several moments.

His eyes soften as he caught my gaze. I almost felt like I was standing in front of a mirror; two sets of brown eyes, dark circles...two people so deeply indulged in their own delusions, as if that would protect our sanities. Then again, maybe I'm just projecting myself... He looked away after a moment, I think he was becoming unsettled.

“Well,” I sprung up, breaking the silence, “Here is to forgetting. Shall we start?” 

“Good idea—” Lewis stopped the upright momentum and reached behind his back, “What’s this?” He held up the green, baseball sized device. 

“A beano.” I said matter of factly. It must’ve fallen out of my coat pocket. 

“Looks like a grenade.” He quickly stood up, following me to the door. 

“Cause it is.” I put my coat on. He wasn’t concerned per se, but it looked like he was doing a math problem. Causal concentration to his predicament. 

“It’s a dud, I’m pretty sure.” I smiled, I knew it was safe, but I wondered if I could pull any other emotion or reaction out of him. 

“Pretty sure?” He laughed, eyes still narrowed on the device.

“It’s a prototype, really. You can pull the top off and everything. Supposed to throw it like a baseball.” 

“Model or not, it would get people to listen.” he muttered. 

“I would offer it to you but ya know, classified materials.” 

“I appreciate the gesture.” He carefully set it on the side table. 

“Well, I have been instructed to cooperate with the armed forces.” I smirked, quoting the endless OSS manuals as we stepped out the door.

Notes:

I know first person POV is a little uncommon for fic, but I love getting directly into the heads of characters! I also wanted to make this historically accurate as possible, referencing elements of the OSS and its operations. If anyone wants to learn more about the OSS, especially the role of women in the organization, check out my tag! This is a long piece, so if you make it to the end, thank you so much! 🫶

[noa748]

Fortune's Favored, interlude 2

jumping into krat-man's angsty pov again for funsies heehee enjoy

consider these snippets very... "non-canon" in relation to the actual fic. this is me exploring his headspace and working out the details in real-time lol, some things might end up being changed

----

(day 1: on the nautiloid)

His people had been swallowed up by hungry flames. His city was reduced to ash. The world of his exile was lost.

Nevertheless, he persisted.

Kratos shifted in the confines of his pod, his muscles stiff from hours of disuse. His right eye still ached from when the worm had been inserted; the feeling of its body squeezing through his eye socket had been excruciatingly painful, and he was shocked he hadn’t lost the eye.

Something in him had changed after that, and not for the better. He should have been able to call upon his Cruxis Crystal to vastly increase his pain threshold and eliminate these nagging torments. Instead, every effort to exercise that power caused his head to throb and his chest to burn.

He should have broken free earlier, when he still had the strength to do so. But what was the point? He had been swallowed up by a portal to Hell; perhaps being at the mercy of these tentacled aberrations was a fitting end for someone like him. One heroic deed did not erase four thousand years of mistakes.

Mithos had broken many pacts in the years following Martel’s death. Eventually his desperation had morphed into a sort of sick complacency, a self-righteous entitlement based on what he believed to be the sanctity of his mission. His was the godlike hand guiding their ruined world back from the verge of destruction.

But this bargain he had made was unconscionable, even for him. And now, years later, they had all paid the price of Mithos’ broken word.

Kratos’ eyes slid closed. It wasn’t as if he was any less culpable. Ignorance was no excuse.

In some twisted way, it was almost a relief. There was nothing left now; he could give in…

A violent quake slammed him against the side of the pod and snapped him out of his drifting thoughts. There came a loud roar and suddenly a hole was blasted in the dark wall directly ahead of him; through the gap, he saw a flash of gleaming red scales.

Dragons. He could feel the heat of their flames even from here.

Distantly, he realized he was on some sort of ship. Peering through the hole in the wall, he recognized the hazy red landscape of the place the portal had taken him to. He had no memory of the abduction, but everything had been a blur since Derris-Kharlan.

The world shook again. He absently wondered how long it would be before his pod was incinerated.

Anna…

It was foolish to hope for a reunion—to hope he would be deemed worthy of sharing the afterlife with her. But as he stood there waiting for death, he began to indulge the fantasy, to drown himself in the heartache.

“Tsk’va! We must make haste!”

A harsh voice dispelled the daydream. He stared on as an alien looking woman clad in silver plate armor ran past his pod, cleaving a small winged monster in two with her sword. A human woman with long brown hair rushed to stand beside her, wielding a blade of her own. She wore no armor to speak of, and he could see her shoulders shaking through her thin shirt as if the large weapon was too heavy for her.

Kratos’ gaze dropped to focus on that sword and the resulting twinge of confusion he felt served to clear his head a little. Why was that woman holding a Cruxis blade?

They were being followed by more of those monsters—and when the woman turned to look over her shoulder, Kratos caught a glimpse of her face. Her brown eyes were wild with the fear and desperation of a cornered animal. She seemed to fight with herself for a moment; she took a breath and hissed out a few expletives, the anxiety in her expression hardening into a look of stubborn determination.  

It was the sound of her voice that caused his sense of vague familiarity to crystallize into cold realization.

No, he thought, eyes wide. You shouldn’t be here.

Frozen in shock, he watched as the creatures closed in and the duo fought them off. Every swing of her sword was a faithful, albeit clumsy, application of techniques he had taught her well over a decade ago. There was no question of her identity.

How?!

They were already running off. The ship shook again and he saw the red flash of a dragon swooping past outside, a grim reminder of the danger closing in around them.

Feeling like he had snapped out of a trance, he lurched forward and slammed his shoulder against the door of the pod with a loud thump. The sound was drowned out in all the chaos, and the two women disappeared into a chamber beyond, oblivious to his plight.

I cannot die here, he realized, heart suddenly racing.

He couldn’t. Not if his apathy could spell her doom. This ship was inevitably going to be blown out of the sky, and he had wings—she did not.

Pressing his palms against the door of the pod, he called upon every ounce of his angelic strength and began to push. His Cruxis Crystal felt searing hot against his skin and the creature in his skull writhed in agony; something was very wrong. He continued to push anyway, letting out a harsh yell as he muscled through the pain.

The door of the pod groaned at first, then finally pitched forward as it broke free. Kratos fell with it and landed on his hands and knees, chest heaving. His vision swam for a moment when he looked up.

He took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Some of the pain subsided and the world seemed to stabilize again. Pain could be managed, he decided, feeling some of his cold rationality return at last. He would push through regardless.

Kratos raced through the dark rooms of the burning ship towards the girl they had found collapsed in the woods all those years ago.

As it turned out, he still had something to fight for.

----

A/N: he didn't catch up to her in time. honestly half this story is going to be about how kratos can't catch a fucking break (though tbf neither can oc brit)

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 7

Ao3 | 3.2k Words | Sweetheart's POV

TW: Conflict, discussions of injuries, chronic pain, crying... lots of crying.

Davey Shaw was a quiet, shy man who had the unfortunate habit of running himself ragged for others. It was something you could empathize with, but having that attention pushed to yourself was uncomfortable. After that initial healing session, Davey slept for twelve hours. His core was exhausted from the amount of healing magic he’d poured into you. You didn’t even know shifters could be healers. The fact that he had managed to heal as much damage as he had was either a testament to his considerable power and skill or proof that he was going to get himself killed trying to help others. Perhaps a bit of both, 

After emerging from the upstairs bedroom, looking ragged and still exhausted, he banished Milo to go get some rest and assessed you gently in the momentary privacy of his living room. He let you ask questions as he worked, rotating each of your joints, checking the scars, prodding your chest to make sure it was still intact. 

“How do you know Milo?”

“Old friends.”

“Where did you learn to heal?”

“D.A.M.N..”

“Did Dr. Collins teach you?”

“Yes, actually. I took four or five classes with him.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was… unconvinced of my ability, but ultimately an excellent teacher.” 

“Man, you’d think… because of…”

“Actually, that’s why he was hesitant to recommend me as a paramedic. He knows how his magic is limited, so he knows how mine is too.”

“You’re a paramedic?”

“Part time.” 

Davey’s bedside manner seemed to rely on his patient. He answered each of your questions, some more thoroughly than others, but all honestly. You didn’t know how you could tell that. Maybe it was just something about him. 

After affirming to himself that your lung wasn’t going to collapse in the next few minutes, he helped you stand. You had your forearms rested atop his, your grip shaking and unsteady. He muttered words of encouragement, corrected your posture, told you how to hold your weight. 

“You’re really good at this.” You winced, gazing straight ahead like he’d told you. It put you in the unfortunate position of essentially ogling his chest. You struggled not to let that be your most prominent thought.

“Thank you.” You stared up at him expectantly. Davey caught your eye for a moment before pursing his lips and nodding. “More words.” He breathed, as though to himself. “My father was in a car accident a few years ago,” he explained softly. He shifted so you rocked your weight back and forth, wincing every time you rested over your right leg. “I managed his recovery.” 

“He’s okay now?” 

“Mostly.” Davey nodded. “He has some chronic pain in his leg. He has good days and bad days, but mostly, yes, he’s fine.” 

“Will I…” you pursed your lips against the question. It felt silly, childish. You didn’t want to appear weak in front of him. But then again, you were unable to stand without help, half blind, and your guts were currently rearranging themselves inside of you. You didn’t really have a choice but to appear weak. You leaned into it. “Will I be okay?”

Davey took a deep breath, rocked you back and forth a few more times before helping you lower back down onto the couch. His dark eyes found yours and held on. You didn’t dare look away. 

“You’re going to be different.” He said. “And you’re going to have to live with that.” 

Davey dug out a cane from his medical supply cupboard. It was silver and clinical, and he adjusted it down from its highest setting to its lowest. With one hand in his and the other braced over the cane, you managed to stand. He showed you how to use it, that you had to brace it on the opposite side as your injured leg, which felt unnatural to you at first, and how to swing it along with your stride. In the solitude of Davey’s living room, you took your first, unsteady steps on your own. 

Two days later, when you gained enough energy to be uncomfortable with continuing to take Davey and his mate’s hospitality, you relented. It was time to deal with the fall out of your bad decisions. You started with the easiest one of the bunch. You didn’t care what Jet thought of your little excursion, and you didn’t care to appease his emotions in regards to your behavior. He was your Captain, and not blameless in all of this, as Milo reminded you readily. He was the one who sent you half cocked into Rebane territory after one of the most dangerous rogue vampires in the last century. He was the one who sent you after this shade alone in the first fucking place. You were sure, with conduct like that, he’d make Commissioner before the year was out. 

As evening rolled around, Milo retrieved one of his cars and picked you up. Davey’s mate produced a set of their own clothes for you. They fit better than Davey’s, and their simple, professional style was appreciated. Davey and Milo hovered over you as you walked- limped- to the car. You let Milo catch your arm when he grew nervous, and threaded your fingers into his. You didn’t need his steady form to hold you up, but he needed to know that you wouldn’t fall out under his nose. You could give that to him.

You did not, however, let him follow you inside. He opened the car door for you, help you stand, and stared up at the imposing, dark building like it was the enemy. 

“Stay out here, please.” You asked, you ordered. 

“And let you go in alone? Sweetness, I’ve got your back.” 

“I know.” You nodded. “But I don’t think I can do this in front of you.” 

Jet’s office was still lit up by the time you made it through security and made it to your bullpen’s floor. You were grateful that the floor was mostly empty. A few of your peers glanced up at your arrival, their eyes hungry on your cane, your gate, the scar marring your face. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jet breathed when he got a look at you. For a guy with little care for your wellbeing before this moment, he jumped quickly to pull out a chair for you. His face ghosted white as he took you in, his mouth agape and unsure. For the first time since it happened, you were glad the shade had left such visible marks on you. It served Jet right, having to look at what he’d, in part, done to you. 

“I quit.” You said, unceremoniously. Jet balked at you, halfway through reaching for a thick file that you assumed was yours. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Thank you.” You shifted and pulled out the loose-leaf notebook paper on which you’d scrawled your resignation letter. Jet snatched it from your hand, reading it over before scowling over his desk at you. “I have a few questions first.” 

“So do I.” Jet seethed. 

“I’ll start.” You raised your hand and inspected your nails, which Milo had taken the time to clean and cut while you were unconscious. Prissy, pompous little prince. “How long did it take for backup to arrive?” You tried for all of the world to seem unbothered, although you knew your current condition was working against you. Jet sighed and scrubbed a hand over his haggard face. He looked tired. 

“Forty-five minutes.” He reported numbly. You nodded. 

“If I hadn’t been found before they arrived, I would have died.” 

“If you had waited for backup before engaging you wouldn’t have been in the situation to begin with.” 

“If I had waited forty-five minutes for backup, half of D.A.M.N.’s student population  would have been that thing’s dessert.” You snapped, more passionately than you’d intended. You took a deep, steadying breath. You’d blown your cover, showed your hand. You had to regain your composure. “I know that my decisions in all of this have not been sound. I know that I’ve alienated and isolated, that I’ve pushed away what little help was afforded to me, but that is exactly what the culture of the Department breeds.” 

“Hold on-”

“I’m not finished!” You raised your voice to Jet for the first time. His mouth clicked shut in shock. “You are running a system that all feeds off of delusions of individual success and grandeur. You cut resources from investigators not meeting casework quotas, hand easy, safe work to the people with actual experience and allocate deadly cases to the rookies with no partners and no support. Oh, but backup is just a short, forty-five minute wait away!” 

“That is a wildly bad faith view of our practices, Investigator.” Jet interjected as soon as he could. 

“You sent me after a dangerous, fifty-year-old vampire on my first fucking day!” 

Silence hung in the office. Jet scowled at you over his stacks of files. Finally, he broke. 

“Is there anything else?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “That kid in the park. Has his next of kin been informed?” 

“No.” Jet blinked, thrown off by your change in tone. “We’ve only just found his name. You know how it is with the homeless.” 

“People experiencing homelessness.” You corrected. “Christ, Jet at least attend the sensitivity training you assign.” 

“Lasko. Moore.” Jet ground out between gritted teeth. 

“The contact for his next of kin?” You asked expectantly. 

“You are no longer a Department employee.” Jet retorted. “I can’t disclose that information.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t sue D.U.M.P. for my injuries and report your incompetence to the Ruling Council.” 

“You have no case.” 

“You wanna take that risk?” Stalemate. Jet held your eye for a long, tense moment before glancing away. One benefit to your fucked up face, it seemed. People couldn’t challenge you for long. Jet sighed, scribbled down a name and number on a spare sticky note, and handed it over. 

“Since you’re blackmailing me, what else can I do for you, Investigator?” He spat the word like it was an insult and it felt like one.

“Actually,” you grinned, snatching the cane from where it rested against Jet’s desk. “You could leave my clearance active for an hour or so.” You stood with some effort and fished your badge from your pocket and threw it down on a teetering stack of papers in front of him. You lumbered towards the door at as fast a pace as you could manage. Just as you crossed the threshold, you painfully twisted back to catch Jet within your limited vision. “I hope things do change, Jet. I don’t want anybody else dead. And I don’t want you to have to live with it.” 

Now to the harder ones. You moved through the Department halls slowly, the click of your cane the only noise in the sleek, empty space. You ran the tips of your fingers across the papered walls, catching against framed pictures of former department heads and deceased D.U.M.P. employees. If you looked hard enough, you could probably find your mother’s portraits somewhere. 

She used to bring you to work with her during the summers, while your siblings went to daycare or camp. She would sit you at her desk, hand you a little yellow legal pad and a pen. You would play Investigator, gather clues to your nonsensical cases, interrogate her obliging coworkers, and you’d always, always win. It was always something you could win. That was the spark, you thought. You’d never wanted to do- to be- anything else. You didn’t know what you were now. And you didn’t know if what you had been was anything like you’d thought it would be, was anything you could even recognize. 

Collins was in his office alone, the lights dimmed and the infirmary all but empty. When he looked up at you, his eyes flashed with fear before settling into shock. 

“Jesus Christ!” He barked. 

“That’s what they keep calling me.” You tried for a joke that didn’t land. He shot up from his chair and pulled you towards it, sitting you down with no room for protest. 

“What the fuck did you do?” 

“Went up against a shade. Alone.” You said shakily. Collins had gone into doctor mode, checking over you the exact same way Davey had that morning. 

“You’re an idiot.” Collins snapped. His magic sparked and raced through you, searching, observing. 

“I am.” You nodded. “I’m… I’m really sorry, Doc. I lashed out at you in the middle of a fucking self destructive spiral.” 

“I know.” Collins growled. “I’ve had one or two of my own, which is why I tried to intervene.” He looked up at you after a moment, his face softening. “But… given how I’ve treated folks who’ve tried to help me? I should have seen it coming.” His silver eyes flitted around your face for a moment before giving you a single, curt nod. “This healing was sloppy. Can I?” 

He indicated towards the gauze taped over your eye. You swallowed heavily, but nodded. Gingerly, he peeled the medical tape back and bent out of your vision to examine it. 

“Lord have mercy.” 

“He did the best he could.” You said, defensively. “I was out there for at least half an hour before anybody got to me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Collins grumbled. He tutted before discarding your old gauze and walking out to the infirmary. He pointed a single finger at you as you attempted to rise and follow him, holding you in your spot. He returned a moment later with an armful of medical supplies and a fresh pair of gloves on. He redressed your eye, pulled up your pant leg to ease on a knee brace that would help support your weight, smeared a cold, translucent ointment over as much of your scars as he could reach. 

“You went to D.A.M.N.?” He asked after a considerable, somewhat uncomfortable silence. You nodded. “Then you know where the healing school is.” Another nod. “My office is on the first floor. I’m there Tuesdays and Thursdays for office hours, after dark, obviously. Come see me once a week and we’ll see about these scars.” 

“What?” You breathed.

“I can’t promise anything,” Collins snapped his gloves off. “But we can try to reduce your scar tissue, maybe work on that leg too.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” You felt like you might cry. 

“I’m a healer.” Collins dismissed you easily. You imagined that he a lot, went above and beyond, gave more than he had to, more than he strictly could. You two also had that in common. 

It was dark out, but Cam was right where you expected to find him; perched on the bench you shared every day, no food in sight, staring up at the light polluted, starless sky. 

“Hey,” you all but whispered as you approached. His large, star-filled eyes found you and filled with something between guilt and concern. 

“Hey.” He replied. 

He didn’t attempt to help you sit, just waited patiently for you to settle next to him. 

“What are you doing out here?” You asked. 

“Stargazing.” He kept his eyes on the sky, searching through Dahlia’s early-autumn cloud cover for any hint of light. 

“There aren’t any.” 

Cam leaned into you. He was on your blind side, but the warmth he gave off was enough to telegraph his movements before he made them. His shoulder bumped into yours. 

“We can’t see them.” He said softly. “But they’re still there.” 

By the time the two of you were done talking, you were calmer than you had been for weeks. Months, maybe. He walked you back out to the parking lot, and you held his arm instead of the cane. Milo was waiting where you’d left him, leaning against his sinfully expensive sports car, his phone to his ear. You didn’t catch his conversation, but you did catch the line of tension that disappeared from his features as he laid eyes on you. 

“All done?” He asked. You nodded. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You said. Cam handed the cane back, his hand hovering over the small of your back as you regained your balance. “Milo, this is Camelopardalis.” 

“Cam.” He corrected, extending his hand for Milo to shake. 

“Camelopardalis.” Milo mimicked back perfectly. “Milo Rebane.” 

“My friend has fallen in with royalty.” Cam smiled down at you, somewhere between impress and horror. 

“I ain’t so high and mighty.” Milo smiled. So he did have a self deprecating bone in his body, little as it might be. “I have heard that you did everything you could to help them out. I appreciate that.” 

“It was simply the right thing to do.” Cam replied easily. 

“I don’t make it easy.” You said. Cam looked down at you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Something like pity quirked his features. Or maybe it was fondness. 

“I’m under strict orders to get this one back in bed before the night is out.” Milo reached towards Cam for another handshake. Cam reciprocated and bent to meet your eye. He squeezed your free hand tight, like he didn’t want to let go. 

“You have my number.” He said. “I expect you to use it, or I’ll track you down, royal boyfriend or no.” 

A blush creeped up your neck as Milo laughed. You shoved Cam’s shoulder, but there was no strength, no malice behind it. 

The engine of Milo’s stupid fucking sports car hummed through your entire body, sending waves of pain up and down your leg. Milo drove gently, avoiding potholes, taking turns slowly. His hand twitched on the gear shift, as though longing to touch, but not willing to. You fished your phone out of your pocket and clicked through to your emergency contacts. 

Before you pressed the call button, you took Milo’s hand in yours. 

“Hey!” Your dad nearly shouted. “I’ve been calling you for two days!” Tears welled up in your eyes at the sound of his voice. You sniffled pathetically and you could feel Milo’s eyes on you, even if you couldn’t see him. 

“I know.” You said. You felt your guts shifting inside of you. You thought you might vomit. A tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You couldn’t let go of Milo’s hand to wipe it away. “I’m really sorry, Dad. I fucked up. Really bad.” 

“Okay!” All of the anger was gone from your dad’s voice. “Okay, kiddo. Whatever it is, we can deal with it.” 

Over the drive between D.U.M.P.’s headquarters and Milo’s mansion, you laid it all out for him. You detailed your case, what exactly a shade was, the kids it was draining. You explained your spiral, your thought process, the stupid decisions you kept making. You told him, baring some of the gory bits, about the attack. The dead kid- Lasko, you reminded yourself to say his name, to remember it, for someone to remember it- how terrifying the fully formed shade was. Your injuries. 

He cried. You shook with the effort to keep your own tears in. He had earned this. He had fought tooth and nail against your self-destructive habits. He had earned the chance to let it out. 

“You’re gonna be okay?” He asked after taking a moment to collect himself. Davey Shaw’s words shook around in your head. 

“I’m gonna be different.” You replied. “But yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna be okay.”

[bg-brainrot]

Prompt: Ornaments

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Premise: Winter continues to be Astarion’s least favorite season, but when you give him the chance to show off his nimble fingers, he can’t possibly refuse. Time for some arts and crafts!

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Holidays, post-canon, comfort, astarion is a crafter

Word count: ~1.1k

“Astarion, could you come here a moment?”

The vampire in question stops in his tracks, turning to look at you. You’re currently hunched over a desk littered with all manner of materials– various strings, glass beads, sequins, pieces of wood, cloth, and so much more. 

Taking in the situation as he walks over, he asks, “Darling, are you crafting a diabolical poison? Or perhaps a seasonal explosive?”

You laugh, halfway through tying a string, and gesture him over with your head. “Nothing so deadly, I’m afraid. Could you put your finger here so I can tie this?”

Like the supportive partner he is, he places his finger in position before continuing to press. “So what exactly are you doing, love?”

“Making ornaments,” you say, as you finish tying together a tree made with green beads. You hold it up for him a second later. “See? Do you like it?”

The look on his face doesn’t give away much, but you can sense the emotions underneath at war with each other. “It’s…”

“Don’t finish that,” you say, holding up a hand. “It’s my first attempt, so it will only get better.”

Astarion crouches in front of the desk across from you, folding his arms over the edge. “I was only going to say that it’s quite twee. Though it may be missing a little something.”

“Oh?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “What do you suppose is missing?” You spin the tree a few times to get a better look at it before he holds out his hand to you. After a second of deliberation, you place it into his awaiting palm. “Don’t break it, I lied about getting better. This is probably my best work.”

He smirks at you. “I know, dear. But that’s why I’m here to help.”

“What are you going to do to it?”

Tilting his head as he looks through your various materials, he simply gives a soft hmm. His long fingers sift through a variety of silver strings, pushing them aside for a delicate, metallic silver. He spends another few seconds searching through the beads while you watch and he comes away with a few glimmering, silver beads that look like stars. “I think,” he finally says. “It could use a bit of dressing up, don’t you?”

You nod at him with a smile, getting out of your chair. “Alright, love. Let’s see your nimble fingers at work.”

At that, Astarion gives you a suggestive little look, but he moves around the desk and sits down all the same. “Watch the expert, darling,” he says, his tone entirely too seductive for the task at hand.

But watch you will. After giving him a kiss atop his head, you settle in. At first you stand behind him, watching him weave the thread through the beads in a regular spacing, tying off after each one. Then you lean a bit forward, resting your arms on the back of his chair, as you watch him begin to sew the beaded thread into the tree, his fingers working in a way that manages to somehow be both elegant and swift. By the time you’re watching him tie off the additions, your arms are draped around his shoulders, melted by the easy way he fell into the rhythm of his work.

“There,” he says, holding the finished tree to your eye level. Then, tilting his head back toward you, he asks you the same question you asked him, “Do you like it?”

You want to be a little snarky, give him the same blank stare he gave you, but you know it’s pointless– the glee on your face is already unmistakable. 

While you were proud of your work before, Astarion wasn’t far off the mark when he called it twee. Now that he’s had a turn with it, it looks like a piece of art. The silver stars and string drape across the green beads like delicate garlands, twisting up the tree to culminate in a crown of stars on its top.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, hugging Astarion through the chair. “Your talent is a thing of wonders, love.”

Astarion tries to appear nonchalant about your praise, lifting his chin up and looking at you with a smirk. But something about the look in your eyes proves to be too much and he turns back around, clears his throat, and says, “Thank you, my dear.”

“I mean it!” you say, misinterpreting his sudden shift for disbelief. Using a finger to turn his head back towards yours, you see the truth of it when his wide eyes meet yours. He’s bashful– in fact, you think if he wasn’t a vampire, he might be blushing under the heat of your praise.

“I believe you,” he says in a soft voice. Then his voice picks up strength and he adds with a smile, “I didn’t realize that such an insignificant little thing would be worthy of so much praise.”

You move around the chair to face him and shift the hand that was holding his chin to cup his cheek. Staring down your ridiculous, brilliant lover, you impress upon him the truth you know he needs to hear, “There’s nothing made by your hands that is too small to be worthy of praise. And it’s significant to me. Understood?”

He nods into your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. Then he heaves a great sigh. “Ugh, why must you try to infect me with these absurd holiday emotions? I was perfectly content just milling about, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, removing yourself from his face and going to pull up another chair. “And now that I know you’re willing to help–” you raise a hand when he begins to open his mouth in objection. “Only to the extent you feel like, of course. I think it would be nice to make some ornaments together.” You place the chair next to him and scoot in, looking at him expectantly.

Astarion purses his lips at you, as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s fallen into a trap he hadn’t realized you’d laid. After deciding it doesn’t matter, he replies, “How could I say no?”

You spend the rest of the evening together, crafting a variety of ornaments. Some are seasonal: A snowflake, a ribbon, a candy. Some that are more for the two of you: A dagger, a skull, a snake. Once the night is over and you’re both cleaning up, Astarion looks up at you, a wry smile playing on his lips. “You may have tricked me into helping, but I did quite enjoy myself.”

With all of the innocence of a trained liar, you simply blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m glad you had fun.”

[its-jaytothemee]

Until I Met You - Chapter 38

Chapter 38: Balance

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 5,173

Rating: Currently M, will be Explicit in later chapters.

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

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Summary: The tadfools learn about the purpose of Astarion's scars. Arabella comes to terms with her parents' deaths. Part 37 of the slow burn fic. Tav, Astarion, and Halsin POVs.

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual love confessions, eventual smut, angst, implied past rape/non-con and abuse, graphic description of injuries, brief suicidal thoughts.

A/N: Chapters 37 AND 38 are being posted today!! Have a couple of fun camp chapters before we go back to the Gauntlet :)

Astarion kept his eyes fixed on Tav as she turned away.

My name is Ria…

He recalled a story, one that graced a handful of editions in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette and other lesser tabloids in the city. A silver-haired beauty, fleeing from a lavish engagement party, shooting many attendees and even family members in the process. Hers was a name he remembered well; a name that had given him hope. A name that had allowed him to live vicariously through her daring escape.

Tav’ahria Mendelre.

He had only met Lady Mendelre once and “met” was perhaps a strong word for the encounter.

It was a particularly terrible evening with Cazador. Not that there were any good evenings with him, but this one stuck out among many of the events where he was dragged along as his personal escort.

There was an event at Wyrm’s Rock, some celebration of sorts that he couldn’t be bothered to remember the details of. He remembered a young elf, no older than forty, dancing and laughing with another young man. Her long, white hair twirled to the same rhythm as her dress. The red and orange fabric looked like flames swirling out around her ankles each time she was spun under the man’s arms.

Cazador’s eyes had been drawn to her immediately. Astarion had recognized that predatory stare that haunted most of his dreams. His nightmares.

Now, his master wasn’t so stupid as to make her a target. There was a reason he sent his spawn to the grimy, desolate flophouses and taverns of Baldur’s Gate. Few would miss a lonely beggar or drunkard, even if they did, they didn’t have the power to do anything about it once they were gone.

But if someone like Tav’ahria Mendelre went missing? Well, that would cause quite a stir, wouldn’t it? So that night, Cazador was likely just trying to lay on the charm, to find yet another person to help cover his tracks and line his pockets.

He had glided up to her with such confidence, the same way he approached any of his spawn or servants. But when he took her hand and gave her a low bow, she simply looked down her nose at him. A spurious smile twisted her lips as she indulged him for a moment – a picture of noble civility.

Astarion watched from a distance as Lord Mendelre came to his daughter’s side, not even bothering with a polite look as he sneered back at Cazador.

For the first time since he had been turned, he had the pleasure of watching someone have power and influence over his cruel master. And it was delightful. Everyone in the city knew hers was not a family you crossed. Not unless you wanted to have an unfortunate "accident" conveniently cleaned up by the City Watch the next day.

As he was lost in the sensation of seeing Cazador’s embarrassment, he had let a small laugh slip out at the sight. He paid dearly for that little lapse in judgement.

Cazador had pulled him close, keeping a bruising grip on his arm for the rest of the night, the harsh movement but a drop in the sea of pain that would follow. But what Astarion really remembered was how Lady Mendelre had smiled at him. The first in decades to look at him like a person instead of an object. The smile she aimed at him wasn’t the fake, polite smile she had flashed at Cazador, but one that was bright and warm.

A smile not unlike the one he had just seen from Tav.

Honestly, Tav. If you truly wanted to hide your identity you shouldn’t have just shortened your name again. You could have at least dyed your hair, you idiot.

He fought an eye roll at the thought. Though he supposed there were few people left who would have known about that night, especially among their group of adventurers. Of course, all of this could be just another bizarre coincidence, but he felt that they were running short on those.

Astarion bit back the quips and teases he felt on the tip of his tongue. Every part of him itched to poke and prod her, try to get her to admit something, anything. He still felt that instinct tugging at his mind to find any information that he could hold and use against her. After all, ties to the Mendelre family were not the most innocent of connections to have.

But those thoughts melted away when she turned back around and smiled at him.

Yes. Yes, I remember that smile now.

Strangely enough, he believed Tav when she said he owed her nothing. But he would do this favor for her regardless.

Your secret is safe with me, my friend.

***

The first thing Halsin saw when he arrived back at camp was Tav sitting with Astarion by the fire. She looked much better than when he left her there this morning. Karlach and Shadowheart were close behind him. Each of them had one of Gale’s arms slung around their necks helping him walk back to camp.

Both Astarion and Tav shot concerned looks their way as their companion was practically dragged between the two women over to the fire.

“I must say, you are looking rather healthy compared to when I saw you last, Tav.” Gale’s words were slurred as he tried to point a finger at her. Shadowheart let his arm drop as they approached.

“Good gods, Gale.” Tav held her arm up over her nose as his breath puffed out in a stiff, alcoholic cloud. “Are you…are you drunk?”

“Ah, yes. ‘Twas a creature in the old distillery, redolent of a liquor stronger than I could imagine,” he said with great effort. “He asked for stories in exchange for drink, and I was most inclined to acquiesce his requests. Even before I met you lot, I had plenty a tale to titillate the bystanders among even the most minacious of Waterdeep taverns. I have been known in my time to deescalate brawls in such establishments, talking its participants down with no scarcity of aplomb.”

“You sure they didn’t just get bored by your yapping and leave?” Karlach still had one arm around his waist to steady him.

“Gosh,” Gale threw his hand over his chest, offended, “I know my ears must be deceiving me. Surely you wouldn’t question those abilities after you bore witness to my talents in such circumstances?”

“Where do you store all these fancy words when you’ve been drinking, wizard?” she cackled as she helped him to a seat by the fire.

“Well, let me ponder that rumination for a moment, my friend.” Gale held a finger to his lips, lost in fake thought. “After careful deliberation I do believe that I have arrived at the supposition that I store them up your ass.”

Another bout of roaring laughter rang from Karlach. “Fuck me, that was some strong stuff he was serving you.”

“Yes, well, needless to say I shall be sticking to my carefully curated selection of fine wines from here on out.”

“Care to translate that for us?” Tav turned to smile at Halsin.

“We met two more cursed beings in town. One in the distillery and one in the old tollhouse.” Tav scooted closer to Astarion on the log they were sharing so Halsin could sit next to her. “They were much like you described the doctor from the House of Healing.”

“How so?” She rested a hand on his back, rubbing slow, small circles between his shoulders.

A welcome relief after their exhausting day. Halsin still hadn’t quite adjusted to the adventuring life, especially now that he was spending each day in battles and fighting through any other perils they found in between. It had been some time since he had gone in and out of his wild shape so many times in a day, not to mention the enervation of his constant spellcasting – whether it be for healing or used against their foes.

“These beings still maintained more of their sentience. Both of them spoke to us, talking about guarding the Thorm family’s secrets.” Halsin recalled their fights with both large monstrosities with Tav and Astarion. One filled to burst with a strange brew, the other coated head to toe in gold and demanding more.

“WHAT DO YOU BRING?!” Karlach shouted in a mocking voice, startling a yelp out of them. She and Wyll just laughed. Halsin felt Tav’s hand drop from his back, and he hoped the disappointment wasn’t too plain on his face.

“Well,” Tav responded once she caught her breath again, “I’m glad to see you all made it back safely at least. Did you–”

She stopped mid-sentence and sat up a little straighter.

“Please tell me my head injury isn’t fully healed and that’s why I smell sulfur,” Tav groaned.

“Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?”

The sound of Raphael’s voice caused everyone to throw their heads back in exasperation.

“It returns to the hells – to the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devilforsaken plane it died on. In the case of our mutual friend Yurgir, he manifested in my House of Hope.” Raphael held his hands out to inspect his nails, projecting nonchalance.

“A deal’s a deal, devil,” Astarion snapped, standing up to glare at him. “We killed your orthon, now tell me what you know about these scars.”

“Tut, tut,” Raphael’s smooth, crooning voice made Halsin’s skin crawl. “I find that the foreplay is almost better than the deed itself. The anticipation, the buildup, the–”

“We’ve had more than enough buildup, Raphael,” Tav interrupted. “You’ve kept him waiting long enough. Why didn’t you come yesterday once you knew the orthon was dead?”

“Oh, little flower, I heard you had gotten hurt. Surely you do not think I would let you miss something as delicious as this.” Raphael winked at her before turning his attention back to Astarion.

Little flower.

Once again, Halsin saw Tav flinch away from his words. The first time he saw the devil in Last Light, he thought he had imagined it.

“Brace yourself vampling and listen close as I reveal your destiny.”

***

Tav watched Astarion pace in front of them once Raphael had left. He was muttering to himself and making erratic hand gestures.

The Rite of Profane Ascension.

Raphael’s reveal of his scars’ purpose left Tav with her skin feeling prickly and gross. He said Cazador would have to sacrifice a “number” of souls…but how many?

“Astarion?” Tav called out gently.

He whipped around to face her, a manic look in his eyes.

“Talk to us. What are you thinking?” She kept her voice soft.

“I…I don’t know,” he stammered. “If what Raphael said was true, I would have expected Cazador to send more lackeys to hunt me down. So far, all we’ve seen is one Gur.”

“Well, we are in the midst of the shadow curse,” Halsin offered. “As you’ve seen, it is a difficult land to traverse. The Underdark is not much safer, either. Perhaps they were felled before they could make it to you.”

“Or perhaps the tadpole is preventing Cazador from being able to locate you?” Wyll chimed in next.

“Perhaps…” Astarion started pacing again.

“I don’t know that I would put so much stock in luck, my friends.” Gale’s words were still a bit slurred. “At least if our previous experiences are anything to go on.”

Small nods and grumbles of agreement sounded among them.

“Regardless, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone even when I was just another one of his wretched toys. Now…” Astarion let out a frustrated grunt. “If I’m the key to this power he craves, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn and beyond.”

Tav nodded slowly, realizing before he even said his next words what he was going to ask.

“If I won’t be free while he’s alive, I suppose I’ll just have to kill the bastard.” He turned to face Tav again. “And I’m going to need some help.”

She froze, the panic likely obvious on her face. The fact of the matter was that Cazador Szarr lived in Baldur’s Gate. A city to which she had never planned on returning.

“Don’t worry Fangs,” Karlach came up and put a hand on his shoulder, “we’re not going to let Cazador touch you again. Right, sis?”

Tav remained still, thinking through her options as everyone looked at her expectantly. The guilt she felt gnawing at her for her hesitation was immediately doubled by the look of disappointment on Astarion’s face.

“Of course we aren’t, Astarion.”

He relaxed a little, but still looked skeptical.

“I’m sorry, this is just a lot to take in, is all.” Tav joined Karlach at his side. “You know I won’t let him hurt you again if I can help it.”

“You hesitated.” Astarion stared her down.

“I…I haven’t been back to Baldur’s Gate in a very long time. Honestly, I had never planned on returning.” Tav took a deep breath. “But I would go back to help you, love.”

Another flash of distant recognition crossed his features, less fleeting this time as he studied her face.

“I appreciate that, Tav.” He relaxed after a moment. “We need to find out about the ritual. If we can get to the city, perhaps we can learn more. And who knows…”

Astarion’s expression darkened, a look that sent a chill down her spine.

“Perhaps there could be an opportunity for me to take his place.”

Tav had no idea what his ritual would cost, she still didn’t quite understand its full purpose. But she had a feeling that letting Astarion complete it would be unwise.

“One thing at a time, love.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

“You’re right, of course. I’m getting ahead of myself.” Astarion waved a hand in the air. “Still…the thought of being able to walk in the sun again…without a mind flayer parasite…”

He stared off into the distance, wearing a soft smile. The look on his face was so hopeful…

Tav hated thinking that she might have to squash that hope.

Astarion started to walk toward his tent, still looking pensive. When he was about halfway there, he turned back around.

“Thank you, again.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have any of this information without you. Without any of you.”

She smiled in response, feeling a small wave of relief hearing such sincerity from him. Seeming a bit embarrassed, he disappeared into his tent.

“Are you okay?” Halsin nudged her arm.

“Of course,” Tav sighed. “Just…just a little worried about him.”

He nodded, staring after Astarion alongside her.

“It’s just…no matter the outcome, completing such an intricate, ancient ritual given by a devil seems risky to say the least. And not just a devil, Mephistopheles himself.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Tav’s heart rate quickened, and her eyes welled up.

“And what if we find the Absolute here at Moonrise? What if we find a way to be rid of these tadpoles?”

Halsin arched an eyebrow at her.

“How will he be able to face Cazador without the tadpole? I’m worried that he’ll just be compelled back into slavery.” Tav choked back tears at the thought. She felt Halsin tug her close to his side.

“One problem at a time, my friend.” He let out a deep breath after speaking.

If only our ever-growing list of problems would follow that advice.

***

An air of trepidation hung over the camp after their most recent encounter with Raphael. The reveal of the purpose of Astarion’s scars had left them all feeling a touch more dejected than earlier in the day.

The shout Halsin heard across camp did nothing to help that mood.

Arabella was speaking to Withers; the conversation had turned rather heated.

He jogged behind Tav over to the pair. The young tiefling’s face was twisted with anger and grief.

“They’re dead…”

“Listen,” Withers spoke in his hushed, unhurried tone. “Thou must find the balance within.”

“No…I can’t…”

Halsin and Tav had reached her side. She reached out for Arabella as she sobbed.

“No!” Arabella screamed again as a wave of energy slammed into them, sending Tav stumbling backward.

“Listen! Dost thou not hear it?” Withers called out to her. “Where creation meets ruin, where morning meets midnight – the root of all being.”

Arabella continued to take heaving breaths. Halsin could just make out her hands trembling.

“Balance.” Withers had softened his tone once more.

“Balance,” Arabella sighed, tears still streaking her face.

Halsin could feel the raw, untamed power radiating from her. Her magic as wild as the source from which it came, and heavy with the grief she felt at her loss.

“The girl must learn to control her arcane abilities – but she shan’t remain here to do so.” Withers turned to address Tav.

“Excuse me?” Tav whipped around to glare at him. Halsin hung his head, already knowing what he was going to say.

“Arabella’s power is unbalanced, she holds abilities beyond reckoning. Her power was born of the decaying forest, and the seedling that bore it.”

Despite his best efforts, it seemed Arabella’s magic had indeed been touched by the Shadow Weave. As hard as it was to admit, it was a distant hope that he could have prevented it. Growing one’s powers in a cursed place such as this was bound to have lasting effects.

“Once thou dost leave these accursed lands, Arabella will depart from thee.”

The young tiefling ran over to Tav, wrapping her arms around one of her legs. Her soft sobs were muffled by her pants, her tail curling loosely around Tav’s ankle.

“I’m not sending her out alone.” Tav held her glare as Arabella continued to cling to her.

“THOU MUST!” Withers shouted back, startling both her and Halsin.

“Bone Man, you’re making me leave?” Arabella sniffled back at him.

“Thou hast nothing to fear, girl. The Weave knows thy purpose and shall provide. It will guide thee, if thou dost listen.” Withers had returned to his normal soft cadence of speaking. He held his hand out for a moment and closed his eyes.

Halsin felt Arabella’s anguish, once heavy and unyielding, start to float away. A light came down to cover the dark power within and cloak her in its warmth.

Tentatively, she let go of Tav before looking around in wonder.

“Is that my future?” she asked softly. “Is that why they died?”

“It is,” Withers replied with a nod of his head.

“It’s wonderful…” Arabella looked all around her, watching the pieces of her future invisible to the rest of them.

The warmth he felt began to fade as she absorbed the feeling into her own power.

Then, he heard a familiar giggle.

Thaniel and Oliver popped out of the nearby trees to stand beside Arabella.

“Don’t be scared, little tiefling,” Thaniel laughed.

“Yeah, you’ll be back here soon, and we can play again! We’ve seen it!” Oliver said with a smile.

“Remember,” Thaniel reached out to take one of her hands, “if you open your heart, nature will listen. Let the light guide your way.”

“The shadow will always be there,” Oliver warned, “but you can wield the light to keep it away.”

Halsin watched in awe, realizing Arabella’s new purpose had taken on a deeper meaning than he had originally thought. A piece of the shadows would live on in her forever, securing them away from the world. Should she learn how to control it, how to find balance with the light within her, she could prevent them from ever returning.

It would seem that the Oak Father had chosen an anchor of sorts. A heavy burden, but one he had no doubt Arabella would be well suited for.

“Arabella…” Tav knelt to her level.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you so much.” Arabella turned with a smile on her tear-stained face.

“Don’t apologize, love.” Tav held her arms open, and Arbella threw herself into them. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to stay with us.”

“That’s okay,” she sniffled into her shoulder. “As long as there are people like you around, maybe everything will be alright.”

Once she let go of Tav, she came over to Halsin.

“Thanks for trying to teach me. I guess I have to do some more learning before we can practice together again.”

“I look forward to it, little one.” He held out a hand to her, but she wrapped her arms around his waist instead.

Halsin heard the small sniffles from Tav as Arabella let go of him.

“And thank you, Bone Man. For being…nice.”

Withers gave her a small nod of his head. Tav pointedly avoided his gaze as she followed Arabella across camp.

Halsin knew that Tav would have trouble accepting Arabella’s new path. It was difficult enough for him and he had a more fundamental understanding of why she would have to walk it alone.

“You’ve helped her a great deal,” he said to Withers after Arabella had walked away.

“Where matters of balance are concerned, thou shall find me.” He spoke in his typical quiet, deliberate tone.

“Were my instincts correct? Is she to serve Silvanus? Preventing the shadows from returning by concealing them within her own power?” Halsin asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Withers’ lips twitched into what he could only assume was a smirk.

“The girl shall be a light in darkness, and the weight to tip scales back to their proper balance. So I have spoken, so it shall be.”

A cryptic answer from our resident riddle master. What else did you expect?

Halsin took the finality in his tone to mean they were done speaking, so he made his way back to his tent so he could at last change out of his armor. His arms continued to ache from the previous day and his eyes already stung with the need for rest, but he still felt jittery.

Rather than turning in early, he grabbed his whittling tools and a chunk of wood he had been chipping away at. He went back to the center of camp to work by the light of the fire. The others were still milling around, chatting about the day.

Tav and Karlach stood with Arabella, Karlach sharing Tav’s sour expression as she likely filled her in on Withers’ orders. He watched as Tav pulled a small neckalce from her bag and held it out to Arabella. She took the trinket in her hands before staring back up at Tav, tears shining in her eyes once more. She threw her arms around her waist and held the locket up to her chest. Tav walked around to help secure it around her neck so she could run off to play.

Despite it all though, Arabella looked happy. Like she had already embraced her new purpose. Among the worry and sorrow he felt at the thought of her leaving, Halsin still had hope. He hoped that she would find the balance within. That she would find the peace she needed from her grief and hardship.

It wasn’t long before Thaniel and Oliver came to join her again, speaking soft enough that he couldn’t make out their words.

Arabella was giggling at something Thaniel said to her. A nostalgic ache seized his chest watching them play. Part of him wished she could remain here, learning from him and Oliver, but it would be some time before this land healed. Too long for her to remain here and risk warping her power further.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pulled his attention away.

“I wondered if I might hear your opinions on our little friend’s abilities.” Halsin looked up to see Gale standing in front of him. He seemed to have sobered up a bit. Shadowheart must have finally taken pity on him.

“I’m still not quite sure what to make of them, if I can be honest,” he sighed. “To have been blessed from the idol, she indeed would have needed to win Silvanus’s favor. But the way Withers spoke…”

He shook his head, still trying to make sense of Arabella’s place in all of this.

“He speaks as though she is an anchor of sorts. But those are typically chosen by Mystra, not the other gods. I do not know how or why the Oak Father would attempt to make her one in his stead.”

“Mystra will not take kindly to another god attempting to anchor the Weave.” Gale took a seat next to him on the ground.

“I don’t know that he is attempting to anchor the Weave itself within her. This curse was a horrible blight on this land, Gale. Locking Thaniel away for a century, shrouding what was once a sanctuary in darkness.” Halsin took a deep, steadying breath, not wanting to let his anger get the best of him. “It was a slight against Silvanus himself and something tells me he simply wants to prevent it from happening again. Even if it means causing Mystra some grief.”

“Bah,” Gale waved his hand dismissively. “Honestly, Mystra needs to get her magical knickers in a twist every now and then. It doesn’t take much, I’m afraid. I think she needs to be reminded from time to time that her followers aren’t the only ones who rely on the Weave.”

Halsin could hear his tone souring with every word. “Regardless, I am sure there was some level of negotiating that had to happen between them to make this a reality.”

“I hope for her sake that’s true.” Gale’s voice had quieted. “Mortals who have their souls fought over by the gods do not tend to be long for this world.”

Halsin spared another glance at Arabella, still playing with Oliver, Thaniel, and now their animal companions across camp. He hoped that she could at least enjoy the time she had left in her childhood before the crushing weight of responsibility fell on her shoulders.

“Perhaps Mystra favored this outcome as well. After all, she has no love of the Shadow Weave, or Shar, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, you are very correct, my friend,” Gale chuckled. “She does not approve of wizards pulling from the Shadow Weave. After all, Shar did at one point seek to replace the Weave with her own distorted version of it. Even I must exercise caution in my spellcasting while we remain in these cursed lands, lest I draw from the wrong side.”

“Then I suppose that would be our best hope for our young friend.”

Gale contemplated his next words carefully.

“If that is the case, I would not be surprised to find her receiving an unexpected visit from Elminster.”

“Is that so?” Halsin set aside the chunk of wood he had been whittling. He had finally gotten the curve of it just right, but his hands were starting to cramp.

“Oh yes,” he smiled, but it was a sad and pensive look, “I was a year younger than her when he first came to me. I had just conjured a fireball of sorts, destroying a rose bush. I hid behind my mother’s skirts, sure I was to be taken away for my crime. Elminster simply smiled and assured me they would grow back.”

“I do not know much of Elminster aside from the legends told of him.” Halsin took a shaky breath. “Will he help her? Will he look after her?”

Gale considered the question for a moment. “He will help and guide her to the best of his abilities. Despite my own…shortcomings, Elminster was a good friend and an even better teacher. The rest will be up to her.”

“Then we shall have to trust in our gods’ judgement, and hope she is up to the task.”

“Something that’s easier said than done for me of late.” Gale’s eyes had grown distant as he stared into the flames.

Halsin reached up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, thank you for indulging me, Halsin,” Gale slapped his knees as he stood up. “I suppose we’ll just have to admire her efforts from afar for now.”

“Anytime, my friend.”

Gale’s company was quickly replaced by Tav and Karlach’s.

“Whatcha makin’ bear man?” Karlach had plopped on one side of him with Tav on the other.

He glanced at the tools and piece of wood sitting at his feet and fought the urge to glance at Tav.

“I’m not quite sure yet,” he lied. “Often times I don’t know what a piece will turn into until its well underway.”

“Oooh, mysterious,” Karlach cooed at him. He hoped his face didn’t look as warm as it felt.

“Are the two of you alright? I saw you speaking with Arabella.”

“I’m better,” Tav sighed. “I…I understand if she has to go. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna miss that little hellion.” Karlach was watching the children play.

“What was that necklace you gave her?” He turned to ask Tav.

Her eyes welled as she watched the game of chase continue before them.

“It was her mother’s. Komira gave it to me as a gift after convincing Kagha to let her go. I…I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. Something about it felt very sentimental.”

Thaniel said something indecipherable to Arabella as he pointed at the locket. He made some hand gestures that almost looked like he was casting a spell. She mimicked the movements and suddenly a few bright orbs of light burst into existence around them.

All three children shrieked with delight as they chased the lights around the camp. Scratch barked at each orb and tried to pounce at them, the light dissipating under his paws. Halsin’s chest tightened as he took one of Tav’s hands.

“Well, how wonderful it is that you were able to give Arabella something to remember her by.” He smiled watching them all play together, the lights shining around them not the only thing brightening their little camp. “And not to mention provide an endless source of entertainment it would seem.”

“That’s a good point, Hal!” Karlach stood up to chase after them as well, causing more excited screams from the kids.

“Hal?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“She’s trying out new nicknames for everyone,” Tav snickered.

While they enjoyed the heartwarming scene of Thaniel, Oliver, and Arabella swarming a prone Karlach, Shadowheart came over to stand in front of them, her hands crossed in front of her, thumbs nervously warring with each other.

“Okay, I’ve made my decision.” She took a deep breath.

They waited patiently for her to continue. Tav looked at Halsin, confused. He hadn’t gotten a chance to brief her on their conversations from the day. “I’m ready for the trials. Tomorrow, we’ll return to the Gauntlet.”

[sgiandubh]

Spy Wednesday. Treason

Sidenote: Still very late with all this, but decided to keep the pace. Perhaps it is better like this, since this is the slightly haphazard result of scattered thoughts throughout the day and as such, a personal experience of it.

Obviously, powerful bystanders are not happy about Jesus entering Jerusalem at all, especially since this peculiar event coincided with the feast of Passover: 'and the chief priests and the scribes sought how they might take him by craft, and put him to death' (Mark, 14:1 - from Palm Sunday's reading). Just try and imagine the bureaucratic kerfuffle, the whispered speculations, the slow burn alarm building up in those circles. Political unrest, with a twist: local consensus was not enough - Rome had to be persuaded to step in, and it was everything but obvious. About all this, later this week: it is, to me at least, perhaps the most mysterious episode of the New Testament.

Judas Iscariot. Tragically instrumental to this plan, we know it. And treason, coupled with dark alley maneuvering, was the only way to make it happen. Treason: not betrayal or treachery, which are either too vaguely moral or too general - what is about to happen is a political assassination disguised as trial, followed by public torture as punishment.

This year's lectionary brings along a second, slightly alternate POV of the Last Supper, as related by Matthew Levi (my favorite), this time. Matthew, the tax collector, is a man acutely aware of the value of money and he is the only one to give us a very precise quotation of the reward Judas received from Caiaphas' middlemen: 'And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver.' (Matthew, 26:15). Again, we have a very telling, albeit approximate, conversion in today's currency. Matthew's Greek text is very vague, in that respect. It speaks about 'silver' (coins), to an audience that immediately understood the value of it. And even if we will never know for sure if those coins were Ptolemaic (Egyptian) or Athenian (Greek) tetradrachms, Tyrian (in today's Lebanon) shekels or Antioch (Greek) staters, we can make a rough evaluation based on their actual weight and purity (isn't it ironic?).

Ready?

In 2024's value (based on the current JP Morgan's quotation of 30 USD/ounce), Judas Iscariot sold Jesus for an something that varies between 97,8 USD (if reward was received in Ptolemaic tetradrachms) to 472,8 USD (if the reward was received in Athenian tetradrachms). The median and geographically more plausible amount being of about 325,5 USD (for Antioch staters) or 380,7 USD (for Tyrian shekels).

I don't know about you, but what sickens me is the complete ludicrousness of this all. Think about what these money could buy in your respective worlds: would you do it?

Rhetorical question, of course. What is at stake, here, is not money. It's Power, in its political, appallingly punitive dimension the Romans called imperium, as opposed to the organic, ethical dimension they called auctoritas (and which we would translate by 'prestige' or 'influence'). With this deal, Judas hopes to save his life, soul be damned. Only to lose both, in complete, endless dishonor.

The day's somber and reflective sounds come from François Couperin's Première leçon de ténèbres pour le Mercredi saint (1714). Couperin was the Sun King's favorite harpsichordist and as such, was commissioned to arrange into music Jeremiah's lamentations, for the Holy Week liturgies of the Longchamp Royal Abbey. In a Baroque universe filled with light and joy and levity, these are the most dejected sounds perhaps ever written:

PS: I will try to catch up tonight. Pinky promise and thank you all for your patience (I never thought you'd like these, but here we are - still, the topic is a very difficult one, don't you think?).