#so saccharine your teeth hurt. but it's true you love him and it feels the way all the old songs said it would.....

[jimmyspades]

[brionbroadway]

“Princess, is it your time to rest? Or do you want your story to continue?”

Rosamund is glad to be asked.

This is what she wants: a chance to write her own story outside of the narrative that’s planned for her. She is not ready to rest--she already rested for a hundred fucking years--and true love is no longer an option. It must be something else; there has to be something else for her to choose. She will take her scrap of a page and discover what it is.  

“I don’t think it’s my time to rest.”

“Then I think—”

She feels the briars before she sees them, wrapping around her heart the way she guaranteed a lover never would. With each pulse of her heart, the briars pierce it.

But her heart must be stronger than everything than every piece of Thumbelina, because she splits in half.

“I take it back!” Rosamund yells. “I take it back!”

“Oh, my dear Rosamund.”

The voice comes from a briar that’s coiled itself into her ear. It’s unrecognizable as any individual fairy, but it drips with both the saccharine sweetness and depraved wickedness Rosamund has realized they all possess.

“You cannot take a choice back, my girl. This is why you should have trusted the ending that was written for you.” The voice tuts, a disapproving parental figure that never gave Rosamund anything but rules. “Your gifts did not come without a curse. You have sacrificed the one condition that would break it. You have rejected rest. What did you think was left for you, Sleeping Beauty?”

Rosamund tries to use her own voice, but a briar invades her mouth and replaces her smile. Its teeth are sharper than her own.

“Oh, I know what’s that like.”

The voice in Rosmaund’s heads changes, a conspiratorial older sister like she tried to be Red. The briars morph into thick strands of golden hair.

“It’s a shame we never got to talk.” Rapunzel’s voice comes from everywhere her hair touches.  “We have a lot in common. Locked away, someone else claiming to know what’s best for us, unable to make our own choices…”  

The briars spin, like hair being twirled around a finger.

“But when we did write our own story, we gained power. I know it hurts, Rosamund. I know it may not seem like it, but my hair hurts too. It chokes me, and restrains me, but more importantly than any of that, it keeps me safe—”

She’s cut off, because Gerard is eating Rapunzel on the battlefield. Her voice returns, hoarse from screaming. It sounds the way her hair feels in Rosamund’s throat.

“He will consume all of you, Rosamund. He has already done so to Elody in their marriage, though she does not recognize that. You must him put him to sleep.”

Rosamund cannot see a prince on the battlefield, only a monster. 

Suddenly, the hair transforms into chains.  

“Hello, my love.”

The deep, cruel voice of the Baron of Bricks feels like the weight of the chains on Rosamund’s skin. It comes from the ones trapping her heart into beating.

“I know, of course, that I am not your true love,” he says. “I know you will not get that. But, I do believe we have more in common than either of us first thought. You have rejected death, and I respect that, but I must warn you that it will not last as long as Death is around. She just took a Beast. She can certainly take a Princess.”

Rosamund cannot see a girl on the battlefield, only The Big Bad Wolf.

“If you need to put her in a stew, I have a recipe. Otherwise, you have all the tools you require. You must put her to sleep.”

The chains drop, but Rosamund is quickly snatched up by sharp claws. The Baba Yaga runs them down her face, her neck, and finally stops at the same wrists she considered feasting on. Her voice comes from the wounds she created.

“Thank you, Princess, for your gift. I am taking good care of your true love. He is only feeling the pain you would have caused each other after happily ever after.”

She cackles, and it infects the wounds.

“You made a wise choice in putting him to sleep.”

The claws release Rosamund, and the briars consume her again. Slowly, a pattern appears on them that represents a kind of evil she still had not accepted existed.

“I am sorry my son could not keep you safe, Rosamund. You do not need to worry about punishing him for that; I assure you I will take care of it.”

The Stepmother’s voice sounds like Rosamund’s own thoughts.

“Sleeping Beauty, I know what it’s like to have a role assigned to you. But, I also know what it’s like to edit the story. We can change this together. You can make your own choices, just as you wished. Put them all to sleep, Rosamund, and we will write the stories this world deserves.”

There is no happy ending for Rosamund. Only what must be done in this room.

[iriswords]

Febuwhump Day 7 - Made to watch

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw:  physical torture, emotional torture and manipulation, mention of past child abuse

Fandom: Avatar the last airbender

Words: 2242

Zuko should have known Azula would show up and ruin everything. He should have anticipated it. It's what she always does. But he hadn't even thought about it, and now she has them captured, still within the prison walls. At her mercy. And Agni knows Azula does not have mercy.

--

Azula arrives before they ever get the chance of reaching the gondola. Zuko should have known it would happen. In true Ozai fashion, his sister has always had a knack for ruining things for him.

It could have been a match, maybe. Azula, Mai, and Tai Lee, against the five of them. On a good day, they could have won. But Suki is busy with the Warden, and Zuko is still weakened by the lingering effects of the freezer. Azula and her friends are, as always, on top form. It is laughable, how quickly they beat all five of them, even once Suki lets go of the Warden, and joins the fight.

Azula’s hands burn his wrists as she handcuffs them. He grits his teeth at the familiar pain, willing himself to keep his head high. She pushes him ahead of her, back into the prison building, until they reach a wide, windowless room. Zuko’s knees crack on the hard floor when Azula forces him down in the center of the room. Upon her orders, his four escape companions, Sokka, Suki, Hakoda, and Chit Sang, are brought into the room and made to kneel by the right wall. The door closes behind the guards, leaving only the six of them in the room.

Zuko doesn’t like how isolated from the others he is. Doesn’t like that he’s kneeling and Azula is towering above him, lips curled into a wicked smile, palm ablaze with blue fire. It reminds him of a far too similar scene three and a half years ago. His scar burns with memories, and his lungs constrict with remembered fear.

“You didn’t actually think you would manage to escape the most secure prison in the world, Zuzu, did you?” asks Azula, her voice saccharine. She reaches out for his face, and Zuko recoils back so hard he nearly loses his balance and falls onto his back. He can feel his father’s hand cupping his face. Phantom fire sears through his skin.

Amusement dances in Azula’s eyes. “Answer me,” she orders.

“It would have worked,” says Zuko. And he knows it is true. It would have worked if only Azula hadn’t been there. There are two constants in Zuko’s life. One, no matter what he does, he will get hurt. Two, no matter what he does, Azula is better than him. Once again, those two constants are proving themselves true.

“You forget you have always been a failure, Zuzu,” counters Azula. “You were there with them, of course it was doomed to fail.”

Zuko clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms. This is what Azula does. She finds what he is vulnerable about and uses it to pick him apart. It isn’t personal. She does it with everyone; it is her way of protecting herself. It does not mean she hates him.

(There are three things Zuko can’t manage to convince himself of, three statements he has doubted ever since he was banished. One, that it was cruel and it was wrong. Two, that he is loved. Three, that Azula doesn’t hate him.)

“And failure, just like disobedience, demands punishment,” continues Azula. She leans in until her lips are next to his ears. He wills himself not to flinch away. “Leaving was your mistake, dear brother.” She spits the word ‘brother’ the way she would an insult. “And what do we do with mistakes? We punish them.” She straightens up, and for a moment, Zuko can see right through the cracks in her mask. He sees the fourteen-year-old girl she is, the girl who was abandoned by her mother and brother, the girl who believes herself to be a monster. The girl who struggles to survive and thrive under the rule of a true monster.

He does not regret leaving. He regrets leaving her behind.

“But I am feeling merciful,” adds Azula, which is probably the most ridiculous lie she has ever told, and Azula always lies. She does not know how to be merciful for she was never taught how to be. “Thus, I will let you choose who will bear the punishment, Zuzu. You can choose one of your companions.” Her mouth twists with disgust at the word ‘companions’. “Or you can bear it yourself.”

Zuko closes his eyes. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him. It is not a hard decision to make. What is harder, is knowing he will once again be subjected to pain at the hand of a loved one. Of family.

“Me,” he says and looks Azula straight in the eyes. She knew his answer already, but delight shines in her eyes nonetheless. His companions protest loudly but he shakes his head, not daring to meet their eyes. “Better me than you,” he tells them. His words do nothing to quiet their protests.

“Let me take it, kid,” he hears Hakoda say. “I’m an adult.” But so is Zuko. He hasn’t been a kid in a long, long time. And he will not let anyone else pay for a mistake that is his only.

“Do it,” he tells his sister.

Azula does not move. She cocks her head and stares at him.

“No,” she says eventually. “I have changed my mind.” Zuko’s blood runs cold. Of course, she has. It was a trap, wasn’t it? Everything is always a trap in this family.

Azula turns to his four companions lined up against the wall. “I don’t think it will be much fun to torture you,” she continues. “You do not care for physical pain. Did it make you feel good to sacrifice yourself? Did it give you the idea that you had atoned for your crimes?” She takes a step forward and grabs Sokka by the hair.

“No!” yells Zuko, but Azula ignores him and drags Sokka to the center of the room, so he faces Zuko. Sokka’s fear is bravely masked, but Zuko can see all of it anyway. It mirrors his own perfectly.

Azula’s eyes bore into her brother. “Don’t you know that you cannot escape your past? You will always be Fire Nation. You think these peasants will love you if you pretend to help them? You think you will fool them with your pathetic act?” Zuko shakes his head, but his mask is slipping.

It is what Azula does, he tells himself. It isn’t personal. Except it sounds very, very personal. He hurt her when he left. And now she is hurting him back. She wants to destroy him, to make him pay for daring to leave her with their monster of a father. Or perhaps she feels threatened by him, perhaps she cannot bear the idea of being confronted with what she has done and does not want to atone for.

“Please,” he tells her. “Torture me. Not him. Not any of them. You said it yourself; it was my mistake. Punish me all you want. Kill me, even, if that is what you deem an appropriate punishment. But don’t touch them.”

Cold fury deforms Azula’s face. “Is this what you are willing to endure for them? You wouldn’t stay for me, but you are willing to die so they don’t suffer?” Her laugh is glacial, an attempt at masking her pain. “You are more of a traitor than I thought, Zuzu. You don’t deserve to die thinking you did a good thing. You deserve to watch them suffer and curse you for every mistake you have ever made. Because it is those mistakes that led you all to this point. It is your fault, and what is a better punishment than to let others take the pain for you?”

Zuko throws himself at Azula, but she effortlessly sends him crashing farther into the room, away from Sokka and her, away from Hakoda, Suki, and Chit Sang. Azula faces them all. “Try something like that again, and the Water Tribe boy dies. Slowly and painfully.”

Sokka meets Zuko’s eyes and offers him a small, trembling smile. Hot tears burn Zuko’s good eye. He does not deserve the friendship of someone as kind as Sokka.

“Tell me, Zuzu,” says Azula, “what would you be willing to do to save this one?”

“Anything,” he answers in a breath. His heart pounds violently against his ribcage.

Azula’s smile turns calculating. “Even come back home?”

Zuko’s breath catches in his throat. Come back home. Except it isn’t home. It is the place of all the abuse he has suffered, it is a place promising more abuse. Ozai won’t grant him the sweet mercy of a quick and painless death. He will drag it out for months, maybe even years. He will make sure Zuko understands how worthless he is, he will make sure Zuko regrets ever being born before killing him.

“Yes,” he answers.

Azula laughs. “Too bad you already left, then, Zuzu. What is done cannot be undone.” In a second, her movements so fast Zuko can barely track them, Azula sends Sokka sprawling on his back and slams her foot on his outstretched leg. The sinister crack of bone breaking is drowned out by Sokka’s sudden, strangled cry of pain. Opposite to Zuko, Hakoda struggles against his restraints, his face tight with anger. One warning glare from Azula is enough to calm him down, but his eyes are still alight with fury.

“What use will you be,” Azula asks Sokka, “if you cannot fight? You are a warrior, aren’t you? Should I break the other ankle to make sure you can never take part in a battle?”

Tears stream down Sokka’s face as he clenches his teeth against the pain. Zuko can see the doubt and grief waging a war against his hard-won confidence. He wants to shout at him that Azula lies, that it is all she ever does. That he is useful even if he cannot fight, that it does not matter if he is useful at all because people will still love him.

It goes on for what feels like hours. Azula plays with Sokka’s broken ankle for some time before grabbing his hand and slowly, meticulously burning each of his fingertips. Sokka’s ragged screams of pain eventually die down to choked-out sobs. Tears leak from both Hakoda’s and Suki’s eyes. Zuko has not stopped crying since Azula started.

Azula plays with Sokka’s mind, too, as she tortures him. Brings out all his insecurities, all his feelings of worthlessness, and exacerbates them. And Sokka listens and believes her, rendered pliant by pain.

The door of the room opens, eventually, slowly and silently. If Azula notices, she does not acknowledge it. Mai and Ty Lee enter the room, weapons drawn out. Zuko meets Mai’s gaze for a split-second, before one of her knives flies out from her hand, catching Azula in the arm. Ty Lee lunges at her friend at the same moment, wasting no time in pressing onto the chi points she knows so well.

“What are you doing?” Azula screams before she goes down, and Zuko’s trained ear catches the raw pain of the betrayal in her voice. Ty Lee’s cheer has been replaced by grief.

“I’m sorry, Azula,” the girl whispers. “But this isn’t okay.”

Ty Lee and Mai make quick work of uncuffing them. Hakoda runs to his son’s side as soon as his hands are free, hushed reassurances falling from his lips.

“Thank you,” Zuko says as Mai frees him from the cuffs. “You should leave, too.”

Mai shakes her head. “We’ll hold her back. Try to talk some sense into her.”

Zuko snorts wetly. “Good luck with that.” He turns and glances at Sokka, huddled in his father’s arms. Guilt devours his stomach.

Later, on the balloon they have stolen from Azula, Hakoda comes to Zuko as he is maintaining the fire.

“He’ll be okay,” says Hakoda when he sits down. “Katara will be able to heal him, and we’ll all be there to help him recover.”

“That’s good,” replies Zuko awkwardly. He barely dares to glance at Hakoda. Why is the man here? If he wants to punish him, it would be smarter for all their sakes to wait until Zuko is no longer the one ensuring the balloon stays up in the air.

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Hakoda gently. It feels like a trap. “You couldn’t have prevented that.”

Zuko laughs bitterly. Tears sting in his eyes. He didn’t think he’d still have enough water in him to cry after the waterfall he shed in that cursed room. “Azula was right, though. If I’d just stayed in the palace…”

“Then we’d have one less ally, and today’s outcome would have been worse. I would have been captured anyway, and Sokka would have come to get me out. He survived because you were there.”

Zuko curls in on himself. “I abandoned her. It’s why she was so angry today.”

Hakoda tentatively pulls him into his side. Zuko doesn’t resist, despite the primal fear nestled in his stomach. “Sometimes we have to make hard choices,” says the older man. “You did what you thought was best. It doesn’t mean your choice doesn’t come with consequences or that the situation is perfect. It means you did what you thought was right. For yourself and for others. And I think that shows you are a good person, no matter what your sister said.”

The dam gives way to the tears again. This time, someone is there to support him as he breaks.

@febuwhump

[father-time-and-baby-new-year]

Would it be to much to ask for a Eren scenario where both he and the reader are both equally toxic, manipulative and possessive over eachother but both just cannot let the other go to the point where even when they reunite when Eren escapes the survey corps he asks her to tell him if anyone else whether it was the army or the jeagerists, if they had touched her even if it was just to escort her which she just nods and refuses to tell him any names cuz she likes to see him riled up by her having been "corrupted" and seeing how with a single act she can have him on edge and he falls for her even more by her devious and selfish wiles to have him get irritated and angry but only to end up wanting more of her charms.

Just some good dark angtsy feels all around🖤

A/N: just a little drabble. i've never done canon-verse stuff for AOT so this was fun to try. thank you sending this ask. i did deviate from your ending a little bit so im sorry <3

Warning: AoT Season 4 Spoilers, extreme possessive behavior, toxic relationship, anger issues, gaslighting/manipulating

Eren can feel himself getting restless. Hange had been getting on his nerves. He was the literally the only reason they had secured their victory against Marley on multiple fronts. She and the rest of the fucking Survey Corps should be bending over backward in gratitude.

He cracks his knuckles although he had no need to, wanting to focus on a physical sensation. His thoughts eventually circle back to you. He misses you sorely.

In Marley, there was this kind child Falco. Eren could say he felt guilty for manipulating the poor boy. But that's not true. He's shed that part of humanity a long time ago. All's fair in war after all.

The fair-haired boy was worried about his friend, didn't want a certain special someone of his to become titanized.

Is this other candidate a girl?

Eren had asked. Because he could relate to the Marelyan child. There was a girl he was trying to protect too, who he'd raise hell over, who he'd destroy the world for.

The dark-haired boy can feel himself grow restless. There are a million things to do. Coups to start. Militia to gather. A brother to manipulate. A world to ruin.

But first, he needs to see you. It's already been so long. He had barked orders to Floch to make sure you were safe and secure. If any hair off your pretty little head was misplaced-well no one wants to witness the rage of the Founding Titan's holder.

CRASH

The ground shakes. Eren closes his eyes and lets the Warhammer titan's power course through his veins. Foolish to think any prison could ever hold him.

He's walking uphill. The sunset bathes the land in vibrant pinks, oranges, and light violets. There is a crowd of people standing tall and at attention, postures rigid, save for one.

You hurl towards him at the speed of light and twice the fury, wrapping your arms around his neck. If Eren wasn't six feet of hard muscle, he would have been knocked off his feet from the vigor of your crushing embrace.

"Eren!" You cry out.

The attack titan vessel is too shocked to respond. He's been anticipating your presence for the longest but to finally feel you in the flesh and to smell your soft pretty scent was sending him into overdrive. He couldn't believe you were tangible and not some hauntingly beautiful apparition.

He wraps his arms around you, enveloping your body in his warmth, and you rest your head in the crook of his neck. He feels your nimble fingers toying with his hair.

"I like this new look. It suits you." You mummer.

"Like me without a shirt too?" Eren teases.

He forgot how easy it was to be himself around you, to joke and laugh like he wasn't planning a global genocide of epic proportions. No, even that's an understatement. His goal was an omnicide, utter annihilation. Only Paradis will be left after the ashes settle. A Paradis with you.

"What are you thinking about?" You ask, eyes wide with an untouched innocence that Eren doesn't know how you still possess. All of that eager wide-eyed optimism had been snuffed out from all of his friends. From him. But you, you don't change like the seasons or winds. You're you.

And that was going to be his ruin.

After the Yeagerists brief him on what happened with Zackley and Zeke Yeager's possible whereabouts, Eren gives into his overwhelming urges to see you.

He approaches your chambers, trying to conceal his impatience with soft knocks. You don't answer which irritates him, so he knocks louder and louder, the sound of his fist banging against the door sounding like thunderclaps.

Where the fuck are you? Were you with someone right now? He knew you were getting a little too friendly with Floch from the way you guys were talking at dinner. It was so obvious. He's been gone, for what, a few months and you're already whor-

The door opens and exposes a sleepy-looking girl whose rubbing one of her eyes. Admittedly, very adorable.

"Eren" Your voice is saccharine, "Do you need anything?"

He lets himself in, and shuts the door behind him, locking it in place.

"I don't usually lock the door," You pout but there's a playfulness in your expression that Eren would have noticed had he not been consumed by rage.

"What? So you let anyone in?" He asks, nearly snarling out the words. as he stares scandalized at your slip of a nightgown. A pale translucent pink that reached the middle of your thighs. He could even make the outline of your nipples poking through.

"No, silly." You giggle, twirling the hem of your dress, "Floch's security measure." You pretended not to notice how Eren's fist clenches.

"Is that so?" Eren said, words spoken between gritted teeth. As long as Eren was here, there need be no concerns over security measures. But he knew Floch. The ginger worshipped the ground Eren walked on and would never make a move on you if he cared about his limbs staying intact.

You sat down on your bed and Eren couldn't help but watch your skimpy dress ride up your creamy thighs.

He stood over you, his form looming over yours as you sat on your bed, feet swinging above the ground.

"I wanted to ask you something."

You look up with those big childlike eyes, "Okay."

"Did. Anyone. Touch. You?" His voice is low and he punctuates each word slowly.

You blink "What do you mean?” But there’s a coy smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

"Quit playing dumb." He growls, anger evident in the crease between his eyebrows.

You're quiet for a still moment, mouth opening and closing. Eren's anxiety increases more each second and it finally boils over when you softly ask, "What kind of touch?"

Like a chess piece topping over, he shoves you down the bed, pinning your wrists with his strong hands.

Usually, Eren was smarter. Quicker to call you on your tricks. But alas, absence makes the heart fonder. You love making him lose his stoic composure, so lost in his lust and desire for you that all he can see crimson. And if the price for that is to play the fragile maiden, it is what it is.

"Ow." You pitifully whine, lightly shaking your right hand. Eren knew he wasn't holding you too hard so he experimentally thumbs over a certain spot on your right wrist, eliciting another small whimper. He brings your wrist closer to him and finds a purple bruise.

"Who touched you? Was is it any of the yeagerists?" His voice is deadly calm but an ice-cold rage simmers in his eyes. You can feel yourself growing excited, heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach. You’re rubbing your legs together for the friction but Eren assumes it a nervous tic to avoid answering any of his questions.

When you avert your gaze and simply look the side, he delicately cradles your cheek: “Was it the scouts?”

The delicate touch turns harsher when you don't respond, forcing your pretty head to look straight at him. He sees your eyes glistening, and when he looks into your dewy irises, he can see himself.

His voice drops a pitch, "Please tell me."

Your breathing is shallower and you can't help but enjoy this so much.

It's been so long since you've seen him-since you begged him not to go but he went anyway, and having him here right now--the pride and joy of the Eldian empire , the holder of the Founding Titan-unravel in your fingertips, well this was the closest to true power you've ever been.

Eren can feel his patience sleeping, anger seeping into his bones at your silence, and the bruise on your delicate wrist only serves to anger him further. He can't even do what he swore to do and that was to keep you safe.

"Are you not telling me who it is because you're protecting them?"

The words are delivered deadly calm with the tension of a brewing storm behind it. You're nervous, exactly aware of what your beau is capable of, but the excited kind of nervous where butterflies are swarming in your stomach.

Maybe you underestimated his anger because within a second, the telltale red lines start to form under his eyes, lightning bright sparks forming between each breath.

Without thinking, you envelop the back of his head with one arm (the other hand rendered useless bu the force of his hold), trying to bring his head into the softness your breasts.

Understanding your gesture, Eren immediately calms down and lets himself be smothered in your chest like a babe being cradled in his mother's warmth.

"There, there" you coo, words soft and melodious on your tongue.

You can feel wet-spots on your nightie, "Eren...are you-" you begin, not sure when to end.

His voice is tightly controlled as if not let his coiled emotions fuse again, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was about to hurt you." He sounds so broken, and all you can do is stroke his hair.

You press a kiss to his head. You know what the right words to say are. You should be comforting him and assuring him he could never hurt you.

Instead you stay silent, softly exhaling. He can't see the pleased smile on your face.

*

"Your wrist feeling any better?"

You whip up your head to see Floch whose peering down at you in slight concern. You must have looked confused because he elaborated, "The one you accidentally banged against the doorway. Looked like it hurt."

"Oh." You pause, looking down at the fresh set of finger shaper marks overtaking the fading violet.

You laugh airily, "Yeah it's alright."

[lizbotw]

it’s only sharing a disgustingly sweet milkshake at the local college town diner after both of your evening classes that suna graciously provides the answers to the math homework.

the spongy pencil eraser is easy for you to sink your teeth into as you puzzle over his handwriting. “you know,” you mumble around the nib, trying to figure out if that’s a 5 or a 6, “i never know why you do this to me every week.” this time the drink with two plastic straws floating in an unhealthy heaping of whip cream is a syrupy strawberry flavor.

rintarou tips forward to sip at one of them and in your peripheral, chunky pink-coated fruit pieces travel up the clear tube and disappear between his lips. he releases the straw with an annoying ah that makes you frown, even if you weren’t concentrating in the first place. “aw, don’t tell me you don’t like hanging out with me.” he feigns hurt.

a well placed sip of your own allows you to avoid having to answer that—you have a personal rule of never being sappy in the presence of calculus. if you didn’t like him, suna knows you wouldn’t be hanging out with him—there are just some things you can’t do, even if it’s for the sake of your grade. none of this has to be said out loud of course, but he decides to be annoying and ask anyway.

actually—well... maybe hanging out is... not exactly how this appears to bystanders.

sharing a drink like this, you two probably look more like a couple on a (terribly cheap) afternoon date, rather than two broke college students that split meals to save money and believe that sharing answers for homework isn’t cheating, it’s collaboration.

ha, as if it would ever be different—things like the former never come true. maybe in movies, but that’s about where the line is drawn.

as if he knows what you’re thinking, suna raises an eyebrow at you over the glass, a smile playing on his lips—the same stupid look he always gives you. it feels particularly worse this evening.

it’s hard to avoid eye contact with him mere inches away, but you manage when a car painted a very interesting shade of red rumbles past the fingerprint covered window. you’re grateful for the distraction.

the subject changes when you realize suna has terrible taste when it comes to ordering milkshakes. “what flavor is this?” you spit out the word as though the very concept of calling this a real flavor is more disgusting than the drink itself, smacking your lips and screwing up your face at the excessively saccharine, artificial strawberry aftertaste.

this is no ordinary strawberry milkshake. no, this is a so-bad-only-suna-rintarou-would-order-something-this-horrible-(and-not-necessarily-on-purpose-either) strawberry milkshake.

“valentine’s valor,” he states matter-of-factly like those words mean anything to you. you stare at him until he elaborates. “their valentine’s special,” he clarifies and is gifted with a sarcastic thumbs-up from you in thanks—it is pointedly ignored and suna slings an arm over back of his seat. “dunno the exact flavor though. forgot.”

it tastes like the embodiment of pink, you decide. valentine’s valor. what a stupid name. there are a million and one better words that start with v... you can name at least five with a little thinking. you should ask them to hire you as part of their marketing team, you decide.

maybe it’s fitting title though. you certainly need valor to even think about taking another sip of that... concoction—which you do because you are obsessed with getting your money’s worth.

“valentine’s day was half a week ago?” your mental calendar helpfully supplies.

the clatter of pans in the back kitchen somehow mingles charmingly with the way rintarou throws his head back to laugh—a scene straight out of a movie really. you decide you hate him in the moment. “right you are. want a prize?” ugh. you stick your tongue out at his tone.

great. as if to add insult to injury, of course you’re sharing an out-of-date love holiday special with suna of all people. valentine’s was four days ago and this is where you are on a thursday night. the sticky upholstery of the booth seat, ripped and fraying at the corners, squeaks and groans and attaches itself to the fabric of your jeans as you shift around, suddenly hot. what a strange situation to be in, you think. this has to be a metaphor for life—then again, you’d been thinking this whole... thing has been a metaphor anyway.

yup, ever since suna sat next to you in a calculus II lecture all those fated months ago and took pity on how much you fucking sucked at math, up until the present where he takes slightly less pity on you but does enjoy emptying your dorm mini-fridge and making you pay for his milkshakes—all of it. this entire thing with him. one big stupid metaphor.

the specifics of how you came to have a routine like this are certainly murky, but two things are for certain—one, your calculus grade is certainly a lot better than it would have been otherwise, and two, you have one friend more than you did at the start of the school year. (that last one is kind of a big deal, you think. the college social scene is brutal. the word friend has started to become more disappointing than exhilarating lately though.)

rin reaches to your left to pick at the fries you’d ordered as a side—you’ve learned not to try and stop him. “also,” he adds, mouth full, “you’re totally getting me a new pencil after this.” yes, true, the pencil you’re currently leaving frustrated teeth marks all over isn’t yours. very easy to forget in the moment. you’ve probably destroyed 15 of his pencils by now for the 15 weeks of the last semester—only 7 so far for the current one. you do the mental math.

instead of drawing in the sharp lines of the differential equation that should be going in the question box, you lightly trace in the curves of a 2 and then another one next to it in the corner of the worksheet, graphite underlining them both in one swoop. the horribly thin paper of the school library’s printer is scratchy as you write but soon you flip the pencil over and under your fingers to tap the eraser (that has seen better days) just below what you wrote. “this is pencil number 22.”

suna leans over to look at the number as if you hadn’t just told him what it said. what an idiot. “glad you’re keeping count.” he settles back into his seat. “when can i expect my reimbursement?”

“you’re funny,” you say, without a hint of humor in your voice. the pretty 22 you had written now has flower petals growing off of the sides as you get distracted doodling along the edges of your work. it’s quiet for a moment as he watches you, or maybe as he takes the chance while you’re distracted to shove more french fries down his throat—either option is plausible and you don’t lift your eyes to check.

something occurs to you.

“rin.” you take an extended pause in between the words as you continue drawing, just to annoy him. you don’t continue speaking until he grumbles in acknowledgment (you try to hide your smile). “do you ever doodle in your notebooks?” now that you thought about it, suna was surprisingly pretty straight-laced when it came to class—you couldn’t ever recall him ever slacking off to the degree that meant his pages were filled with hearts and stars and flowers and suns and atomically inaccurate animals and tiny people in different colored ink. your work was always certainly the more vibrant out of the two (perhaps that could explain your grades and how you understand like... nothing in your lectures, but you decide correlation does not equal causation).

“waste of time,” he says around another mouthful of fries, another one already halfway there to his mouth.

suna is also surprisingly negative at times—but the blue book flipped open to his homework says maybe he’s just a liar though. you squint at it.

“it’s still pretty early but we probably should get out of here soon,” suna says, pulling his phone out from his pocket to check the time and leaning his elbows on the table. “i’ll walk you back. your roomie doesn’t leave the gym until 9—before you ask, yes i’ve been keeping track. it’s not stalking if it’s for my own sake.”—rin is, of course, referring to the long standing rivalry between him and your (very nice, might you add) roommate you don’t really understand but which has cumulated in him deciding he would avoid them as much as humanly possible purely out of spite. (“the only person i like in dorm 302 is you,” he’d told you one time and the throwaway sentence maybe made your heart flutter more than it probably should’ve.)

the bell above the front door jingles behind you as another patron enters. rin glances up at the sound and then returns to his phone with a bored bat of his eyes, probably scrolling through twitter or replying to texts, and picking at his teeth with a toothpick (where did he even get that?).

you try to get back to work (copying) but something in your gut tells you there’s more to his notebook than the messy handwriting and crossed out words that meet the eye.

with suna distracted, you take the chance to carefully slide the book towards you and then, in a single quick swipe, pull it into your lap under the table, already leafing to the back pages—everyone knows that’s where the real secrets are—not sure what to expect. a flash of color makes you pause and you flip back to a page that has the corner folded into a tiny, crisp triangle.

whatever you were thinking suna had stashed in the back of his calculus notebook certainly does not match up with what’s staring you in the face currently. sparkly, gel-inked hearts in neon colors glitter under the fluorescent overheads. in each of them, written in capital letters neater than you thought possible for suna, is your initials, a small plus sign in the middle, and then S.R. (for none other than suna rinatoru) next to it. it instantly makes sense to you. “rin, what the fuck.” one side of the book dangles from your hand, pages fluttering, and you hold it up for him to see, other hand flying to cover your mouth because you don’t know whether to laugh or pretend to be mortified or what.

it’s very amusing to watch how suna goes from a disinterested stare, to widened eyes, to reaching over the heaps of school supplies to attempt to grab the book from you, frantic. you hold it just out of reach. “what are you—” an old lady at a table shushes him when he half-screams. “—give that back,” suna whisper-yells instead in the greatest verbal equivalent of tiny caps you’ve ever heard.

“not a chance.”

he looks like he wants to lunge across the table and pry his prized possession from your meddling hands, but also has half the mind not to make a scene. getting kicked out and then subsequently banned from his favorite diner all on a noise complaint and disorderly conduct accusation was not ideal.

you hum, flip back to your place, and observe the drawings covering the lined pages. you shoot him a venomous smirk over the edge of the cover, one that’s more theatrics than anything, and say with all the satisfaction of someone who knows they have all the power, “oh, this is gold.” he deflates and you feel grateful he doesn’t see right through your facade because oh man are you sweating inside right now. what the fuck? no way suna rintarou is drawing little hearts with both of your initials in it like a lovesick middle schooler. no fucking way. you almost want to tell him that you did the same thing once when the thoughts about him had gotten especially bad (you felt guilty afterwards though, thinking you never had a chance with him, but... now... if he’s doing the same—well, that kind of changes everything).

suna is utterly defeated you think—doesn’t even try to defend himself, just slumps in his seat with a groan. you at least expected a “i can explain!” from him, a last attempt at dignity, not the resigned “i’m never going to live this down, am i?” he mumbles after a few seconds. well, either works for you.

“nope,” you quip, maybe a little too cheerfully because the response you receive is a distressed wail and him banging his head against the table. the old lady shushes him again. you chuckle at that (it feels a little wobbly though because once again, freaking out here) and flip the page. you stop.

this one has similar perfect little hearts drawn all over it, but there are other things. cute, standard shaky drawings of misshapen dogs and volleyballs and other things you never thought suna would take it upon himself to create but all of which make sense are there. but there’s something else. little scribbles in the corners with your last name swapped with his and even him trying out his name with your last one—all of them are scratched out but not so much you can’t read them. a list on the right in a very tiny font that makes you think he was embarrassed even penning the words is titled “date ideas?” (the question mark is in red and the dot is a heart) and has several popular spots around town written down in the local lingo of unofficial names for them.

“listen... please let’s forget about this.” rin’s voice is muffled and he’s still faceplanted. “it’s fine if you don’t... you know... yeah.” if you don’t feel that way, he means. true, the doodles were a pretty good indication of his feelings.

what to do...

well... you take pity on him, let your lips upturn and your eyes soften to reflect the sentiment, and shut the book with a quiet thud. you slide it back across the table from where it came and back to him silently. you give it a resounding pat when suna peeks up at you, expression saying it all—he was so going to get you back for this. you stick your tongue out—acceptance of the challenge. and just like that, you’re friends again—maybe that’s what’s so great about suna.

as you get ready to leave and slowly begin the trek back to the dorm buildings with him, street lamps glimmering a pasty yellow, there’s no awkward tension, no need to ask questions, no verbal wonderings about what ifs between you two. it’s just joking and shoving each other around and challenges to see who can run to the next tree the fastest in the middle of the chilly february night. you know, maybe for now you’ll keep your own thoughts a secret.

[nightshade-minho]

-The One-

Warnings: very very mild knifeplay, unprotected sex, oral (m. receiving), fingering, creampie, light navel play, tiny mention of blood, rituals, themes of witchcraft + demons, jealousy, sir kink, master kink, threesome, aftercare.

Felix × fem!Reader × Minho

Wc: 3k

Note: I stayed up all night writing this and was half-asleep so I apologize for any mistakes or incoherencies. Regardless, I’m quite proud of this fic hehe, and I’d love some feedback on it~

You could barely breathe. The feeling of his cock stretching you out as you sat on his lap, combined with the heady feeling of the knife's tip pressed against your skin was driving you insane with arousal.

"Such a pretty one you are...we don't usually get customers like you."

You scrunched your eyes shut, not wanting to make eye contact with him. His smirk, his golden eyes that gleamed with confidence...it would all make you even more nervous than you already were.

"Sir...p-please don't hurt me."

"Tsk. I won't, princess. Not yet." He shifted you on his lap, causing his tip to rub up against your sweet spot. You let out a soft moan as he did so, your eyes slowly opening and drifting down to the shiny steel pressed against your torso.

"Will it...will it hurt?"

He gently dragged the knife upwards, eyes fixed on you. He wasn't applying any pressure, and the blade itself wasn't very sharp...but it still sent tingles through you.

"Not really. If you're a good girl for us, it won't. The ritual is a very short one, and doesn't have many side effects."

"Okay...wait, us?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. My boss. He'll be here soon, don't worry. He's a busy man. I take care of the shop when he's not here."

"Oh...so you're like, his assistant?"

"Mmhm. You could say that. He doesn't pay me, though." He mutters, expression faltering for a second. The smirk slowly returned though, as he dragged the steel gently up between your breasts, pausing.

"Why...w-why do you work here, then?"

"He's family. My older brother,to be exact."

"O-oh..."

"Yup. In fact, enjoy my leniency while you can. I can assure you, my brother is a lot more..."

He sighed, poking the tip into your skin lightly, but not enough to draw blood.

"Sadistic."

You gulped as Felix suddenly started thrusting up into you, his hips gaining a newfound vigor. You groaned, throwing your head back as he hit your sweet spot again.

You never thought you'd end up like this...A few weeks ago, you were living your life like any other college student.

When winter break came along, you'd been more than excited to get back to your hometown...the place you'd grew up in. One of the first things you did was visit the woods, searching for the tree house you'd made when you were about 10 years old.

Of course, you hadn't expected to see a cottage where your tree house had formerly been. On hindsight, it probably wasn't a good idea to knock.

You hadn't expected to see a cute boy open the door, either.

Felix, he said his name was.

The cottage wasn't a house after all...it was more of an eccentric little shop, the shelves lined with curious looking bottles and dusty books.

You'd definitely thought the man was cuckoo, especially when he started talking about witchcraft and rituals. He was undeniably hot, though...

One thing led to another and here you were a few days later, having sex with someone you barely knew. That someone also happened to talk an awful lot about demons and witchcraft. God, you were stupid to trust him.

"This ritual...what does it require, again? And there's absolutely no side effects?"

"Nope. All you want is revenge, correct? We can make that happen."

"Having sex with you is part of it, right?"

Felix laughed, taking his knife away and resting it on the table next to him. "Oh, you truly do hurt me. Here I was thinking you were having sex with me cause you wanted to." He adjusted himself in his chair, lifting you off his cock and turning you around.

He slowly eased you back down onto his length, groaning softly under his breath at your tightness.

"Look here. Intercourse with a virgin is stage one of the ritual, and semen also happens to be one of the ingredients." He said, pulling your back against his chest and lifting a finger, causing a dusty old book in the corner of the room to hover over.

You squinted at the page, the words registering itself in your brain.

"Wait...how did you know I'm a virgin?"

"It's glaringly obvious, doll."

You gritted your teeth, biting your lip as Felix let the book drop to the floor, his hands on your waist as he slowly started fucking up into you.

"Remember, you asked for this. You're the one who came here first. You gave me full consent to do this."

"I d-did."

"Mmhmm. Don't forget to tell Minho that. If he's not a corpse somewhere, that is...he usually isn't this late."

A shiver ran through you as Felix suddenly got up with you still on his cock, his fingers digging into your skin as he took you over to the window. He slid apart the heavy purple curtains with one hand.

"Ah...there he is."

You twisted your neck slightly. Eyes misty with arousal, you could barely make out the shadowy figure approaching. Felix's fingers on your chin forced you to face him again, his smile slightly unsettling.

"He's here. I'll remind you again. This was your choice."

"M-my choice..." You gulped as the door opened, the bells tinkling.

There was silence for a few minutes. Felix's form was blocking the figure in the shop. You made a sound of frustration as you craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious man, despite the fear enveloping your heart.

"Hm. What do we have here? Felix, I've told you before. Don't bring your playthings into the shop."

Felix turned around, taking you to the counter and setting you on the edge of it, still inside you. The new angle finally let you make eye contact with the man.

Oh, fuck. Almost immediately, you wished you hadn't looked at him. Yes, Felix was scary and slightly unnerving...but this man's aura was a whole new shade of intimidating.

You tried your best to break eye contact, but you couldn't. His stare was mesmerizing, and you almost drooled.

A sharp thrust from Felix snapped you out of your haze.

"She isn't a plaything. She's been coming here for the past week...keeping me company. It gets lonely here when you leave on your little trips, you know."

Minho frowned as he set down the mysterious looking packages he'd been holding, leaning on the heavy oak table. His eyes fell on the open book. He lazily regarded the pages, sighing.

Despite his indifferent expression, when he spoke, his tone was menacing.

"Have you been showing this girl the texts? Felix, you know we're not supposed to fraternize with the mortals. I've let you copulate with some of them, but I've told you time and time again...magic and elements of the otherwordly realm are far too complex for their puny brains to comprehend."

Felix sighed, turning slightly to face his brother but not slowing down. He kept thrusting into you, a hand grasping your breast and fingers gliding over your nipple as he spoke.

"That's just it! This human here is different from the others. For one, once she got over her initial shock and surprise, she even started reading the rituals herself and helping me out around the shop! In fact, that's what we're doing right now, enacting the Interfectorem Inimicus Ritual. She has a silly little rival she wants to get rid of."

Minho sighed, his eyes coming up to meet yours again. You looked away meekly, making a small smirk appear on his features.

Cute.

He rarely found mortals attractive...but this one right here might have to be an exception. Besides, if what Felix said was true, she was special. Maybe she wasn't even a mortal after all...

Minho needed to know if that was true. And there was only one way to find out.

He stalked over calmly, tapping Felix's shoulder.

"Give her to me."

"What?!" Felix's look of confusion mirrored yours.

"You heard me." His gaze drifted slowly to you, a finger sneaking out to trace your jawline. You unknowingly leaned into his touch, shivering at the feeling of his cold fingers.

"Hmm now, kitten...why exactly were you snooping about in the sacred texts?" His gaze was stern as he locked your eyes with his.

"I wasn't s-snooping-"

"Did Lixie here give you permission?"

"I, well...no..." You hated the way his intense stare was making you blurt out the truth, cheeks flushed. "I was just curious, that's all. So I read one of the b-books when he wasn't looking."

"Curious." Minho let go of your chin, chuckling. "Haven't you heard? Curiosity killed the cat." His eyes turned darker. "Although when it comes to this kitty, it might just be something else that leads to her demise..."

You swallowed, a fresh wave of arousal shooting through you as Minho smiled, saccharine sweet.

He glared at Felix, making him let go of you reluctantly.

"I'm going to fuck you now, kitten. Would you like that?"

You looked up at him. There was just something about him...his intensity, his demeanor...combined with his sharp beauty...he had you whiny and needy, keening in just seconds.

"Yes, Master, want you...want you so bad!" You mewled, just as Felix pulled out of you.

"Good girl."

In seconds, he gathered you in his arms, taking you over to the burgundy sofa in the corner of the room. "Now, let's do this ritual the right way, shall we? Felix, light some candles."

"Listen, brother, I really don't think this is a good idea and-"

"Do as I say."

Felix sighed, nodding as he went to gather some candles from the shelf. As he lit each one, his heart shuddered.

The two of them knew something you didn't.

Felix and Minho shared a demonic father, but had different mothers. Felix's mother happened to be human, while Minho's definitely wasn't. It was why Felix was able to have intercourse with humans without rendering them completely insane.

Minho, on the other hand...didn't possess even an ounce of humanity. He was draconian, otherworldly...

Felix glanced back, sadness taking over his features as he watched you, entranced as you stared at him.

He was worried you wouldn't last the night.

Minho leaned down, inhaling. He loved the way the human interacted to his touches, however featherlight they may be. He ran the tip of his fingers over your chin, down between your breasts. His fingers continued their descent until they reached your navel, his lust growing as he dipped his finger in, prompting a soft whimper from you. He fingered your navel gently for a few seconds, before he went even lower...finally reaching your clit.

If you were indeed human, you wouldn't be able to handle him or his cock. If you weren't, though?

The implications of it drove Minho giddy with excitement. He'd never had the pleasure of playing with someone as responsive and adorable as you were. Maybe you could even be his queen when he ascends his father's throne...

He shook his head, snapping himself out of his thoughts. First, he had to make sure of your origins. Then, he'd let himself daydream.

His fingers slowly pushed into your already dripping pussy, an appreciative groan leaving his lips as your soaking walls hugged his digits tightly.

Felix finished with the candles, his own erection growing impossibly harder as the lewd noises your pussy was making filled the room.

He turned, making his way to the sofa and glaring at his brother. He already harbored quite a bit of resentment for the older man, and this only served to deepen his hatred. Why did he have to steal away everything that was his?

Minho pulled his fingers out with a pop, sucking on his digits as he looked over at Felix. Your eyes opened halfway, registering Minho's naked form with some surprise. When did he remove his clothes? Then again, you knew the two men in the room didn't obey the same worldly rules you did.

Minho's eyes drifted down to Felix's erection, tutting under his breath.

"You know what...you can use her mouth, if you like."

Felix grumbled. It was better than nothing, but then again...He didn't want his brother to fuck you at all. Till now, you'd proven to be different from the usual human...most mortals couldn't even see their shop. However, he still felt that slight unease that came with not wanting to see you hurt. He'd only known you for a week but...deep inside, he didn't want to lose you.

Felix led his cock to your lips, eyes searching your lidded ones for discomfort. When he found none, he slid his length past your throat slowly, making you moan.

Minho's thick tip was rubbing at your folds. You could only feel the sensation of his head dragging up and down your slit...but it was more than enough for you to realize that he was bigger than everyone you'd ever had sex with.

When he finally pushed into you, you saw stars in your eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming...so sudden and potent that you screamed, Felix's eyes widening in concern as he pulled out.

"Are you okay?

"Y-yeah! For fuck's sake, it feels so gooooooood-" You choked out, clenching tightly around Minho's huge cock, his thrusts unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. It was almost satanic, the way he plunged into you repeatedly, stretching you out to your absolute limit.

Minho gritted his teeth as he gripped your waist tightly, his head thrown back in pleasure. "Fuck...ironic, but your pussy is heavenly, kitten..."

He moved you up and down his shaft, the feeling of your soft pussy opening up more and more with each stroke driving him crazed with lust. He'd never felt anything like this before.

"Felix, she's so fucking- shit....she's so fucking perfect-"

Felix frowned, sitting back as he watched. He couldn't help the envy from gripping his heart as he watched your pleasure-stricken face, your eyes rolling back in your head as Minho slid his girth deeper, hitting your sweet spot. He didn't want to stay any longer, but he couldn't help it. He really didn't want to leave you alone with his brother.

Minho drove into you faster as he felt his orgasm approaching, spurred on by the way you clenched tightly around him, clearly near your end as well.

"Kitten? 'M going to cum...going to fill your little pussy up..."

You whined, arching your back. "Can I cum, Master?"

He shook his head, growling as he rubbed your clit. "You'll cum when I tell you to."

Minho turned to the side as he kept abusing your pussy, his eyes landing on Felix...chuckling at his hand wrapped around his cock.

"Couldn't help yourself, could you?"

Felix let out a moan as he continued jerking himself off, standing up. He didn't care anymore...you looked so perfect like this, completely naked and at their mercy, mouth wide open and ready for him to use.

He came closer and shoved his cock down your throat roughly, not giving you time to adjust as he started fucking into you, his high close. You choked, caught off guard, but quickly got over it. Determined to be a good girl for them, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on Felix's cock desperately, even as you tried to stave off your orgasm.

His length twitched in your mouth, and before you knew it, you felt warm cum spurting down your throat. Felix groaned, pulling out slowly.

"Felix, now. Get my blade and the book."

"Wait, what?"

"She's the one. I can tell. Quick. We need to get her blood at the exact time she hits her high, or I won't be able to complete my ritual."

"Wait- no! This is Y/n's ritual, the one for her rival. It's lower magic. The one you want to do...Come on, brother! You have to think before making a decision like this, you can't just make her your bride...we have to get Y/n's permission, too-"

Minho growled, his eyes flashing red as he glared at Felix. "I'm not performing a wedding ritual or anything, brother. I'm simply preserving her essence-"

Felix shook his head. His heart was thudding- he'd figured it out too, just like his brother had. You weren't mortal. You were special...and that meant Minho wanted to find out what exactly you were.

He felt sick as he thought of you getting married to his brother. No. You belonged here on Earth, with your family and your friends-

With him.

Before he could react, Minho's hand had materialized the exact knife he wanted.

Encrusted with rubies and made of demonic steel, the blade was far sharper than the one Felix had been teasing you with before.

Minho let go of your waist to grab your hand, bringing it up to his face. His hips continued their assault, making you whine and whimper.

Half the things they said were making no sense, and you were scared and yet...aroused, at the same time. You didn't know what was going on, but you wanted to listen to the man above you. You wanted to do everything he said, wanted to be his little pet...wanted to be his. Your brain felt like it was slowly getting rid of all rationality, the feeling of his cock making you whine louder.

"Kitten...I'm going to make a tiny little cut, right here on your finger. Is that okay?"

You nodded desperately, and Minho smiled at you in approval.

"Cum."

You finally let go, the pleasure washing over you in a tidal wave as you shook, convulsing with electricity as Minho drove the blade into the tip of your finger just enough to let out a few drops of blood.

Felix reluctantly conjured up an empty potion vial, capturing the drop with ease.

Minho lifted your finger to his mouth, sucking on the digit and running his tongue over the wound repeatedly. The metallic taste of your blood was the final push he needed to cum, thrusting deeper as he spilled himself into you.

When he let go of your finger, all the pain had disappeared. You noticed your finger was healed...the skin just as clean and soft as it was before.

You whined as he pulled out, conjuring another vial to gather some of your mixed fluids that was leaking out from between your thighs. He yawned as he handed it to Felix, who corked it with a frown on his face, setting it next to the vial with your blood in it. He knew what Minho wanted to do...he wanted to perform a ritual with the vials, wanted to make sure you were the one for him. It wasn't a wedding ritual by any means...but it was a pre-requisite, and the thought saddened Felix. Maybe his feelings for you were deeper than he'd thought.

Slowly, Minho gathered you into his arms, patting your hair gently and kissing your forehead.

"You were a good kitten, Y/n. How are you feeling?"

"I'm f-feeling okay..."

Minho made a face of delight at Felix. "She can still talk and formulate sentences!" He mouthed, prompting a half-hearted smile from his brother.

"D'you want to cuddle?"

You pouted. "Mmhmm! But..I want Lix to come cuddle too."

Felix looked up at that, his eyes widening.

You still wanted him?

Minho met his eyes, giving him a small smile. "Sure, baby. Lix can come cuddle as well."

You grinned, looking over at Felix and making grabby hands. Giggling, the boy quickly dropped onto the couch, wrapping his arms around your torso and humming in content.

"You know..I don't mind sharing her." Minho whispered, his fingers still stroking your hair. "Really?" Felix asked, looking down at you.

"If she wants to be shared, that is."

"I don't mind!" You chirped. "Life is boring here, anyway. Where did you guys say you lived again?"

The two men shared a look.

Minho sighed as he stroked your hair. "I can't wait to introduce you to our dad."

"Your dad?"

"Yep! Don't worry, he's nice. And I think he'd like you."

You frowned slowly as you remembered something Felix had told you. Snippets of their conversation flashed through your brain as your stomach filled with something akin to dread and anticipation.

"Who did you say your dad was, again?"

"Oh, what? Ah, that doesn't really matter. He's just the king of the Underworld."

[forever-rogue]

Of Princes & Berries - Part 1

A/N: Yeah, so I have like zero self control, and I’m so deep in my Pedro feels and Oberyn is one of my og loves. In this family we throw canon out the window. Canon? I don’t know her. Anyways, this will probably be like 2-3 parts, y’all will get some sexy times, so hold tight. As always, feedback and comments are welcome, and if you’d like to be tagged, let me know! xx

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: slight language

PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

Popping a few of the fresh, succulent berries into your mouth, you received a tut and playful glare from the chef that was busy preparing various foods for feasts throughout the day. You gave him an innocent smile before putting a finger to your lips.

"Those are for the prince," he reminded you playfully, passing a jug of wine towards you, "those were imported just for him, best not eat them all."

"Oh relax," you gently bumped him with your hip as you loaded everything onto your serving tray, "our esteemed guest won't be missing a few of them. Besides, these are so much mode delicious than the ones we have here. Ours are so lackluster and have no flavor. These are practically bursting with juice and flavor. Maybe the best I’ve ever had!”

"Why do you think he specifically asked for them?" he turned back to the pot he was stirring, giving you a little sigh.

"Because he's the fucking prince of Dorne?" you started to lift the tray up to carry it to the gardens where he was no doubt waiting, "and he's got impeccable taste. Looks, taste, people throwing themselves at him left and right? What a life he leads.”

"Just make sure this gets out to him," he insisted and you gave him a small salute as you headed out of the dim kitchens, “and no detours to eat more berries!”

A small sigh escaped your lips as you stepped into the daylight and felt the sun's rays hit you and instantly warm you up. Everything felt lighter already. Most days in King's Landing were overcast and not this beautiful, at least not during this time of year, and you planned on taking full advantage of it. Perhaps later, when you were done with morning duties, you’d go and set by the sea for a while. It always relaxed something deep within you.

As soon as you spied the prince, staring out into sea, a smile grew on your face. You'd spoken to him a few times here and there, mostly in passing, since his arrival at King's Landing. He was a bright spot, a welcome interruption in our normally monotonous and drool days.

He always spoke to you in a kind manner, taking the time to ask your name, how you were doing, small things. But unlike most people in the court, he seemed genuine in his actions, kind even. He truly listened when you spoke, rather than just blowing you off.

As you approached him, a smile stretched across his handsome features when he realized it was you, causing a small flutter in your heart.

"Good morning, Y/N," he stood and offered you a small bow as you set the tray down on the table in front of him. It was a sign of respect; reverence. Proprietary would have you bowing to him, but he never was one for rules, "how are you on this fair day?"

"Your highness," you beamed at him, pushing a plate of berries at him, "I dare say my day has been much improved. What good luck it was that they sent me to serve you."

"Good fortune, even a wonderful twist of fate," he sat back and watched you intently, "or perhaps I made a simple request."

"A request," you raised an eyebrow as you sneaked a berry, which just made him chuckle at you. Normally, with almost anyone else, you'd never be so bold. But with Oberyn...it felt normal, right even, "you asked for me?"

"You sound surprised," he mused as you leaned against the table, trying to soak up as much sun as possible, "why does it surprise you so?"

"I don't know," you said quietly, "I just never thought I'd make that much of an impression on anyone. I prefer to pass by quietly, generally."

"You've made quite the impression on me, sweet girl," he said softly. You caught your bottom lip in between your teeth as his words fell over you, "I'll take every opportunity I can to look at that lovely face."

"You flatter me," but a content sigh escaped your lips nonetheless, "it is I who am in awe of your beauty, your highness. Surely."

“Now you’re just flattering me, fanning my ego like everyone else,” he waved his hand at you laughed at him, “I didn’t specifically ask for you just because you fall in line like everyone else.”

“I’m sorry then,” you playfully stuck your tongue out at him, “I shall never flatter you again. Nothing but complete honesty.”

“A simple request, no?” he teased, letting his fingers linger near yours. You studied his hands, the few scars that had marred the warm, tan skin. He was really was beautiful, such a sight to behold in your otherwise dreary life, “can I ask you something...perhaps too forward?”

“Yes,” permission was given without hesitation, and worry. Nothing about him worried in you in that sense. Sure, he was the Red Viper, deadly, feared, and brutal in his own way, but you saw past that...he was also kind, gentle, surprisingly soft spot and quick as a whip, “anything.”

“Have you been with a prince before?” 

“I’ve been with many men who call themselves all sort of things,” you shrugged your shoulders as you poured more wine into his goblet, “kings, princes, knights, lords. You name it and I’ve been with one.”

“And have they lived up to your expectations?”

“Hardly,” you grabbed a berry and popped into your mouth, and raising an eyebrow at him, “the only time I’ve experienced true pleasure, it has certainly not been at the hands of a man.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you sat down across from him, far overstepping any boundaries that remained. But Oberyn was different; he wasn’t like all the other princes and lords who spoke down to you like you were some sort of mere peasant. He treated you like an actual person. That in itself was enough to keep you intrigued; his delicious, warm accent didn’t hurt either. It was like music to your ears, sweet like the wine that flowed freely throughout the court, and much more pleasant than the harsh accents of the King’s Landing that you’d have grown accustomed to.

“You prefer the company of women?”

“I do enjoy the company of women,” you gave him a lazy half smile, “very much so. They’re beautiful creatures, soft, and warm, kind. Unlike men, they know how to touch other women, how to make love and make it a pleasurable experience, not just spend five minutes pounding into you until they’ve found release like a common barnyard animal. And then again, if all else fails, there is also the undeniable pleasure you can give yourself.”

“Very valid points,” he eat a few of the fresh berries, his dark eyes never leaving yours. A smile played on his features as relaxed in his seat, letting the sun warm him, “clearly you haven’t been with the right men.”

“Do you think you’re different?”

“I know I’m different.”

“Hmm,” you mused, “you’re very sure of yourself, my prince. Is your reputation well deserved? Are you as good of a lover as they all say?”

“I am,” a small smirk played on his lips as he crossed his legs, gauging your every reaction closely. He was curious, almost deathly curious to see what you hid under your cool exterior. You acted like you belonged in the court, under the direction of the Lannisters, but he could see through right through you. He knew you weren’t fully invested in your job or life here; hells, anyone that spared you more than a passing glance could see that much, “do you care to find out?”

“I appreciate the forwardness,” you gave him a wicked little smile of your own, “but surely you’ve got better things, and individuals, to shower in your worship. I am a simple servant, not worthy of anyone’s time, something I am made sure never to forget.”

You didn’t wait for a response before standing up and brushing your skirts off as you turned to head back inside. You’d been gone for some time now, surely you’d be attracting some unwanted attention any minute. You’d only been meant to serve the prince, not converse as though you were fast friends, shamelessly flirting in the open where anyone could stumble upon the two of you.

Oberyn was a welcome change to the cold atmosphere of the court you were used to. He brought a certain liveliness, warmth, and you swore more sunlight, with him. You could only imagine how wonderful it must be back in Dorne, where he got to spread that same radiance day in and day out. 

“Where are you from?” he asked as you turned to leave. You paused and tensed up, surprised by the sudden question. He didn’t move as he waited for answer; part of you was tempted to pretend that you hadn’t heard him, but you knew better than to defy the prince.

“I’m just a servant, your highness,” you gave him a saccharine smile as you watched his expression falter slightly. It wasn’t the answer he was expecting, “I am from wherever I am situated. My job isn’t to have a personality, it’s to serve others.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he grabbed a particularly plump looking strawberry, took a bite before standing up and striding over to you. His caramel gaze was focused on yours as he gently grabbed your jaw with one hand raised the berry to your lips. It was a question of sorts, to see if you trusted him. Without hesitation, you parted your lips slightly, letting him pop the berry into your mouth. You let the juices coat your mouth before swallowing, your eyes never leaving his. Oberyn traced his thumb delicately along your bottom lip, wiping away the small bit of lingering juice, “where are you from, my sweet girl?”

“Your highness-”

“It’s a simple question,” he let go of your jaw, his face moving into a softer expression as his eyes slowly raked over you. If it had been almost any other man, you would have been disgusted, but there was some gentle about when it was Oberyn. 

“Honeyholt,” the name of your birthplace fell off your lips almost like a whisper, and your eyes darted around to make sure no one had heard. When you worked for the Lannisters, personal matters as such were best left unsaid; they paid you, albeit barely, for your service, not to moan about your previous life. 

“That’s rather far from here,” he mused and you shrugged lightly. You were a a child, a mere young thing the last time you had visited your place of origin. You didn’t remember enough of it to truly miss. King’s Landing had been your home since, “what brings you here, to the harsh life of the court?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you bit your lip, unsure of how far he wanted you to go into detail, “I...was brought here by parents. They needed the money, and I was their only source of commodity. For them it was an easy decision. I haven’t seen them since.”

“I could tell you were not from this forsaken place,” you wondered what he meant, how easily he could tell you were different. You’d spent most of your life trying to blend and not stick out, you’d thought you’d been doing a fairly decent job. Most people didn’t spare you a passing glance, unless they desired something from you.

“And just how is that, if you don’t my asking?”

“You’re much too beautiful to be from here,” he answered and your entire body suddenly felt like it was on fire. You turned your head, gaze intently trained on the cracked ground of the aging palace as you avoided his inquisitive looks. He reached over and with a few gentle fingers tilted your chin up to face him, “do not shy away from your beauty.”

“I do not,” your voice was but a whisper, “people do not usually show me such...reverence.”

“You have kind eyes,” he carried on, “the sweetest smile, hair fair more beautiful than the Lannister gold they love so much here. Your accent gives you away, it is very slight, but anyone with a keen ear will be able to pick up on it. These barbarians here no doubt have come to ignore it.”

“You...” no one had pointed out that fact that you have a slight lilt to your voice in years. You’d lost the majority of any accent as a child, having come to court as such a young one, and being surrounded by nothing but the gruff voices of the crownlands.

“And if you don’t mind my saying so,” he took a step closer and ran a gentle hand down your body, fingers grazing down your side and sending a shiver down your spine, “a figure that any man or woman would be blessed by the gods to know. Beautiful breasts, a round bottom, lovely thighs, I can only imagine how exquisite everything I’m not seeing is.”

His large hand gave your ass a firm squeeze, and a small sound escaped your lips; a mixture of surprise and pleasure. He was forward, there was no doubt about that, but nothing about it felt...wrong, or unwelcome. You could tell he was making sure every touch and word off of his lips that he was making sure you were okay with it. And you were. Everywhere he went, women, and men, fawned over him, dying for even a bit of affection and attention from the prince. Here you were, having down nothing and you were the object of his desire. 

“You flatter me far more than I deserve, your highness,” your cheeks were on fire as he smiled at you, trying to reassure you that his affection was well deserved.

“Please,” he insisted, bringing a hand back up to your face, “enough with the formalities. Oberyn.”

“Oberyn,” you repeated, enjoying how it felt on your tongue, so sweet and foreign, much more interesting than anyone you encountered through your daily duties.

“What was your name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you insisted, but he was not fooled by your attempts at deflection. Instead, he leaned against the carved marble pillar, arms crossing his chest as he analyzed you, “you know my name.”

“My dear, sweet little one,” you sighed lightly at the sound of his voice, so rich and warm, hitting each last nerve within you, “everyone has a name. It means something, even if that of a bastard.”

“What if I don’t want to have a name? What if I want to be no one?” you shrugged as you leaned against the column facing him, “what if I want to hide in the shadows?”

“Y/N,” your name had never sounded more lovely or magical than when it came off of his lips. It sounded pretty, beautiful almost, “it matters. You should be proud of who you are...unless you are some sort of monster, which I already know you are not.”

“You already know my name.”

“And you know exactly what I’m referring to you. I am a prince, sweet one, not a fool.”

“Flowers,” you gave him a soft smile, “just like all bastards of the Reach.”

“But you’re not a bastard,” he pointed out as you nodded, “so why do you claim the name?”

“So I can be no one.”

“You, my sweet girl,” he was by your side again in no time, leaning only mere inches between the two of you. He smelled warm and sweet, likes spices and exotic fruit. Enchanting. Lovely, “are destined to be so much more than no one.”

“I assure you, it doesn’t matter,” you said after a few beats of silence, “my family was once one of the many great houses, just like so many others. But they fell and were broken apart over the years. The remainder of them are common merchants now. It’s easier to claim the name of a bastard than to receive pity for your family’s misfortunes from the likes of Lannisters and Starks and whomever else.”

“I am sure you far outshine them in every way,” he pushed a few locks of your hair out of your face, “your kindness is fair greater.”

“I...I know why you’re here, your hi- Oberyn,” you were scared that you had overstepped your boundaries, but weren’t able to hold back your tongue. He was so forward and open with you, surely he wouldn’t mind if you did the same. 

“And why is that?” his curiosity was piqued as he tried to read your expression.

“Your sister,” you answered softly and he shifted on his feet, shoulders tensing slightly, “I used to work for her...when I was just a child...before. She was the kindest woman I had ever met, gentle and sweet to everyone she ever encountered. Beautiful to no ends and her smile could light up the entire kingdom. Her babes were just as sweet, they would grown up to be the kindest people.”

“You knew Elia?” he was quieter now, and had a soft pang to his voice. He still missed and longed for his sister. Even though she had been gone for some time now, he still mourned for her and her children every day.

“She’s probably the reason I’m still alive,” you admitted, “she took me under her wing when I was brought here. I miss her too. I cannot imagine the sadness and burden it must have placed upon you and I would not dare to imagine. But I know how hard it was on someone like me, just a servant.”

“I think of her every day,” he admitted, “I know I cannot get her back, but it doesn’t dull the pain; Dorne has mourned her loss every day. Instead we must honor the memory of those we’ve lost, instead of letting grief consume us, no?”

“Yes,” you agreed, placing a small smile back on your face. You hadn’t meant to bring the mood down, but you wanted to let him know where you stood, that you were on his side, “I...I blame myself some days. When they attacked...I just ran and hide. I ran and ran and ran until it felt like I couldn’t breathe and then I hid and waited, waited till the smoke had cleared and it was safe to come out. I didn’t even try to help her or her babies. I just wonder if...I had stayed if I could have done something.”

“You were a child,” he could imagine the horrors you had seen, all the thoughts and emotions that had stayed with you throughout the years, “it was not your place to do anything. You protected yourself; it is our instinct to flee and hide, especially as children.”

“I was a coward.”

“You were a child,” he repeated firmly, “you were not a coward and it was not your duty to protect anyone. They should have protected you.”

You weren’t even aware of the fact that a few tears had rolled down your cheeks, but Oberyn was quick to wipe them away. He brushed a thumb over your cheeks, in such a soft and intimate gesture, offering you a small, reassuring smile in return. You put your hand on his wrist and gave it a firm squeeze, “thank you.”

“Y/N,” you almost jumped out of skin at the sound of Cersei’s grating voice. Swiftly wiping the rest of your tears away with the back of your hand, you took a step back from the prince, who seemed completely nonplussed, “surely you’ve got other duties to attend to. I’m sure the prince’s wine and berry need has been satiated for now. We know where to find you if we want more. Go on and apologize to his highness for your folly and distraction.”

Your eyes widened in surprise as you let out a shaky breath and gave her a nod. She had her trademark smirk on her face and you wished you could slap it off of her pinched features. She really was cruel down to her core, and you often wondered when the last bits of humanity had left her. You wondered how much she had seen or heard. Hopefully not enough to warrant any sort of punishment. 

Instead, you gave her a nod and small bow before turning back to Oberyn, “I apologize for my indiscretions, your highness. Please let me know if I can be of service at any time.”

“What did I tell you, my sweet girl, call me Oberyn,” he was not bothered by Cersei in the slightest and her jaw dropped in surprise. You couldn’t hide the small smile that crept onto your face, “and do not apologize for a conversation I have initiated. Surely even the lovely Cersei can understand that people enjoy conversation.”

“I...yes,” you returned his warm smile, unable to contain yourself and enjoying the little thrill that defying Cersei had placed in your bones. He reached for your hand and placed a kiss, chaste kiss to the back of it. You knew Cersei must have been dying on the inside at the exchange, frankly, so were you, “thank you, Oberyn.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, making it a point to look directly at Cersei, who was fuming silently. If she had been a kettle, steam would have been exploding out of her ears, “I’ll find you.”

Just before you could turn to return to the kitchen and go about the rest of your daily duties, Oberyn trailed his fingers over your face, letting his gaze linger on your lips, “until later, dear Y/N.”

You turned to go back inside without another word, a bounce in your step at what had just happened. But just before you got inside, you heard him call after you, “I’m glad you enjoyed my berries, sweet girl!”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[wildlyglittering]

The Space Between

I have a few pieces of Nessian fan fiction already pre written so I’m just going to drip feed them into my feed every Sunday. 

Enjoy (I hope!)

***

Cassian left Velaris far later than intended.

He meant to fly at first light but with the previous night’s send-off drinks for the Inner Circle, all due to go their separate ways for the summer, that first light turned into the hot midday sun.

For Cassian, his departure was routine. It was a regular schedule now, this constant flying back and forth between Velaris and the Illyrian mountains. Rhys kept him busy but the camp kept him busier, so much so that at times he was more a creature of the sky then land.

The prior evenings political discussions of Rhys, Feyre and Az’s imminent stay in the Dawn Court was mindless chatter to Cassian’s ears and he tuned them out with political thoughts of his own. How many recruits did the camps have now? Was Devlon training the females? Were the rumours of an uprising true?

All throughout, one thought was stronger than the others.

Nesta.

Always, Nesta.

Between the mountains and Velaris lay the expansive wilderness where Nesta made her home. Part of Cassian’s schedule was to visit her on his flights between places but it had been months since he’d last seen her face.

Distance, he'd once told her, only makes my heart grow fonder. She'd rolled her eyes at the saccharine sentiment but a delightful blush spread on her cheeks which indicated she wasn't as stone-cold as she'd have others believe.

It was a half-truth on his part.

To say he longed for her was an understatement. Nesta occupied his mind continually and she now owned a space in his heart he once didn’t have for anyone. Distance made him yearn but it also made him cautious.

Nesta’s decision to live away from Velaris was something Cassian once thought as an attempt to distance herself from him. She wouldn’t return to the mountains, he understood why, but it was her refusal to come back to Velaris that surprised him as he thought she’d found some peace with the city.

Her refusal hadn’t been about Cassian, he understood that now. There had been an opportunity for her to regain her independence and, though she never expressed it aloud, a way for her to establish a new identity for herself in this world.

She took it.

Despite this, Cassian hoped she would eventually come back with him to Velaris. He hoped that this new version of Nesta was transferable and that she could thrive on the cobbled streets next to the shining river of his city as she had amongst the expanse of wildflowers.

It ate away at him, Nesta, however powerful, out in the nothing all alone. Still, if that thought ate at him than others consumed him, the gnawing set into motion by others he loved.

Will the bond last? Mor asked. It's uncommon for mates to be apart like this and unfair for one mate to deliberately part themselves from the other.

Nesta isn't a wing, he told Mor. Without her physical presence he still functioned and besides, the emotional connection was unbreakable.

I worry about you my friend; Rhys said. If I can't be with Feyre within minutes I don't know how I would bear the day.

Cassian deflected their words with a smile and a wave and clad himself in invisible armour.

He’d landed, finally, although hours later than he wanted. Sweat tricked down his back and face, his leathers clung to the thick muscles of his arms and thighs. The journey was over half a day’s flight from the city but he always made it in less.

The mountain peaks were visible from the wilderness but only barely, appearing so small it looked like an ant could crush them. There was a small forest and stream within walking distance but aside from those and a cottage it was nothing but thick stalked wild flowers for miles, colouring the landscape with pinks and yellows.

It was a combination of summer heat and protection spells which caused the cottage to shimmer.

Cassian had landed a slight distance away, wary of the protection magic that was always a little too keen to exert itself, and wandered through the flowers to the grey stone building ahead. Mor had expressed incredulity that Nesta hadn’t demanded a mansion with servants while Rhys joked, she was too sour to keep them even if she did.

Cassian ground his teeth but said nothing. Nesta’s experiences weren’t his to share, he justified.

Despite the poverty, despite going to bed with an aching belly and fears of starvation.0 the memories Nesta held of small cottages remained untainted. In mansions, she’d been dragged from her bed and forced to watch her sister drown before water then filled her own lungs. In palaces, she was made to recount those events to eager eared strangers. In tents, she listened to the screams of the dying.

It was those places where she’d started to lose piece after piece of herself until nothing remained.

It was this place, this small cottage, where Nesta found herself once more. The old Nesta flared again, a small spark which turned into wildfire.

Cassian let himself in, the latch opening to him easily.

The main living space doubled as kitchen and comfort. An overstuffed sofa sat in front of an oversized hearth with a butcher’s block next to it, complete with mortar and pestle and the fresh herbs Nesta gathered from her garden. Three rooms branched from this one. The first was the bathroom, the second Nesta’s bedroom and the third was empty.

There was no sign of Nesta and a glance through the window towards the garden showed Cassian that Nesta wasn’t there either. It was likely she’d grown impatient of waiting and had wandered to the woods to gather supplies.

Cassian weaved around the stacks of books, one pile fast becoming as tall as himself, to go find her when a heavy clunk of a handle sounded behind him. Nesta appeared from one of the smaller rooms, it just surprised him to see which one it was.

"Hey sweetheart," he drawled, "what were you doing in there?"

Something moved down the bond but Nesta had muted it somehow and Cassian could sense a sheer kinetic energy rumbling outside of his reach. She said nothing but took a deep breath before standing aside, leaving the room behind her open to his view.

***

The third room was no longer empty.

Cassian stood in the middle; every muscle tensed for battle; his wings snapped taut behind him.

Nesta had opened the window to clear the lingering musk and the beginnings of a soft summer breeze drifted in ruffling the delicate lace curtains that now hung from the frame.

The lazy dancing curtains were the only movement in the room. Cassian remaining locked in place with Nesta just as rigid beside him.

His heart started pound on the bones of his ribs, and he imagined it bursting straight out of his chest to land in a bloody heap on the floor.

The walls had been painted a soft yellow, reminding Cassian of the pats of butter served in small dishes when Feyre and Rhys had 'proper company.' The new bookcase and shelves, both empty, were a thick, rich cream.

His pulse beat out a rhythm on the roof of his mouth.

A rocking chair draped with a downy feathered blanket sat in the corner but the most prominent feature, positioned against the wall, stood the crib.

Waiting.

The pulse was behind his eyes now, the objects in his vision dancing as he heard the whispers that travelled down the bond. Nesta hadn't moved but those sharp blue-grey eyes stared at him all the same.

Were his legs always this clumsy? he wondered. Did he often give full control of his body to something else? Cassian was moving but they weren't his feet. He loomed over the crib like a grotesque gargoyle and touched a giant, calloused hand to the wood before reaching in to grasp at the blanket.

These weren't his hands, he decided. His were designed to clutch the handles of blades, to wrap around throats and squeeze until faces turned blue. They weren't meant to touch small blankets embroidered with bees.

I can rip this with both hands, he thought. Turn it into shreds within seconds. I am the Lord of Bloodshed and I tear things apart.

His pulse pounded in his ears now, his tongue feeling like it had engorged in his mouth ready to block his windpipe and choke him like he'd choked many others. Nesta was glaring and throwing her panic at him until he swallowed it down.

His knuckles had turned white clenching the blanket. Cassian envisioned a small body, sleeping and breathing and dreaming in this bed, relying on Cassian's hands to hold it, to keep it safe.

There was no more air in the room, no more breath in his lungs and his ears were filled with the beat of his own heartbeat, and Nesta's, and now one other joining them.

***

The later afternoon sun had dipped and outdoors had cooled significantly which was welcome, the open blue sky more so.

They were in Nesta's small garden, amongst the vegetables and flowers, and yet it wasn't obvious to Cassian how they arrived.

His chest hurt, he remembered that. His lungs were burning like flames had leapt down his throat and scorched everything they touched. He'd been grasping at his skin, digging his nails into the hollow of his throat to claw a way for the air.

Cassian walked out here. He must have. Nesta following.

She stood in front of him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the pulse in her wrists jumping. Cassian viewed every beat so clearly from his vantage point on the ground, the solid hard ground where he'd crumbled.

The breeze, the one which had danced around the curtains in the nursery -- dear Mother, the nursery -- was as welcome as a kiss from a long-lost lover as it caressed across his wings.

Come, it sang, fly away. The sky is yours.

Something else was singing, no screaming, down the bond but Cassian pushed it down. Panic had emanated from Nesta, rolling off her in waves and he thought he could handle it. But now, after he fled from the cottage, she was drowning him.

On the surface she appeared ready for battle, her face as sharp as one of Cassian's blades and as deadly. Had she spoken? Her voice was small as though she wasn't close at all but standing miles away, the words travelling through wind and across the mountains.

From their positions, his knees digging in the dirt, his face was level with her stomach. One glance was all he allowed himself before his eyes darted away.

Nesta still looked like Nesta. There was no glow or scent to her skin, no softness to her face or additional roundness to her already full curves. Her abdomen remained flat, giving no sign of the life existing within, the life that Cassian helped create.

It would be smaller than one of my fingers, he thought and his wings twitched. The breeze and the sky calling him to freedom.

She'd seen.

The noise fogging his mind was cleared away by a sudden blast of magic.

Nesta's voice reached his ears clearer this time.

"What exactly are you intending to do?" Her tone was so chilled he was amazed his flesh didn't blacken from frostbite.

Cassian dug his hands into the ground before lifting them to cover his face. The fresh grass and earth lingered on his fingertips, and he inhaled deeply in an attempt to tether himself.

What did he intend to do? His thoughts splintered, images and names racing through every possibility he considered. Fly away, he told himself, fly to the mountains, fly home to Velaris, fly, fly, fly.

Rhys would know what to do.

Rhys always knew what to do, as did Mor. He would seek them out and get them to decide what was best. Their presence would be a soothing balm for him and while not quite as soothing for Nesta they had an authority she would have to acknowledge. Rhys and Mor would know what is best, he thought. Nesta wouldn't think so at first but they would want to be involved.

Everything would be easier for all of them this way.

He wanted to explain but it was hard to concentrate, the whirling tornado of his mind pierced with the frozen shards of Nesta's. The more he thought of Rhys and Mor, the more the breeze turned into a wind whipping across his wings.

"We can't do this," he found himself saying. "I can't do this; you can't do this." Here. Alone. That's what he meant to add but his voice cracked and the words wouldn't come.

He dropped his hands and glanced up at her, his Nesta. On her face she wore something close to devastation, not even an expression he'd seen after the Cauldron when she was trying to bathe again, laying sprawled and soaking on the floor of the bathroom.

Her words came without hesitation.

"Get out," she hissed. The sharpness she pushed through the bond at him was done with intent. If she had been ice before then Cassian couldn't describe this now, other than a swift stab to his gut with a spike.

The link between them was now blocked.

"Nesta...." he trailed off. The wind hurt now, cold and stinging against the membranes of his shivering wings. There was a violence, an unnaturalness to it, and Cassian understood underestimating Nesta was a dangerous thing.

The surrounding torrents blew stands of her hair from her braid and ruffled her dress but didn't make much else of an impact, her body remained upright and unyielding while Cassian's began to bend.

There was a chance to stop it. Nesta's magic could have been blocked with his siphons, and he could have stood, placed his hands on her arms and told her all this was a misunderstanding.

He didn't do any of them.

Nesta had offered him an opportunity to flee and so, while her storm raged around her small garden, Cassian opened his wings and let it carry him off into the sky.

***

It was evening when Cassian returned.

The brilliant blue of the mid-afternoon sky had turned into a deep navy with streaks of ruby from the setting sun.

Everything was silent, that silence extending to their connection through the bond.

Now, when he reached out it was as though he were touching the abyss. Whatever else she might do from this point onwards; retreating from him and blocking the bond was something Nesta had already done.

Earlier, when he'd left, he'd flown over the wilderness and was halfway back to Velaris when he changed his mind. His flight was half to clear his mind and half to flee to sanctuary.

He couldn't complete his journey and continuously turned round over and over in the sky, battling with himself. To fly forward or back was the question he struggled to answer.

Could he not do both?

Now he was calmer he would explain to Nesta it was more dangerous for her to be alone during this... situation. Perhaps what happened in the garden was a lack of control, her hormones playing havoc on her abilities.

He couldn't leave her here, unable to defend herself properly if the need arose. She couldn't go with him to the Steppes, not now, but maybe he would be able to convince her to be under the protection of Rhys and Feyre.

Nesta wouldn't love his plan but this was a plan put in place because of how much he loved her.

That was the intention.

He'd landed heavier than before, an extra burden pressing down on his shoulders. Everything remained unchanged from earlier aside from when he neared the cottage and he felt a new pressure on his body.

His wings flared on instinct, to brace himself against an invisible enemy’s onslaught but none came. Each step was as though he was trudging through mud, each one clunkier than before. When he reached the border of Nesta's boundary he realised he could no longer move.

When Cassian turned to walk back where he came, the strain lifted and, along with it, so did his feet.

He tested this a few times, the weight growing with every effort he made towards the cottage until he had to give up. When he did and turned back, the feeling his spine was going to snap into two melted away.

Nesta’s shields were always up but until this point her magic had never extended to Cassian.

She'd blocked him from reaching her, physically and through the bond. He stood outside staring at the grey stones of her walls wondering if she knew he was here.

She knows, he thought. She just doesn't care.

He'd left her for a moment, for a stupid moment, and now she'd rejected him absolutely.

Cassian convinced himself Nesta’s powers were unpredictable and this was adding to the evidence she should be among others. He was sure when she realised, she would lift her barriers and come to him.

So, he waited.

She never came.

***

The summer in Illyria had been brutal and so had Cassian. The sun scorched his skin and he fought through sweat soaked leathers, pounding his knuckles into the flesh of other Illyrians, his brethren, until the heat made his head throb.

It was only when the trainees were on the verge of collapse did he allow them to rest.

His reputation of fearsome was fast becoming one of cruelty; but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, until one day he observed an Illyrian child watching him, all skinny scabbed knees and curious eyes.

Cassian reached out a bloodied, bandaged hand as a gesture to show the boy some defence moves only for the child to flinch and curl his small, developing wings around himself as some form of meagre protection.

At that point, Cassian knew he had to temporarily turn the reigns over to Devlon, however reluctantly. His head wasn't where it should have been, thoughts of Nesta and the long silence between them which now lasted over a month had taken prominent place.

He hadn't attempted to reach out to her.

It was best, he decided, to leave everything until she was ready. This situation’s resolution had to be on her terms. But there was something else stopping him. He didn't want to discuss what they evidently needed to discuss, and he was scared, that if he tried to connect with her, she would refuse him again.

He would protect himself for the pain of her rejection by not giving her the chance to reject him at all.

Cassian had arrived back in Velaris in the afternoon, the new autumn air holding the residual warmth from summer within the city. He stood on top of the House of Wind, letting the breeze drift across his wings. He'd arrived without notifying anyone, not that there were many to notify. Feyre, Rhys and Az remained in the Dawn Court and Amren had decided to live out an eternal summer in the Summer Court itself.

He didn't mind. He wanted to take a moment, to gaze out on the place he called home and feast upon the red brick rooftops and shining surface of the Sidra without interruption.

Velaris was always a welcome sight and returning was the equivalent of someone throwing a blanket over Cassian’s shoulders to ward off the chill. This time though, it was as though the cold wind he’d experienced at Nesta’s had stalked him via his bones.

Something was disjointed now. He was happy to see his city but Velaris didn't hold the same thrill of excitement he usually experienced. Now it was as though it was a muted song, still remaining a pretty melody but harder to hear.

Was this how Nesta experienced Velaris? Or did she view it with more ambivalence? Was the city received with vitriol? Less a song and more a scream.

He thought of her, as he always did, alone in her cottage but now not alone. He'd learnt to turn the thoughts off quick; the pang in his chest made him want to cry.

Perhaps his sadness radiated outwards or maybe there was a part of him which called for help without realising but as he stared outwards, a soft and warm hand slid through his unwinding his clenched fingers.

"Hello, you."

Cassian looked down to see the golden hair of his best friend as she rested her head against his arm.

"Hello, Mor." His voice didn't crack but it was close.

She raised her face, her smile slipping into a frown. "Oh, my darling," she said. "I sensed you were back in Velaris but thought it was strange you didn't come to say hello."

Mor studied him for a moment, those deep brown eyes of hers absorbing every inch of his face, seeking out the truth which wouldn't take her long to find.

"You've had a fight with Nesta. A serious one."

It wasn't a question, Mor already knew the answer.

The years had melted away some animosity but it would be a lie to say it had disappeared. Time had patched over the intensity but was unable to purge the resentment completely.

Nesta removing herself from Velaris had gone some way to soothe the mutual dislike but the resolution was more a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ than any deeper healing.

Cassian knew Mor had felt a sting of rejection when he and Nesta had bonded and on some level, she had taken it as a strike to their friendship. Mor had advised him all those years ago to not accept the bond, and he'd proceeded regardless. Her fear, she told him, was that Nesta would burn him out with her anger.

Mor's concerns were from a place of love, but he'd accepted the bond from a place of his love. Besides, there was a kernel of truth in Nesta's statement to him that Mor didn't want to lose the life she'd spent centuries crafting and how Cassian was part of that.

Even though, regarding him and Nesta, there was part of Mor waiting for what she deemed inevitable but Cassian chose to ignore the tinge of hope he heard in her voice at her statement.

"Yes," he replied, "but it was my fault. I didn't respond to the news particularly well."

"What news?"

The truth would out, how could it not? Before his cowardice crept in again, he told Mor everything and watched as her eyes grew wider.

"Cas," she breathed and stepped in front of him, her arms stretching around his body, her cheek pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her as tight as he could. He needed this; he needed a friend.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed. "I don't know if I want to do this at all."

The memory of the small child he had once been morphed into the image of the boy he had inadvertently terrified at the camps. That image warped again into something smaller and more precious, an image he quickly discarded.

"Death and destruction are my talents; I doubt I'd be soothing anyone's pain away with kisses and cuddles." He let out a mirthless laugh.

Mor pulled back, standing on her toes, so she could reach her hands to his face and positioning him to look at her. "You're the best of us, Cass. You have so much love to give anyone. You love without question, defend without question and you'd die for those you love. I don't expect you'd do anything less for your child."

She squeezed his cheeks together until he grinned at the ridiculous expression she was making him wear. "You'll make a wonderful father; I know you will."

Mor let go of his face and stepped back into his arms for another hug. Cassian held onto her words as tightly as he held onto her.

"I wish Nesta were in Velaris," he sighed.

Mor tensed in his arms.

"Oh."

"She's strong but the wilderness is no place for a pregnant female. I don't think isolation is the best place for her right now. Or for a baby."

"I agree," Mor said. "So, bring the baby here. We have space in every one of the houses for a nursery, two nurseries if you want. And we have Nuala and Ceridwen on hand. Plus, the rest of us will dote on it and when you need to go to the camps any one of us will protect it with our lives. Can you imagine such a fantastic life in Velaris, with all these aunts and uncles around?"

Something wiggled its way through his stomach, an unease which twisted like a worm. Cassian let his arms loose from Mor's body. "And Nesta."

"What?"

"Nesta will need to be here too."

Mor stepped back with a look on her face that told him she'd tried to forget Nesta was part of the equation and didn't want to be reminded. It disappeared fast into a practiced smile. "Of course," Mor waved her hand in the air like she was batting away a fly. "And Nesta, of course."

"Except I don't think she'd come," Cassian continued, watching as Mor marched to the roof edge to look down. Her body was as rigid as Nesta's had been when he had last seen her.

"Make her."

"Mor..."

"What?" Mor turned to face Cassian. "It's not just her anymore, is it? If she wasn't so selfish, if she wasn't so..." she trailed off.

Cassian's skin began to itch, like he had grown too large for it and now it wanted to split open. His tongue pressed upwards against the ridges of his mouth where his pulse began to click.

A forced smile slipped onto Mor's face. "I just mean, she's renowned for being stubborn but sometimes, in the past, her actions haven't exactly been beneficial for her, have they? Right now, she's being stubborn and though that may benefit her, it's not benefiting you or the baby. It makes sense for her to be in Velaris at this stage, so she has immediate access to healers. You just need to convince her this is for her own good."

"Even if I do, she won't stay."

"Don't make her."

His head began to hurt again, the heartbeat a pressure against the back of his eyes. "Mor, you're not making sense. First you're telling me to make her come here and now you're telling me I can't make her stay."

"Once she's here and can see how much better it would be for the baby to be in Velaris she might stay," Mor's voice conveyed enthusiasm even if her face didn't. "But if she decides she doesn't want to stay she doesn't have to. Nesta may realise it would be better for everyone if the baby was here. Think of all you can give it; think of all we can give it. What can Nesta provide in her hovel in the middle of a field? If she wants to go back let her, but she shouldn't be allowed to force that life on your child."

What he experienced with Nesta in her garden came back in an instant. His heart beating hard against his ribcage, the pulse reverberating into his skull, while his breath squeezed from his lungs.

There was an emergence of something he hadn't felt towards Mor before, something which itched and crawled in his skin the more she spoke.

"I can't begin to fathom what she'd be like as a mother, Cass. You would have all the love in the world for your child, but would she? How fit is she? Do we want to wait to find out?"

If there was a spark which existed in Nesta that turned into the occasional furnace then it was true the same could be said for him. The difference was Nesta was ice until she became fire, Cassian was warmth until he became flame.

In Cassian’s mind lived a million images of Nesta but there were always ones he visited first. She'd held his hand once on a battlefield, tended to his wounds with gentle fingers. She'd pressed her body against his ready to die with him.

When he'd been poisoned in the Illyrian civil war, she'd stayed with him when the troops moved camps, knowing he was too ill to fly and too weak to fight.

During one of Cassian’s first trips to her cottage she spoke about her plans to make a little garden all the while chopping vegetables for a broth that was his favourite.

Her cheeks blushed a dusky pink and her hair looked orange against the firelight. Cassian thought if Nesta had any siphons that would have been their colour, flame for a creature of heat and warmth.

His siphons, the seven red ones, were now glowing.

"Cass?" Mor's voice was concerned.

Mor’s words had pierced his skin like poisonous barbs and though the venom wasn't intended for him, he was not immune. Still, it alarmed him, that some primal part existed within to trigger his power. It was only his reflexes caused the surge to mute.

"What's happening?" Mor's voice was small and croaked, the verge of a teary outburst imminent. He wasn't the only one alarmed at the indication that some part of him wanted to blast his lifelong best friend from the rooftop.

"I think we're done."

Nesta, while never fond of Mor, hadn't said a word about the other female since moving away. Part of her healing was to let go of what caused her pain, and she had deemed Mor something to let drift away.

These words Mor said freely stung him. Cassian and Nesta had chosen to honour the bond and so when Nesta was struck then Cassian must also suffer the blow. Although there was a consequence of their love living in Nesta's body that he didn't want to face, it didn't negate his love for Nesta.

"I have to go."

"Cass, please... wait!"

The siphons had dimmed, back fully under Cassian's control and Mor ran forward, clutching at his arms with wide eyes as the ripples of her panic spread thick throughout the surrounding air.

Mor called after his retreating back even as he took to the sky. The irony didn't escape him, that for the second time in several months Cassian flew away from a female he loved.

***

Every morning Cassian was drenched in sweat like he’d been fighting through the night.

Screams echoed in his mind along with the splashing of water as Nesta sank beneath the Cauldron, Hybern’s leering face never far away. Dreaming of memories was nothing new but now as the images raced through his mind, he dreamt Nesta with a swollen stomach and as she screamed it was followed by the shriek of a baby’s cry.

Cassian had tried not to dwell on what Mor had said, the questioning of Nesta’s ability to mother, although those images also came unbidden. He saw an empty crib, a baby lying on the cold ground while Nesta walked away and Cassian remained absent.

He shook those thoughts away and sharpened his anger at himself and at Mor for forcing these thoughts into his head.

Cassian had managed to flee from two females but now, three weeks after his encounter with Mor, he actively sought out a third.

Elain lived on the estate of Feyre and Rhys’ river house and had done so for decades.

There was a complicated history between Az and Lucian, of which Cassian didn’t know the full details. Whenever he’d asked Nesta, she pursed her lips like she was sucking on something sour and refused to say a word.

Cassian assumed Nesta was upset that Elain chose to reside so close to Feyre and Rhys, that she hadn’t wanted to forge ahead with her own path. But Cassian never understand why Elain would want to be anywhere else when everything she needed was at their doorstep.

A cottage had been built for Elain in the gardens, some considerable distance from the house to allow for privacy for all residents. Thick trunked trees and tall flowers took care of the rest and the walls were draped with wisteria, covering everything aside from the windows and doors. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t have known it existed.

The door was wide open, as if she knew he would come, and Cassian stepped inside the stone floored hallway and followed Elain’s humming to where she stood in the kitchen. Her back was to him, her golden-brown hair so like Nesta’s, loose down her back and scattered with greenery. Elaine didn’t turn to greet him, concentrating on arranging flowers in a vase even as she spoke.

“Shame you and Mor still aren’t speaking.”

Cassian hadn’t spoken to anyone about their argument and to his knowledge, neither had Mor. He shouldn’t be surprised that Elain knew, Elain had a strange way of knowing everything but she sounded far too pleased about the development for her sympathies to hold true.

“Mor spoke out of turn.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“Yes, but...” Cassian trailed off. Yes, but this time she went too far. This time. This time. To say it was a sad acknowledgement of the other times and the shameful fact he’d let them slide.

Elain turned, waiting for the completion of a sentence she knew he wouldn’t finish.

She was usually the gentlest of the sisters but there was nothing gentle about Elain at this moment. Out of the Archeron’s, it was Nesta and Feyre who looked most alike but there was something currently hard and cold about Elain that reminded him of his mate. His chest ached.

“Why are you here?” Elain’s tone was sharp, dismissive as though Cassian were a greenfly on her rose bushes she needed to squash out.

“I need your help.”

Elain raised a delicate eyebrow and leant back on the wooden table behind her, her fingers trailing through the flowers laid across it. “Go on.”

“I’m worried for Nesta, she’s all alone in her cottage and too far from help if she needs it - not that she’d ask for it, which is a concern itself.” He sighed at Elain’s immoveable expression. “I just want her to be someplace safe, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

All the images rushed in at once, all his fears. Just in case someone breaks in and drags her out of her bed, just in case someone throws her into the cauldron, just in case someone tries to poison her, tries to set her cottage on fire, just in case she gets ill.

“Just in case she can’t cope.”

“You think you can’t?”

Cassian groaned and tugged his hands through his hair. “I don’t know! But at least if she can’t and she’s here then she’d have you and Feyre. Well at least you, Feyre is barely here.”

“And you?”

“What?”

“And you? You’ll be here and ‘not away.’”

“Yes, yes of course. And me.”

Elain picked up a flower, a cream one with splashes of pink, and twirled it. She seemed to be fixated on the petals as they spun, round and round, as the silence grew in the room. Eventually she spoke.

“You want me to convince her to come here and you think she’ll listen to me because it’s me.” It was almost a whisper how soft she spoke it.

The scene changed so fast.

Splotches of crimson appeared on Elain’s neck and Cassian watched her fingers tighten around the stem of the flower. “It’s history repeating all over again. Drag us to Velaris because you want it, exile us to the camps because you want it.” She scoffed. “And so, she comes to Velaris, for what? Nesta will watch as Feyre and Mor and Rhys cluck over the baby because it’s yours while they try and forget that Nesta had anything to do with it.”

Cassian’s mouth dropped open, a void had formed between his brain and mouth and no words took shape.

“We can’t just be shuffled around like pieces on a game board for whenever suits the High Lord.”

“I haven’t.... I don’t.... I haven’t spoken to Rhys about it. I don’t even think he knows Nesta is even.... it’s my idea. Mine. To keep her safe.”

Elain let out a shuddering breath and released her fist. The flower, its stem now a green pulp, slid from her hand and landed on the floor. “Do you believe that Nesta isn’t safe where she is?”

Cassian thought of the expanse of blue sky over Nesta’s head, the mountains looming in the distance and the dark green tops of the woods. The fields were filled with nothing but wildflowers and aside from her little stone cottage and garden there was nothing for miles and no one but Nesta.

He could imagine the sound of the wooden door breaking, the splintering as the wood split as fae forced their way in. It hadn’t happened but ‘yet’ was never a word far from his mind.

Her magic was strong though and her will greater.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, “but I do know I want her here.”

“That’s even worse,” Elain said looking him straight in the eye, her voice taking a harder quality. “No. Until Nesta herself wants to come back I won’t be involved in asking her. I’m not going to conspire with you or with anyone to take away her freedom no matter how desperate you are.”

She grabbed the vase and pushed past Cassian, “I’m grateful she was even able to get out.” She placed the vase on a ledge and stared at it for a moment before facing Cassian again. “Do you want this for her?” She gestured around.

Cassian couldn’t understand what was wrong with ‘this.’ A home, safe in the grounds of their High Lord and Lady. Constant protection and constant company. If they built a cottage next door to Elain than all sisters would be in the same place. Nesta didn’t even need to live in the house if she didn’t want.

He sighed, the truth edging free. “I don’t. She’d hate it.” He scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, “I just don’t know what to do. Maybe Rhys and Feyre will tell me, they always know what to do.”

A snort, far from ladylike, emitted from Elain. “They would bend everyone to their will if they could, trap everyone in this place until it suits them.” A faraway look entered her eyes, “I should be with Lucian, in Spring, Day and Autumn, floating between them all like a butterfly. They have such beautiful colour.”

There was another moment of silence, wherever Elain was she was no longer with Cassian. “Elain,” he asked, “why are you here?”

It was an assumption on his part that she loved living in the Night Court, that her heart was here along with her body.

His question snapped her back to him and she scoffed again. “I’m a piece of the game they play with Lucian, of course. An heir to Autumn, an advisor to Spring and the sole heir to Day? Mother forbid he decides to not play nice with Rhys.” Vitriol spilled from Elain’s tone. “Feyre, sweet childish, Feyre thinks I want to be here because that’s what Rhys has convinced her to think and your precious Morrigan lost her best buffer between her and Az so she needed another one. Don’t think I didn’t hear her egging Rhys on to keep me here.”

He didn’t know. Truly didn’t. That Elain was held in a prison of flowers and pleasantries. Cassian knew that her and Lucian hadn’t an easy start to their mating bond, there was some entanglement with Az yes, but this was always her choice.

It worried him how little he knew.

Maybe Elain detected something in him as her eyes softened. “People respond in extreme ways when they’re scared,” Elain continued. “You and Nesta have that in common. Unfortunately, she’s significantly more stubborn than you.”

Elain took one of the flowers from the vase and crossed over to where he stood, tucking it into a band of his armour, the peach petals a strange sight against charred black leather. At least he wasn’t completely without Elain’s grace.

“Have you tried to contact Nesta?” she asked him. “Really tried?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then I don’t want to see you again until you have.”

***

Immortality and time were complicated bedfellows. One moved quick and left the other one floundering. What were years when there were so many decades? What were decades when you could live centuries?

Months were nothing. Weeks even less.

Feyre, Rhys and Az had arrived back from Dawn at the full change of the season. The greens of the trees had long turned gold and red and now, another cusp awaited. The trees grew barer and the petals had long since fallen from their stalks.

This was the longest he’d gone without speaking to Mor and he hadn’t tried to approach Elain again.

This was also the longest he’d gone without Nesta and Cassian believed he would have suffered less if someone slid a blade between his ribs.

He trained at the House of Wind; he ambled through Velaris. His body was one place and his thoughts another. He was in the training arena when Rhys returned.

“I’d say congratulations my friend but I don’t think that’s what you’d want me to say.”

Rhys was leaning against the wall, a grin on his face. Cassian sighed. He was in little to no mood for one of Rhys’ cocky moments.

“I don’t think I deserve a congratulations.”

“Well I’m sure you had some involvement in this escapade.”

Cassian grit his teeth. The conceiving of a child between mates wasn’t something he would refer to as an ‘escapade’ but he could hardly defend himself.

“Funny,” Rhys continued, “how the Mother works. Some she blesses with the joy of motherhood and some she curses with a joyless mother.”

That feeling wormed its way again into Cassian’s stomach, irritation? Frustration? Whatever it was, it was an ever-increasing desire to take his knuckles and smash them into Rhys’ sculptured cheekbones.

“How was your trip?”

It was deflection at its finest and Cassian watched as Rhys’ face sparked. “Excellent. We managed to get what we wanted and Feyre decided to-”

Cassian let Rhys’ voice drift into one ear and out the other. He didn’t care about the trip or negotiations or whatever wealth Rhys managed to accumulate for the Night Court. He didn’t care for what silks and jewels Feyre was now re-gifting. He wanted to ask his friend, his brother in all but blood; ‘Was the Cauldron wrong in choosing us? Will I make a good father? Will Nesta be a good mother?’

He couldn’t. He couldn’t show his High Lord that Cassian, General and Commander of his armies, was scared of something he could cradle in the nook of his arm. It was like a dying dog showing its bare throat to a hungry wolf.

“I’m disappointed to hear from Mor that you aren’t speaking to her though.” Cassian snapped back into the present.

Cassian shrugged and leant on the wall opposite. “We had a disagreement,” he said as disinterested as he could.

“Well she’s upset. Make it better.”

There, Cassian’s skin prickled again, his blood burning hot in his veins. Rhys not knowing, or worse, not caring why the silence occurred in the first place. Cassian’s feelings were irrelevant in this situation and what Mor said about Nesta seemed to be no concern.

Rhys had moved the conversation on again, such surety that Cassian would call to heel. Cassian thought of Elain slowly crushing flowers.

It was at the mention of Nesta’s name that Cassian dipped back in.

“They had a ‘disagreement’ too and now she won’t speak with Feyre either. Whatever slim thread of rationality that your female had has now completely gone and Feyre is distraught.”

Of course, Feyre had made this about herself. Of course, she has. Cassian’s thought was so like Nesta’s voice that he wondered if Nesta had re-opened the bond, even for a minute, to listen to his conversation. But the walls were still up and it was just his own voice inside his head.

“I told Feyre being ignored by Nesta isn’t such a bad thing,” Rhys chuckled and then stopped at Cassian’s look. “Sorry, my friend.” Rhys leant across and rested his hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “I jest.”

Yes, and he always did. Joke after joke. Time after time. Small barbs of poison like Mor’s that landed on Cassian’s skin and sank into his bloodstream.

“She tried to convince Nesta to come to Velaris. Feyre’s also tried to convince Elain to get involved because she’s the only one Nesta is speaking with. Elain wouldn’t have it,” Rhys shook his head. “She’s becoming more like Nesta each passing day.” He let out a sigh. “Were it the other way round.”

Would Rhys want that? Cassian pondered. Nesta stuck in a cottage on his estate, nursing an infant at her breast and glaring at him as he approached. It would be more than flowers Nesta would be crushing. Cassian suppressed a grin at the thought.

“I wouldn’t want that for her,” Cassian said.

“What? You wouldn’t want a safe, contented life for her? Not that she’ll be content with anything.”

Cassian thought of the turn of last autumn and Nesta joyfully showing him a full basket of berries she’d picked and how she planned to turn them into jam. There was a sharp tug, right under his rib cage and he brought his hand up, pressing his palm against it.

Rhys had noticed the movement, the arrogant smirk finally sliding from his face. What little love he had for Nesta, he still had volumes for Cassian and his friend in pain wasn’t something Rhys would revel in.

“I can bring her into Velaris if you want?” His voice was solemn. “Talking her into it won’t work but I can command her as High Lord and she wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

There was a part of Cassian that leapt at the offer. Nesta would be safe among the Inner Circle, she would have Elain as company and eventually she would speak to Feyre again. She’d be safe.

She would also hate Cassian for the rest of their lives.

“No,” he replied, “I couldn’t do that to her.”

Rhys shrugged. “If that’s what you want. If you change your mind, let me know. I’ll do it for you and Feyre. And for the child. I can’t be entirely convinced Nesta wouldn’t eat her own young.”

***

Cassian was really living up to his reputation of violence and brutality. The blood, not his own, that he washed from his fist turned the water a pale pink at the bottom of the bowl. It had been an hour, maybe less, since the rooftop ‘conversation’ with Rhys.

There was a soft noise from the corner of Cassian’s suite, an exhalation of air that could have been either a disappointed sigh or restrained laugh. “So, you’re getting into fights with Rhys now?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied, “and once I’ve cleaned up, I’m going to go back to the roof to continue my brooding before I was so rudely interrupted.”

There was a definite chuckle and Az stepped from the shadows, a smile gracing his mouth. “Don’t go swapping talents with me now, I’d hate to have to go around punching my High Lord in the face.”

“Rhys has a nose like a rock, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The smile slid from Az’s face as he came closer, stepping next to Cassian in the designated wash corner of his room. The ornate mirror, some monstrosity chosen by Rhys or Feyre, hung above the basin and Cassian could see both his and Az’s reflections on the surface.

“I’m worried about you, brother,” Cassian watched and then felt, as Az’s scarred hand came to rest on Cassian’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze.

Cassian felt his jaw lock into place, he didn’t want to engage in another discussion today that wouldn’t go well for either party. “I’ll warn you now, if you want to be dismissive about Nesta this won’t go well.”

Az raised his hands in surrender. “Why would I be dismissive about Nesta? She’s your mate and soon to be mother of your child. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I’m not stupid.”

Cassian snorted and turned, giving Az an affectionate thump on the arm before picking up a dry cloth and walking over to his bed. He sat on the cover, scrubbing his hands dry, minding the broken skin on his knuckles. “Go tell that to Rhys and Mor.”

Az’s grin slipped away and he walked to sit beside Cassian. “Rhys knows he crossed a line and that you were defending your pregnant mate. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t hit back.”

“It was a long time coming,” the words were a truth that Cassian had taken an even longer time realising. He was filled with shame at how long.

“Yes,” Az replied, “it was.”

Cassian didn’t hide his flinch.

“Mor however doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong.”

Cassian buried his face in his hands. “Of course, she doesn’t. I’ve let her get away with comments about Nesta for years, decades even. But they’re questioning Nesta’s ability as a mother now, damning her before she’s even had a chance to prove them wrong.”

“You’re sure she’ll prove them wrong?”

“I know she will.”

“Then why not wait and let the evidence speak for itself?”

“Because I know Nesta wouldn’t want them thinking this about her, I don’t want them thinking this about her.” The next part came out as a whisper, “I don’t want to think this about her.”

Az raised an eyebrow, “You’ve thought she’ll make a terrible mother?”

“It’s crossed my mind but then I don’t think I should be anyone’s father.” He paused. “We shouldn’t be having a baby.”

There. It was what on been on his mind the second he knew about its existence.

Never mind the enemies they’d collected over the years, what if he and Nesta managed to emotionally damage the child beyond repair? What if they hurt it physically? What if it died? What if Cassian died and left it fatherless the same way Cassian had been?

He couldn’t hide how much he lived for war. It called to his blood. In times of peace he worried he was bored, worried the bloodshed was too invigorating. That’s why he craved Nesta’s company and the eternal battles using their words.

Nesta never tried to turn him into a creature of peace but instead provided an outlet for his energy, even their card games by the fire turned itself into fierce competition where only one would hold ultimate dominion.

They were happy. It just wasn’t an environment for a child.

“You won’t be ‘any’ child’s father though Cass,” Az said, “and Nesta won’t be ‘any’ child’s mother. It’s a child of you both, it will exist as part of you both.” It was like Az had read his mind, “Whichever way you raise it will be the right way – for you both and the baby.”

“I ran from her.”

“You can run back.”

“I wanted her to come here.”

“Are you going to make her?”

Cassian shook his head with vehemence. “Never.”

A hand clapped him on the back. “My friend, you’ve known for a long time what needs to be done, now you need to stop avoiding Nesta and face your future. It’s a glorious one.”

“Our resident seer has seen that has she?” It was a joke said with a smile, a way to lighten the tension of the room but Cassian saw Az’s face grow sombre. Az once loved Elain, maybe still did, but he clearly had his own issues he’d been avoiding.

“You could ask her. Even better, you could make it happen itself.”

“I need to talk to Nesta,” Cassian said, “truly talk to her.”

“You have this,” Az told him, “both the conversation and fatherhood. Nesta and you, you’re well matched. It’s agony to be around at times, but you’re well matched.”

Cassian clapped a hand onto his friends back, “You are my favourite Az, just don’t let any of the others know.”

***

The feeling was like someone had come along and removed rocks from his shoulders. Purpose, Cassian decided, gave you strength.

His leathers were on, his windows wide open and Cassian had finished wrapping his newly retrieved bundle into the satchel on his bed when Elain walked in.

He started, amazed at how she trod so gently that his fae ears couldn’t hear her approach.

Elain’s hair was bundled into a messy bun, sprigs of mistletoe decorating the strands. She’d switched to winter clothes, thicker material but still softer colours and it was jarring to see the pale pastel blues against the dark wood of Cassian’s rooms.

Cassian hadn’t thought that Elain even knew where his rooms were.

“Can you give Nesta this? She’s got back ache and I told her I’d send her some Scia Root.” Elain held out a lumpy muslin cloth tied with ribbon.

Cassian frowned as he took it. He’d realised after his conversation with Az that he was ready to go to Nesta, to grovel and beg her forgiveness. He would have thrown himself down at her feet if he needed to but he’d kept his intentions to see her quiet, telling no one.

“How did you-,” he trailed off. There was no point in asking. Elain just knew what Elain knew. He felt a sliver of something along his spine, maybe there were other reasons Rhys didn’t want Elain and Lucian together. All that power. All those Courts.

It wasn’t his concern. Elain’s comments about Nesta’s back ache however was and he shoved the roots into the side of the satchel. There was much he missed and Nesta’s body changing and the baby growing were two of those things.

Elain stood at the end of his bed, head cocked and smiling. “The baby will have your eyes you know.”

His breath stopped short, hands stilling on the strap of the satchel that he was adjusting to fit his width.

“And Nesta’s smile,” Elain continued. “I know that seems a contradiction but you’ve seen it, she has a beautiful smile.”

He had. It was. Rare but like most gifts, the most precious were rare.

He knew that there would be a baby. Obviously. His focus had been on how small, and fragile it was, how him and Nesta had unlimited potential to let it down. He’d just never really considered it as a separate entity, one comprised of him and Nesta and a whole component that would be uniquely its own.

He swallowed over the lump in his throat. “You’ve seen a vision of the future then?”

“Oh yes,” Elain replied and Cassian watched as she ambled about his room looking at every artifact she could see, her fingers touching every surface.

“Is she smiling in this vision of yours?”

“Nesta? Oh yes. The baby smiles a lot too. It’s very loved.”

“Good, that’s.... good.” He said the words flippantly, as though his heart weren’t pounding in his chest again, as though the spots of light hadn’t re-entered his line of vision. “Am I in this vision?”

Elain stopped in her meandering and turned to face him, those deep brown eyes of hers, bottomless with what they could now see, scanned his face. “It depends Cassian.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want to be.”

He’d had enough debates with Rhys and Az on fate versus free will to last him a thousand lifetimes over, often with him arguing the power of the Mother. In this moment he would argue the other way. The future was in the hands of those who would carve it out for themselves.

“Yes, I do,” he replied. “It’s taken me too long to realise it.”

“It took the time it needed.”

Cassian wanted to reassure Elain that he was ready and if there were times he wasn’t then he would make himself ready.

He wanted to say that he would always defend Nesta, he should have always defended Nesta and that he would murder and maim before he let anyone rip Nesta and their baby away from the place Nesta considered home and that included those he considered family.

He didn’t say all this because he suspected Elain already knew and besides, those words needed to be for someone else.

Before he left, he turned to Elain as she stood, having moved to the window next to him to watch the first flakes of snow.

“I hope-” he began and trailed off. “I mean for you and Lucian that-” again he stopped. Words weren’t his strength. Elain didn’t turn around but he saw her nod and a slight smile in the reflection of the glass.

It was a smile that spoke of war yet to come.

***

The wilderness was covered with blankets of thick white snow and spiked patterns of frost. Icicles hung from the branches of the forest trees and the ground was long in its sleep, not a trace of life to be seen.

The flakes that swirled around him as he flew caught in his hair and eyelashes until all he saw were blurs of white.

To say not a trace of life was incorrect because life bloomed in the cottage in front of him. Smoke billowed from the chimney and lights shone from every window lighting up the place like a solstice tree against the darkening sky.

Cassian squeezed the satchel strap until his knuckles turned white before he took a deep breath and strode forward. He felt himself pass though the magic barrier, the one that shielded Nesta from unwanted visitors, the one she’s turned on him all those months ago.

He didn’t know whether the shield for him was down recently or had been brought down months ago. He was too ashamed to ask.

The air shifted as he neared the cottage, she knew he was here, probably had done since he landed. It was possible she knew the second he left Velaris. As he neared it, he could see the door was slightly ajar. Nesta may not be greeting him with open arms but in her way, this was gesture enough.

Much had changed inside.

The piles of books that threatened to crush a fae under their groaning weight had been cleared away and stacked onto bookshelves. The knives that casually adorned the butchers block had been tidied away out of sight.

The fire crackled and spat behind an iron gate and a pile a green wool lay strewn onto the sofa, two knitting needles embedded into the skein. Part of the wool had already transformed into a bootie for a foot and the shape of a leg was forming.

Cassian wandered over, picking it up between his fingers and marvelled at how soft it was against the calluses of his fingertips and how small it sat in the palm of his hand. I’ll protect you, he thought, me and your mama and there’s no one more formidable.

Maybe his thoughts were a beacon for all to hear but there was a clunk of a door latch and Nesta once more emerged from the room that was now the nursery.

If Cassian thought the cottage was much changed, it was nothing in comparison to his mate before him. Nesta’s hair seemed longer but that could have been because it was loose down her back and not braided into its usual coronet.

Her hair tumbling in waves also made her face appear softer and rounder or at least that’s what Cassian thought until he realised that Nesta’s face was softer and rounder. Her sharp cheekbones may have been less pronounced but her skin glowed as though a flame was lit within her.

The greatest change was, of course, her stomach.

Even if Cassian had wanted to continue avoiding the evidence of his impending fatherhood he wouldn’t have held much of a chance. Nesta’s stomach protruded from her slight frame and straining against the fabric, the impression of her belly button pressed against the material. Cassian found himself fascinated at how glorious it looked.

Something else was edging its way in now, pushing down the shame and fear. The primal, ferocious part of him that existed was screaming to snatch Nesta away and carry her somewhere even more secluded then where she currently was.

He was still staring at her belly, still holding the woollen sock when Nesta’s hand came to rest on her stomach followed by a not so subtle cough.

Desperately shoving the nerves down, he looked back at her face. The softening of her face and glow of her skin hadn’t dampened the sharpness residing within. Her eyes were tired but not sad, a resolve existing in them that whatever happened with Cassian, whether he was there or not, she would be.

Cassian opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping in the air unable to find the words that would ever convey how sorry he was.

Nesta just fixed him with a stare before she spoke. “I was going to make some stew. Are you staying for dinner?”

He stammered out a confirmation and watched as Nesta’s eyes flitted down to where he still clutched onto the sock before she turned away.

Though the cottage was small and the physical distance between them minimal, Cassian felt the gulf.

Sorry, he wanted to say. Please forgive me, was the other. If she wanted nothing to do with him or if she wanted him to have nothing to do with their child it was within her right even if both those decisions would smash what was left of his heart.

Nesta began chopping vegetables in silence and Cassian finally put down the sock and the satchel and turned towards the nursery.

From the corner of his eye he saw Nesta pause as he approached its door.

“May I?” he asked and she nodded without looking, continuing with her task.

The room had been filled with more items than when he’d last seen it. The lace curtains still adorned the window but now fae lights twinkled around the pane and Cassian could see snowflakes as they danced and twisted in the air.

The rooms dusty, unlived smell had completely disappeared to be perfumed with both with Nesta’s scent and that of a bouquet of flowers sat on a table and enchanted to permanently bloom.

Cassian recognised it from Elain’s kitchen, the very ones she was arranging when he visited. He thought of the peach petals of the flower she gave him and how vibrant and alive it looked next to his leathers.

The bookcase was now filled with books, all bound in cream, yellow and green and clearly recognisable as children’s stories from the Night or Day Court. There were a few that Cassian didn’t recognise but he knew enough to understand they were from the Mortal Lands.

The ones that had a shelf of their own; bashed and burnt edged, tarnished and worn with dark brown leather trims were unmistakably Illyrian.

Even though she couldn’t be sure that Cassian would be there, even though he couldn’t have been sure he would, Nesta still found a way to secure items from half their child’s heritage.

The rocking chair was now prepped with a cushion and the crib, still the most prominent feature in the room waited patiently for its impending occupant. A mobile of stars and winged creatures hung down above the centre and swayed when Cassian trailed his fingers over it.

He’d missed so much already; he’d almost missed so much more. The fear was there but next to it, deep in his belly, now lived something else. Excitement had started to take shape.

When he returned to the kitchen he strode to where Nesta stood as she buttered bread and pretended to ignore him.

“Nesta,” he murmured and she paused. Her face had affected an air of disinterest but her hand trembled as she held the knife and he remembered months ago when her clenched fists did the same.

How had he been so stupid? In his previous terror he mistook those signs for rage and yes, she had been angry, but there was the undercurrent of something else. She’d been terrified too, still was, and he’d let his own fear confirm hers.

“Nesta,” he said again and turned her so that she faced him, their bodies so close that her full belly brushed against his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on a point on his chest.

But she wasn’t pulling away.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he said and reached forward to cup her face in his hands. Nesta closed her eyes and a solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Such a fool,” he repeated as he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, caressing it against her cheek.

Nesta let out a shaky sigh and nodded and that seemed to break her, a sob wrenching its way free from her mouth.

He pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms and revelled in her presence, her scent, her everything. Another sob came from her mouth, pressed against his chest and he heard her muffled voice, “Stupid hormones.”

***

They sat side by side on the couch in front of the fire. Their bowls lay empty on the floor and Cassian’s bare foot rested against Nesta’s as she tucked herself next to his body. He played with a strand of her hair, twisting it in his fingers and watched as her eyes grew heavy until they closed, her hands resting on her belly.

The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and although he didn’t want to interrupt their fragile peace, he knew he needed to.

“Nesta,” he began and felt her tense by his side. “I need to-”

“It’s fine,” she said sharply, cutting him off. Although she had let him back into her home there was still ice left to thaw. He could leave it, accept the battle was done but he knew the hurt he’d caused would fester. Someday, maybe not soon, but someday, the wound that Nesta hastily patched up would only re-open.

As Cassian was the cause of that wound he needed to ensure he healed it.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know my father. I imagined to myself that he was an exalted Illyrian warrior, maybe even Illyrian royalty, and it was war or some other disaster which tore him away from the female he loved. I convinced myself he’d died, either fighting or fighting to get back to her.”

Nesta remained silent but Cassian continued.

“I also managed to convince myself that he would have thought my mother’s pregnancy the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he was overjoyed with his peasant female and the son she would give him. I always hoped, if he had died, his dying thoughts were of us.”

Cassian stared into the flames behind the grate.

“They were the wishes of a child. My father either didn’t know she was pregnant with his bastard or didn’t care. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was one of the best warriors we’ve ever had, he fucked a launderess in a camp and that’s where it ended.” Saying the words out loud caused a different kind of ache in his heart but to move forwards, he had to close the past.

“If he knew she was pregnant,” he continued, “then it didn’t matter - he left us. I told myself I would never do that and yet, that’s exactly what I did.”

Nesta let out a shaky sigh. Cassian continued to let the strand of hair twirl between his fingers, the firelight shading it a brilliant copper.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he admitted. “I was scared – am still scared – that I’m going to ruin both your lives. I shouldn’t have run. I still don’t know how to be a father but I’m not going to run again.” Cassian placed a kiss on the top of Nesta’s head. “I will always be sorry.”

Nesta let out another sigh and turned in his arms to face him. “Cassian,” she began and glanced away to take a breath before facing him again.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared. My parents were present but they were never really there. You know about my father and my mother – she loved my father deeply but she resented having children. I’m scared that I’m like her and the way I was with Feyre...” she trailed off and Cassian saw her throat bob as she swallowed.

“You were a different person then. You and Feyre have made amends.”

Nesta shook her head. “When she sent me to the camps, I hated her. Hated her. Back then I would have done anything to tear her life apart.” She looked at him, reaching forward to clasp his hands in hers.

“That feeling’s gone, I’m just so tired now. Except...” Nesta took another breath. “It was something you said, about needing to speak with Rhys. I was terrified that Rhys and Mor would take my baby away. I was scared you and Feyre would let them.” She looked away again, her eyes someplace other than the room. “I knew what I would have done to you all if you tried.” A smile briefly touched her face.

Decades had passed since Cassian watched her hack at the neck of Hybern until the gristle and bone finally snapped. She’d held the severed head in her hands, her face splattered with blood and a smile, wide and ghastly, stretched across her face. It was the shadow of that smile that appeared now.

Cassian thought back to the recent conversations with Mor and Rhys, how Rhys was willing to use his authority as High Lord to bend Nesta to his will.

Even though Cassian had once wanted her in Velaris, had tried to convince her it was the right place, had considered that her and the baby should be made to live there, he would never have allowed it.

Nesta never would have allowed it.

He looked down at his hands, currently clutched in Nesta’s. His own blood had run down his knuckles and into the ground. He had wrapped those hands around the throats of traitors, had used those hands to wield blades, slicing them into the guts and hearts of enemies. His first kill was a throat split so wide he’d almost severed a head himself. He pictured the faces of his friends, the fae he had called family. If any one of them had tried to take Nesta’s baby away from her, Cassian wouldn’t have just let the rampage happen, he would have joined in.

“You’re not your mother,” he told her, flipping their hands so hers were now clutched in his. His calloused thumbs caressed her soft skin. “I’m not my father. This baby is ours, no one else’s.”

“I know,” she looked at him with fierce eyes, “I would take down anyone who would try and take it away from me. Even you.”

“I would never do that,” he said, “I promise.” He kissed the top of her head again and she let out another sigh, this one so soft it was barely audible. Cassian took a moment to breath in her scent before shifting to the satchel he brought with him, his stomach twisting.

Nesta slid away, so that she faced him, eager to see what he was doing.

The leather was old and worn but it was sturdy, protecting its plethora of contents over numerous centuries and now protected the precious gift Cassian had brought back with him from Velaris. The parcel he pulled out was misshapen and wrapped in plain linens tied with brown string but he hoped the contents would be significantly more impressive. He cleared his throat and held it to Nesta. “It’s for you,” he said. “Well actually the baby.”

Nesta took the parcel from him and unwrapped it with careful hands, a gasp escaping her. Cassian knew that Nesta was intrinsically aware of what this was, of what this meant to him.

Even after all this time the blanket was soft. The edges may have been a little frayed but nothing that was detrimental, it was still a good blanket. The colour was a light dove grey and, embroidered in a dark thread, were the symbols for growth, strength and health.

“It’s an Illyrian baby blanket,” Nesta breathed.

Cassian nodded, his eyes not leaving her face. “Yes, mine.”

It was the only item his mother left with him at the training camp. She’d given the instruction to hide it and hide it well as the others would assume it as a sign of weakness. Cassian did exactly as he was told, burying it beneath a tree and only digging it up when the training camp moved to new ground.

For him it wasn’t a sign of vulnerability, it was a vestige, the last sacred remnant that someone had loved him. Now it was to be gifted onwards, now he had someone extra to love.

Nesta’s smiles were delicate things that could be snared by a passing doubt or remembered fear and which left her face almost as soon as they appeared. This smile, this wonderous smile now present, would be etched into Cassian’s memory forever.

“I don’t want the baby growing up without experiencing some of Velaris,” he said, “and I want it to see the Steppes but it’s going to be spending a lot of cold winters here. Even early spring has a bite so I decided it needed something warm.”

Nesta bundled the blanket up and touched the fabric to her face, rubbing it against her skin as if to test the softness.

“I want the baby to live where you’ll be most happy,” Cassian continued. “I would like to live where you’ll be most happy. Perhaps I could, in time?”

Nesta shot him a sly look. “Perhaps,” she said, “in time.” Cassian watched as she buried her nose in the blanket, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “It smells of the sky somehow,” she said, “and the woods. It smells like you. Thank you.”

Nesta put the blanket down and leaned forward, kissing Cassian gently. His heartbeat raced in his chest like it always did when their lips touched.

She reached forward and took his hand placing his palm over the girth of her belly, resting hers on top. When she pressed in slightly there was a movement in response, a shifting of life that had been disturbed and so it kicked out in protest.

Cassian gasped. “That’s....”

“A foot,” Nesta continued, “she’s a kicker.”

Cassian grinned as he felt the kick again imagining small toes pressing against the inside of Nesta’s belly. “Wait,” he said as Nesta’s comment dawned on him, “she?”

“Yes, we’re having a girl.”

There was nothing he could say to that. A new fear now existed, to be a father of a daughter, to have two strong willed females in his life who would present him with new challenges that he couldn’t begin to fathom. The fear was part of the process, he knew this now, it would make him work harder.

Cassian would let fear sharpen him, make him stronger.

“We’re doing this,” he said, “we’re doing this together.”

Nesta smiled again, her fingers clasping round his.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “together.”

[dreamiesdotcom]

carpe diem | n.jm

summary: You both are the only people in the world, and it is be true; maybe it is. Maybe it isn't — maybe you don't need it to be. It feels real, so it is real, and even if you are lying to yourself as you say it, nobody has to know. Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Make the most out of the present moment. Trust the angel to say to you the filthiest of lies he's held on his tongue. Fall in love with Na Jaemin.

word count: 2689

a/n: yo :') me has been inactive but this has been requested based on this and I always thought that this blurb is too vague to understand, so here I thought 'why not?' because, you know, yOu gOtTa sEiZe tHe oPpuRtunIty (to procrastinate) (really tho) (i wrote this in one sitting but only bc i procrastinated it for a day and five hours)

Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Make the most out of the present moment. Sit inside your local library as soon as it opens, don't leave your favorite cafe until it closes at noon. Read aloud poetry, write excerpts on tissues, leave it for another person to see. Fold paper stars. Hang neon moons. Run barefooted on forests or just around your room, stargaze or just look up the sky. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Have your heart broken. Be completely in love with your best friend.

To be at the brink of sleep is the saddest and happiest feeling you can feel when it's late-night; to know that you're finally going to be able to rest, to remember why it is that you struggle to do so anyway. The clock glares 3:34 a.m and it's the time where your demons ring the loudest, sharp murmurs drowned by muffled sobs. Your phone jolts you awake when it vibrates.

From: Jaem ^^

You up?

It should annoy you, really, but it doesn't. By the time you're done typing, you're already reaching out for your jacket and your purse.

To: Jaem ^^

I don't quite seem to know... am I?

It's a numb feeling that you get when you meet him outside. Jaemin looks wonderful even in his hoodie, his hair a mess he didn't bother fixing. He's beautiful, and it's tragic because you just want him to leave. That's all you can think of when he smiles and cups your cheeks, "I can't sleep. Stay up with me?"

When he stares at you like that, he sees the answers he wants but he remains trying to look unassuming — an image of pure, honest, and genuine innocence; a lie he often makes. You close your eyes to hide, soaking up the lovely feeling of being able to breathe; Are you underwater? Are you jumping along with blue skies? Are you in Neverland? You aren't really sure— you couldn't care less that you're uncertain which and where to compare this feeling to. His gaze softens, "You are so, so pretty. Can I kiss you?"

He traces his thumbs against your cheeks, and it urges you to look and see but you're so afraid of what you'd find behind his mask. It doesn't matter anyway, not when right now, it's only Jaemin and you existing. All you could think of is that if you try hard enough, if you imagine real hard enough, it will be true. That you could live in that thought — you both are the only people in the world, and it will be true.

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't — maybe you don't need it to be. It feels real, so it is real, and even if you are lying to yourself as you say it, nobody has to know. Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Make the most out of the present moment. Trust the angel to say to you the filthiest of lies he's held on his tongue.

"Of course," you would have almost begged had he not asked. "Of course you can."

When you can’t let yourself fall but you do anyway, when you can't admit to wanting someone fully, when you're three steps away from safety so you build walls to guard you — when you aren't brave enough to dream, when you pretend not to yearn, when you end up wanting less, what you do is lie. You lie. You lie although wanting less hurts, and wanting less is unstable, and wanting less just makes you want to want more.

You lie.

"I have never been," he gasps and then smiles as he yet again presses a warming kiss against your lips, "so desperately in love."

You lie when you don't dare want — at least, that's what Jaemin does. It's okay, though; it is, because you will always allow him. Because you will always let him. Because you can never deny him. Because you will always want what he wants, too. You ignore the bile coating your mouth and head home with cold fingers.

###

Is love even ever sane? When you think about it, nothing really is. Rewrite that: is love even ever safe?

Jaemin has gravity, and all it does is keep you from running. You try to walk away to save yourself but you can't; you try to show him how cold your heart can get but the ice melts when his fingers run down your spine. His eyes glint in the dark. Unfold for me, it seemed to say, the taste is bitter but chase it. Chase it anyway. And you do. You chase it.

Perhaps it's not love. Perhaps it's just you. Whatever the case, all of it boils down to one conclusion: you're in danger.

"Jaemin?" You call, the both of you lost somewhere in the middle of highs and lows of sharing a deep, passionate, and confusing kiss. You smile sweetly and cup his cheeks when he responds with a smile just as saccharine, and you whisper, "I hope you think of me."

He makes a confused but endeared sound, and you laugh a little.

"I hope you think of me all the time and it fucks you up."

Somehow that makes him want to kiss you more, and who are you to deny him and how are you going to do that when he's on it now and it's all you ever wanted? Chase it. Chase it. Chase his lips when it leaves yours because you are his hostage but he is trapped. Chase his lips because this might be the last time and all you want is to be his ghost, to be the name he calls for even when he's with someone else, to be the only one he feels even when others touch him. Chase his lips until he puts pressure on your waist so that he could go back to the shore, breathe a fresh set of air.

Jaemin runs a hand through his hair, catching his lips between his teeth as he prepares himself for sincerity; it seemed like a lie, but it doesn't go away long enough that you know it's true when he nods — "You fuck me up all the time."

###

"It's two a.m and I'm on my fourth coffee because, you know, Carpe Diem!"

You grimace, "Stop using Carpe Diem to excuse your stupidity."

Jaemin doesn't laugh, but he flashes that half-smile he knows drives you wild. The cafe is quiet as it holds no one but the two of you, the barista and the student at the counter — the sound of coffee brewing fills the void of your silence, but it's quickly muffled out by Jaemin's sudden chuckle.

"Might mess around and kiss you." He rests his chin on both his palms, caught in a reverie and actually thinking about it. He sighs dreamily, "The ultimate Carpe Diem."

"Dumbass." He laughs more at your bemused tone, but you don't. It's not funny. "What, you think I'm easy? What am I to you, 'min?"

It's an unnecessary outburst. You could let him have you just like always and it will be done, it will be over, you can forget it. You could let him kiss you just like how you want it and you could move on with the moment but for heaven's sake, you don't want to. It is an unnecessary outburst, but God, this unnecessary is so needed at the moment.

"Tell me." Your breath hitches in your throat as you whisper, "I want to hear what I know directly from your lips. Tell me."

Tell me you don't love me. Tell me that you're just lonely. Tell me that I am nothing but an anchor to hold onto when it's midnight and you're way too cold to be warm. Tell me all the cruel things you refuse to say because maybe what I need so badly is to see you be the liar I know you are.

"There are things that we don't need to say out loud."

A shiver runs up your spine at his smile, and you look away. Genuine is not what you need, but at the same time what you need is the truth — for him to be cruel — so that you could run, so that you could have a reason to run, so that you could convince yourself that you have a reason to run. You have been too willing to bend to his needs, to lose sleep, to lose yourself; what you need is to have a reason to try not to love him, which is to say that you do.

"And sometimes, those things are all that we need to hear so we stop being confused." You return his fond gaze, fingers moving to caress his cheeks, "I'm done trying to guess if you want me because you love me or you're just with me because I'm convenient."

Sometimes you wonder why it is that he has to lie; why does he need to tell you things he doesn't feel? But oh, on some days, you feel like he's not lying anymore. Those days hurt the most. Everything hurts with Jaemin. Everything is painful and beautiful with him.

You shut your eyes, fists clenched — "I'm going home."

At the end of it all, you know that one of you is bound to be either the bomb, or the casualty.

###

"Open the door or you'll have to buy a new one tomorrow," is the threat that makes you let your best friend in even with a heavy heart. To be fair, the door is a beautiful one. You kind of think it's not worth getting the hardest question at the moment, though, when Donghyuck finishes his glass of water and suddenly asks; "Love letters can only keep your heart beating so long, what is so difficult to understand with that?"

He has a way of being blunt, and mostly it's not the best attribute he holds. Donghyuck has been careful with you in all aspects except the thing about Jaemin; he hates him with all he is, and that is odd because your best friend used to love the other. They had dance class together and were even in a team together until you two started hanging out and Donghyuck left; to keep you away, he said. He's no good for you, he said. It was everything but fair but you understand. Dance is one of Donghyuck's many dreams and if he quits it for this reason, you think it's pretty valid. Unnecessarily overdramatic, but still valid.

"I said, what is so difficult to unders—"

"None!" you hiss. "Heaven, Hyuck, none at all! Do you think I'm dumb? Of course, I know that!"

"Then why do you keep holding on?"

Why.. Would it disappoint you less if I tell you that at this point, I don't even know anymore? Because I do know, but the reason is probably better unsaid.

"It's all I have," you whisper, feeling smaller and smaller as time passes. You bite your lips to stop your sobs, "It's all he could give."

"All he wants is to break your heart."

"Then he got what he want," You wipe away your tears. Donghyuck laughs coldly; it's the last thing you need and it runs you over like a car on full-speed, washing over you like cold water. The sad song thrums in your veins. "He gets what he wants every second of the day."

He doesn't even need to ask, but I'll give him the entire world. If I can not give him the entire world, I would give up my whole being. Why would you think that I wouldn't let him break my heart every breath I take?

"He tells you he loves you because he can't accept those words as things he wants to say to Jeno — he does to you everything because he can't admit to himself that it's all he wants to have with Jeno." His brows furrow, "He's in love with Jeno and he can't accept that. He's with you because everything would be easier if he was in love with you instead, but he's not, and he's lyin— why can't you see that?"

But you can see it, it's about as clear as day. It shines above you like the sun and it touches you like ice against your skin, it's a book laid down without all the other riddles. You don't know why you stay — maybe it's his laughs, or his kisses, or his company, or your feelings. Maybe it's everything all at once.

"People see what they want to see," your voice breaks alongside your heart. "Perhaps, I am blind with him, Lee Donghyuck."

###

There's a place where reality is a bit altered and it's everywhere with him.

Maybe it was his bright eyes. Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it's the way he was your home someway; with him it's lightweight, with him it's all happy and too perfect for the both of you. Maybe it's his lies and the way they tangle almost seamlessly, perfect enough that it seems real.

There was a time back then, a faraway memory. The first time you two slept side-by-side, he laid beside the window, and the moon casted pristine shadows on his face. His hair was blonde then, and you both loved and hated the way it fanned like a halo as he laid against the silk-covered pillow. He was sleepy, and you do not know if the moment was meant for you, but it was also the first time he kissed you, and he asked you if you wanted him to love you more.

Yes, you said, testing the waters. Yes, you said, because it is what you want.

He laughed then and he opened his eyes, holding galaxies and untold stories; feelings that are yet to be put into words. "But I do know that I love you too much now, and it would ruin me to love you any more. It would break my heart if it beat for you faster. Do you want that?"

At that point you knew that it wasn't you he's seeing in his head, but yes, you still said, trying to know more. Yes, you still said, because maybe if you pretended hard enough, it will be true. It will be for you.

Jaemin's skin was akin gold, his lips reminding you suspiciously of cherries. "Good," he whispered with his voice something that should be God forbidden, addicting and sticking to you like remnants of honey, "I want that too."

That was place number one; that specific moment in his bedroom that changed your world for the best or the worst. This is place number two, standing somewhere unfamiliar, with him the dullest star you've ever seen. Only three months have passed when you ghosted him and you think he could qualify as a stranger, but he's all too familiar even when he's so... so different. Jaemin's eyes are tired, his skin pale. His smile remains radiant and smug, as blue as his dyed hair, worn in that kind of lazy way he always does.

He laughs, "Missed me?"

You shake your head, "No."

And with that came a step, and with that step you let the truth burn your throat in a manner so similarly strong and unpleasant as your first drink. You step on your feelings, the real ones, and you keep your gaze indifferent. The words echoed in your head as if to taunt you to say them, and you thank the moon that before you could, he crashes his lips with yours.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Make the most out of the present time. Run around in circles, pick your poison, pin wildflowers to your hair. Open a book and hide behind it. Adore a hopeless flame — know that you are running out of forever, be a ticking time bomb. Let this be good, maybe not great nor sweet, but let it be good and temporary. Know that someday you'll need something more than the blurred lines between lies and reality, feelings, or just the need for company. Fall in love with Na Jaemin.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter iv. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional bagge, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2100

chapter 4.  How’m I Doing

They say all that ever matters is timing.  You think they must be right - because no matter how good you've always been together, the timing is just never right.

He's awake before you and for once, he doesn't mind how his internal clock has him stirring before the sun has risen. It gives him time to linger here, where he belongs.

It feels oddly domestic, his arm hooked around the pillow and the other barely breaching the divide between you.�� Tips of fingers ghost over where you'd be if you only shifted an inch, trailing through the heat radiating off your frame.  He exhales a sound like frustration but there's only warmth in his mouth, peeking past his teeth like rays of sunlight.  

Like this, Jungkook allows himself to daydream.  To imagine endless summer skies and you weight of your hand in his, laughter curling out of your mouth like smoke and filling the space until he's drunk on the sound.  He drifts between your cotton candy smile, so saccharine sweet it gives him toothaches, and the feel of your hip nudging his through choreography he'd love nothing more than to practice with you.  (You'd hate it - two left feet, you'd argue - but he'd insist.  You'd always say yes.)

He closes his eyes and it's you at his side, keeping him anchored to this reality he's so often surprised by.  It's you laughing with Hoseok, bursting into an impromptu slide and disappearing behind fingers when he's focused his lens on you.  It's the two of you in the kitchen, adjusting to each other with practiced ease and cowering when Seokjin reminds you both of the burning banana pancakes.  It's you swiping the rain from his eyes, pulling him beneath a shared umbrella while the sky opens above you, so heavy it sinks into your bones.

He imagines being swept away during the holidays, Christmas shopping in between trying on silly costumes, elf-hats pulled low over your ears.  He kisses you at midnight on New Years and he nearly forget about the fireworks going off above your heads - there are enough of those between you.  He finds your face in a sea of thousands, serenades you like there's nothing else in the world.  

He daydreams about all the things he's never had.  

(Whoever said daydreams hurt had never dealt with a reality like this.)

 You're studying his face like a woman possessed, as if maybe, just maybe, you could burn this image into your mind for the rest of your days.  That it could be your saving grace when he's halfway across the world and you're reminded that you're alone again.  

You memorize the slope of his nose and the gentle curve of his lips, the way the little freckle smack dab in the centre draws your attention without even trying.  You examine the way his lashes flutter with each breath, the way his forehead tenses here and there, brows drawn together by something you wish you could smooth away.

You want to give him the world. 

Instead, you're gingerly reaching out, puppeteered by your quick-beating heart.  

It feels like electricity shooting through your veins, igniting your bloodstream as the tips of fingers graze his temple.  You touch him like he's precious, crystal, about to shatter into a million pieces.  Within your brassy broken cage of bones, your heart skips a beat.  You withdraw--

"Don't stop."  He's caught your wrist in the same moment you've pulled away.  He's pleading, hopeful and sweet.

When you card through his powder puff of hair, a smile spreads like butter, too big for his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.  A hum of contentment parts his lips and he's leaning into your touch, seeking warmth like a sunbathing cat.  You gladly oblige him, alternating between stroking the swell of his cheek, doodling nonsense into the margins of his skin, and sweeping his mop of brunette behind his ears.  

You stay like this for minutes that stretch on in silence - only broken by a vibration of his phone.

"You have to go," you speak the words faintly, muffling the sound against your pillow.  You know how you sound - disappointed and just a little petulant.  You don't mean to.  

He hums, as he always does, and catches your fingers in his own.  His large palm engulfs yours but your fingers, long and thin from years of piano practice, easily combat his.  You giggle once, soft and low, as he twines them together, gently knocking yours - his? - knuckles against your chin.

"I do."  It's like a nail in a coffin, the finality of it.  "Why don't you come by later?  Everyone will want to see you."

The thought makes you smile despite yourself.  You'd missed them, too.  "Okay."

Your acquiescence seems good enough for him and he's bright-eyed and bunny smiled, mouth splitting wide.  He's still got your hand in his, refusing to let go as he rises up, holding himself comfortably upon one elbow.  There's emotion in the way he looks at you, takes in the way your bangs drift hazy over your vision and your teeth worry your bottom lip with self-conscious abandon. 

"You'll be okay, you know."  His reassurance is stronger than the sun's rays, more concrete than the ground beneath your feet.  It's equal parts a statement and a promise.  He'll make sure you're okay - he always has.

Because he's the person who dives without thought, swimming among the shipwrecks in your eyes.  He's the one who has always brought the light to those cracked hulls and broken boughs.  He's ignored the swirling void and gnashing teeth, refusing to leave behind the buried treasure he knows sits beneath the trench.  He'll pull you to the surface, even if it means drowning in your ocean. 

"I know - I have you."  

 Once he's called for a car and you've both brushed your teeth, you wait outside the front door together.  You're sipping at coffee - or trying to - and he's leaning on the railing, light bathing his handsome face in a way that makes your heart stop.

He was your best friend but you'd be lying if you said he wasn't breathtaking.

"We've got meetings until about 3 PM.  I'm not sure what's going on after that but you can probably just come by then."  Jungkook is studying his phone, scrolling through unread messages and deftly ticking back responses.  He's got his bag hiked over his shoulder, lighter now that he's unloaded your souvenirs, and seems perfectly at ease.  Without glancing up, he's holding out a hand for your mug of coffee.  You pass it to him without a word, watching the way the steam curves  around powdery skin and drifts into the early morning.

He takes a sip, nose wrinkling in that distinctly Jungkook way, and hands it back to you.  "Too hot."

"I could've told you that,"  you murmur around a mouth of beguiling laughter, happily returning both cold palms to the ceramic.  Heat warms you to your core as you drag your lips through scalding liquid once more, staring at him unabashedly.

"What?"  He notices - of course he does - and levels you with what's meant to be a demanding stare.  Perhaps it would be, if not for the way his expression splits in half, suspicious facade giving way to a smile that could only be described as beautiful.  "Soomi-ah, you know it's rude to stare."  And there's that bunny quality, two front teeth standing center stage.

"I'm just glad you're home." 

He scoffs to hide the sudden rouge that colours his cheeks, tinges the tops of his ears.  He's immediately pulling you against his side, careful not to dislodge the cup from your hands.  It's silly, the bashfulness that rises in his chest and settles like an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders. 

Jeon Jungkook was many things but shy wasn't one of them - not really. 

He'd grown into his long limbs and wicked smile, frighteningly aware of the effect he had on most people.  He'd learnt to command it, switch it on and off so quickly it'd cause whiplash.  Gone was the timid fifteen year-old, replaced by a larger than life idol with a pouty mouth and a body that could make you cry.

But that was only out there - to them, the people who loved him and his hyungs unconditionally. 

Here, with you, he was just Kookie. Even if you rarely used the nickname now. 

(You said it didn't belong to just you two anymore, and he supposed that was true.  He wasn't just yours anymore.)

"I'm always just a phone call away," he murmurs into the top of your head.  He's said it once and he'll say it again, even if you don't believe him.  He knows it's just your stubborn nature that keeps you rooted in place, refusing to take up any more space in his life.  He also knows you'd call if you really needed him.  You always did.

You nod, the only indication you've heard him.  You know, you know. 

"Your car's here."  

It's like the ending to a bittersweet fairytale - the strike of a clock at midnight. 

He squeezes you a little tighter and you allow yourself to loop an arm around his impossibly small waist, gently squeezing his hip.  Then he's gone, taking the steps two at a time as he bounds down to meet the sleek black sedan.  You're not sure who's in the driver's seat - whether it's one of the boys or a manager or someone else entirely - but you catch the way a hand pops out of the window.  A quick wave.  Someone you know, then. 

Right before Jungkook steps into the passenger seat, he's waving as well, wrist flailing like he's boneless.  "I'll see you later!"  He calls, disappearing inside and behind the shadow of a tinted glass.  You wonder if he even hears you when you call out.

"Bye, Bunny."

 "She's back home."  There's surprise lacing the rich baritone, turning the statement into a question as soon as Jungkook has slid across supple leather.

The younger man hums, slotting his backpack between his knees.  "Yeah, recently."  He doesn't offer anything more as he cards a hand through his hair and shifts to recline fully into the seat.  He's ready to head back to the complex and take a long hot shower and prepare for the day.  Hopefully there'll be something to eat, considering how early it is.  He's sure Seokjin will have whipped something up.

"We weren't sure where you ran off to so quickly but Yoongi-hyung had an idea."  

"Why would Yoongi-hyung think I was there?"  Jungkook doesn't have time to catch himself before the his words are rolling off his tongue, seemingly held by a string that furrows his brow.  He ignores the way Taehyung's own raise, disappearing into his carefully styled fringe.  

"They talk, you know."  Whatever sixth sense the elder has seems to drive him to continue his first though, molasses heavy on his tongue in an effort to smooth whatever feathers he's ruffled.  "We all do.  She's our friend, too."  A moment of silence as he rolls to a stop, nodding politely at the halmoni that is helped across the street by what he assumes is her grandson.  "Yoongi-hyung said she'd been sad lately, so he figured you'd want to see her as soon as we got back."

Jungkook isn't sure what the emotion clawing up his throat is or why it feels like bile and envy, licking acid over his vocal chords.  He doesn't even realize he's holding tension in a vice grip until he's loosening his hand, little crescent moons dug into the soft flesh of his palm.

He shouldn't be jealous.  He doesn't really even think he is jealous.

Hurt, maybe.  That makes more sense.

"Oh."  He wonders if it comes off poorly.  By the way Taehyung shifts in his periphery, he's sure it does.  

So he clears his throat and offers a contrite smile.  These are his hyungs, his best friends, his brothers.  He knows better.  He thinks you'd reprimand him if you caught him like this.  You'd tell him they were your friends, too, and that you could never have enough people who loved you.  You'd make a point about ARMY, about the people who've raised thousands of dollars in his name and wrote you letters thoughtful enough to make you breakdown.  He'd have to agree.

An abundance of love was the best problem to have.

"She's coming by later,"  Jungkook relents, lolling his head to the side as he speaks.

Taehyung beams, boyishly handsome and relieved by the melting tension.  Long fingers tap the stirring wheel as gears turn in his head.  He hasn't seen you in forever - ages longer than his maknae - and he can't help but imagine the ease with which you'll slot back into their lives.  Even if only for a little while.

"Great.  Let's keep it a surprise."

notes.   i realized i haven't been proofreading anything so i apologize for any mistakes littered through past chapters. i'm going to start planning out future ones so hopefully there will be more rhyme and reason moving forward. @-@ 

this chapter was heavily inspired by eric nam's "how'm i doing". https://youtu.be/D46_enlxfP8

[sugarfreecapsicle]

old magic (2/3)

A/N: well it is spooky time, my dudes. although this isn’t all that scary, it’s a little rattling. written for and with lots of support from @moonstruckbucky​ and her Halloween writing challenge!  As always, huge props to @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​ for beta-reading, helping me when I’m stuck, for adding the read more cut while I’m limited to mobile and for this gorgeous moodboard!

prince!bucky x reader

warnings: 18+ smut, angst, sub!bucky

DISCLAIMER: this is in no way a reflection of anyone who identifies, practices or otherwise affiliates with witchcraft. I bastardized some basics and ran with it. Please don’t come for me and correct my poor development of a fake magic system.

James stares in bewilderment at his trembling hand. Brow knits together in confusion, eyes dart quickly between the hand and your knowing smirk.

“A simple protection charm,” you answer. “No physical contact without my permission.”

He whines in the back of his throat, knees wobble as if a child in a tantrum. James had for the past week been a man in a desert in search of an oasis found only with you. Your skin, your body, so close and yet too far. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, desperate and wanting.

“Please.”

———————-

You’d bottle it if you could - the pretty keening of a desperate crowned prince, heir to the throne of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the realm. His right hand glides a short distance from your arm over your stomach to your shoulder to finally rest close enough to your cheek you can feel the warmth radiate from his palm.

“Please, love, let me touch you.”

The pet name unravels in your chest, tender, softer than you’d expected. You waver, a part of you moldable to his whims and pretty words, but the stronger part wills against such foolishness.

“And why should I allow it?”

The exasperation overflows into his posture - sagging shoulders, knees finally weighing him down to the floor, trembling hand weakly hovering over your hip and thigh.

“I ache for you in a way I have never longed for another,” he croons. “I fear if I cannot be with you, I may burst into flame. Without your love I will starve, waste away. Please, please don’t deny me.”

James leans in as if to place his forehead against your stomach and chokes on a whimper when he knocks against firm air guarding your bare belly. The tears dot his long eyelashes now, dangerously close to spilling out onto ruddy cheeks.

You crook a finger below his chin and direct his attention to your face once again - giving yourself ample time to appreciate each glimmer of desperation in his blue eyes.

“What kind of woman would I be to deny such lovely poetry?”

James’ entire body sags in relief, pushing out breath held deep in his lungs, chin pressing into your pinched finger.

You tsk quietly, and he startles.

“Conditions, my prince. Let me help you.”

James is astonished when he realizes belatedly you’ve touched him. The prince has never known a hunger like this - compelling, painful, obsessive. Since his resurrection, an event his father demanded be kept quiet, James only thought of the witch. Your beauty, your scent, your voice. An all consuming force. Compelled to go to you, must go to you, even if only to see you once more. No, even that would not be enough. He longs to touch you, to feel your skin against his. He wonders if it’s soft, supple, if it would bruise under his rough touch.

Would you keen, make noises in the back of your throat as he feasted upon you? Thoughts such as that surprised him. He is far from a blushing virgin, but he hardly ever fantasizes about tasting a woman. He wants to worship your body, bow down and pray at your altar, confess his transgressions, beg forgiveness. On his knees before you, James realizes the control he craves belongs to you, and pleasure washes over him as a wave in the sea.

How he stays upright on his feet without your constant aid, he’s unsure. An afterthought has both hands, flesh and metal reaching for you but without purchase.

“I can touch - you cannot,” you explain with a gentle shove against his thick chest.

The mattress on your bed is lumpy, scratchy - a far cry from his plush featherbed in the castle, but this foreign land of magic and lust erases any discomfort. His body simmers where your hands haven’t touched, blazes where they do. Careful, spindly fingers dance across his shoulders, chest, shivering stomach. Deft teasing, nails combing through wiry hair - he’s breathless.

His own hands betray him, reach for any part of you within inches of him but the damned charm holds true, keeping his fingertips close enough to feel heat but no friction. Unbearable torture for a man starved, deprived.

“What would you do, my prince, if you could touch me?” Even your words are made of sin. “Tell me. I do so love to hear your voice.”

James can barely breathe let alone form a sentence when your thighs flex against his hips. Dry lips babble out nonsense, his gaze focuses on your smug expression. Pouting mouth, mischief all over.

“I would- I’d, gods above, I’d bruise you, make you mine, anything to touch, please,” he whines, back arching for more of you.

“Should I not be afforded the same opportunity, James?”

He reels, explosions of desire barreling through him at the idea of your teeth biting into him, nails tracking pink lines on his chest and back. Willingly he would trade his family’s crest on his heart for your own mark.

A long drag of a single fingernail commands his body’s curved answer, stinging a trail from clavicle to hip. Sweat lightly covers him, his restraint on a fraying tether.

“Have I made you suffer? Am I too cruel a mistress?” Desperate eyes watch as you lift and align yourself with his pulsing need, red, angry, begging. “I can soothe your pains, my prince.”

Stars collide when he’s sheathed inside you, your clenches in time with the throbbing ache of him. Somewhere in the distance he hears blankets rip and tear by his own hands - the price of inability to touch you directly - and howls, all gravel and raw that eviscerate his throat.

With your palms splayed over his chest, at last comes a minute relief. Your touch ignites every nerve in his body, once dead alive again. Every shift and roll of your hips pulls cries of bliss from deep within him, and he catches a few soft moans from you.

The beauty of you writhing in sensual dance above him is obscene enough to make a harlot blush from head to toe. James understands now what it means to bed a woman, what he has been missing, why men flood brothels. Nothing compared.

“Oh, my prince,” you breathe against his lips, ghosting a kiss. “Come undone for me.”

Delayed only by a moment of your white hot climax and gnashing teeth against his lower lip, he releases, loses his vision behind a plethora of colors and whimsical patterns. His entire body stutters then falls loose to the bed, sated at last.

The required fire in the hearth crackles on long after the throes of passion dissipated. Delicate fingers wind and furl over tracked skin, broad chest heaving in breath. Cool metal plays at the small of your back affectionately.

“Tell me about your castle,” you offer, something to bring back the dazed prince. He inhales deeply, settles into the lumpy mattress.

“Old, wet, miserable.” The grin is all mirth in nostalgia, as if he could never return to a distant memory. “Why trouble yourself with such a thing as that? That place is nothing more than a prison of unhappiness.”

“It made you happy once.” Regret pricks at your heart briefly, but James seems undeterred.

“Once,” he allows. “Not anymore.”

You watch orange flame dance against the calm blue of his eyes, your prince’s mind taking him back to the castle, back to his proper life with a sardonic grin that you aren’t sure tells the truth.

“Did she make you happy?”

James shifts under your gaze, meeting it with all the wrong understanding.

“She could have, if Sophia had been you.”

The name halts your entire being, heart stopped, breath held. “Sophia?”

“The daughter of a land baron who owed great debt to my father. The marriage came to be since she was the only woman of title who could -“ James ends his retelling upon seeing your troubled expression. “Love?”

“James, I — there’s something I must consult with the Mother, don’t trouble yourself with awaiting my return,” you rush, saccharine and final. “Rest well, my prince, and I will be here when you wake.”

The ritual takes the remainder of your night, and exhaustion sweeps over you as the tears shed down your cheeks. Breathing hurts, air pulling tightly in your lungs in wheezes. James deserved this much. As did you.

Magic comes at a price.

[ko-fanatic]

Are You Sure This Isn’t The Black Magic Club? (part three)

Rating: Gen / Teen and Up

Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Pairing(s): KyoKao

Summary: If Kyoya didn't enjoy Kaoru's teasing, he simply wouldn't talk to him. Either that, or Kaoru was just a hopeful fool... (Halloween fic, witch!Kyoya, fae!Kaoru)

Other parts in this series: Part one / Part two

The full moon was beautiful, hanging in the inky night and almost seeming solitary, despite the multitude of stars. It was a night like this where you could see how the poets and authors of the past millennia regarded it as something so hauntingly romantic. A perfect night to text his pretty kitty and tease him a little, especially as the boy tended to be in good spirits due to both his rituals and the pure vitality the full moon seemed to give witches.

The same certainly wasn’t true of werewolves. Just thinking about the mood Tamaki would be in tomorrow, all sore limbs and teeth that were still a little too sharp, was enough to make him wince. At least Kyoya, despite his feline leanings, was more than adequate at keeping the mutt – princely though he may be – at bay. He’d never snap at the girls, or Haruhi, but as they all knew and were friends with him, they tended to be fair game.

He and Hikaru were certainly liable to be, well, the day’s dog food in Tamaki’s eyes. The teasing and taunts they’d hurl tended to put them on the firing line, Kyoya rolling his eyes and calling them idiots as he held back a snarling Tono. It wasn’t exactly their fault; it was a fae’s nature to be as much of a little shit as possible. Still, he felt bad that Kyoya was left gripping the metaphorical leash.

His phone chiming made him jump, too caught up in his musings and the near silence.

Pretty kitty: I’m finally done, what do you want?

Let it not be said that Kyoya minced words. Still, he found Kyoya's certain brand of embarrassed prickliness charming, personally; it was incredibly cute. Or maybe Hikaru was right when he called him weird. In all honesty, Hikaru thought he was weird just for having feelings for the cute witch at all.

It wasn't a fae thing, just a Hikaru thing. Apparently, the boy who braided flowers in his hair and drew up new sigils in his spare time was "dangerous". Sure, Kyoya was somewhat wily and sly, but certainly not malicious. The thing about witches was that they had conditions to live by; namely, not hurting anyone for fear of that bad karma returning three-fold.

Still it seemed like some people in their little friendship group forgot that. Haruhi didn't know, and therefore couldn't be blamed for believing Kyoya was just as meanspirited as his little shadow king persona.

The boy wasn't completely saccharine and soft, he knew that, but he also knew that there was more kindness and empathy behind those steely eyes than the other boy wanted to let on.

You: My, my, don't be so mean, senpai! Just wondering if you want to meet up at Mori-senpai's? I really fancy a run in the woods ~

Of course, he also fancied seeing the relaxed, carefree expression Kyoya usually wore when surrounded by the wild woods of the Morinozuka estate, but he didn't need to say that. The flirts were teasing, in character, but to be so openly adoring was... different. Too telling of his crush. Fuck it, his love at this point. He had to wonder if Hikaru's accusations of love charms and potions were based in some sort of reality.

Well, he supposed even if they were - unlikely - he was surprisingly happy to feel this way. It was warm, and comfortable. Most of the time, at least. There were moments when it became hot and sharp, stabbing him right through the heart, but it was worth it. It always would be, just to know Kyoya. Even if he had to take this secret with him his whole life, never breathing a word, it was more than worth his suffering to have such a perfect friend.

How sappy. Honestly, he shouldn't be surprised, he'd always been a romantic, but actually having someone to focus that sort of attention on made him spew sugary thoughts like no tomorrow. He supposed, as long as he kept them inside his head, it was fine to indulge them every so often.

Pretty kitty: That actually sounds really good. Give me about twenty minutes, and I'll meet you there.

You: That long, huh? :P

Pretty kitty: Not everyone can fly, asshole.

You: Lost your broomstick?

Pretty kitty: Fuck you

You: Fuck me yourself, coward

Pretty kitty: … ;)

Kaoru had to laugh. Kyoya, although he'd protest the accusation, loved their banter. He wouldn't talk to him if he didn't. That was the beauty of it, really. It wasn’t like he could be as annoying as he wished, or take advantage of the other boy, because Kyoya’s Goddess help him if he did, but… He liked the teasing. A lot.

Still, if Kyoya was going to take a little while to get there, he might as well go and make himself look a little more respectable, rather than just turning up in his pyjama pants and hoodie.

You: See you soon, kitty

A/N: Okay, here's the thing... This might be completely ignored for the foreseeable future. I'm just not having that much fun, I keep getting writer's block, and this just isn't that inspiring for me. If you want to do your own AUs based on this, you're more than welcome. If you want to talk to me about it, perfectly fine, but please don't expect more chapters - at least for now. Sorry guys. Hope you enjoy my other works, though! Let's be honest, I have more than enough lol

[afootnotetoallthisnoise-blog]

on ‘lady bird’, ‘love, simon’, and teenagers’ relationships on film

(Plug: this new YouTuber is way better at analysing film/TV than I am.)

I just watched Lady Bird and Love, Simon on a flight to New York, and since both films are deeply preoccupied with teenagers’ platonic, romantic, and familial relationships, I wanted to look at what I thought was original and fresh about these films’ perspectives – and what was more derivative and inauthentic.

i. parent-child relationships: attention and complexity

Lady Bird is centred around the titular girl and her developing identity, relationships and aspirations through her final year of high school. Easily the deepest and most emotionally arresting aspect of Lady Bird is Christine’s, or ‘Lady Bird’s’, relationships with her family, particularly her mother, Marion. This film works hard to expand a turbulent mother-daughter relationship past the simple archetypes of ‘moody teenage daughter’ and ‘unreasonable bitch mother’, into a more complex, three-dimensional whole which incorporates both the faults and the humanity that both characters have. Not only are both characters viewed singly as well as in relation to each other – LB is not solely ‘Marion’s daughter’, Marion does not solely exist as ‘LB’s mother’ – the film moves past a simply summed-up conflict into a more complicated picture, where both LB and Marion are driven by desires, fears and anxieties they can’t completely articulate to themselves, but which drive conflict both through difference in perspective and through inability to communicate.

There are painful, powerful, intense moments in Lady Bird where LB and Marion are struggling to communicate, to reconcile their differing views and convey themselves properly. LB’s confused but intense desire to go to New York, a place where she believes she will experience things which constitute ‘life’, exists alongside Marion’s grief at LB’s ostensible rejection of the life she has worked to give her, and neither are made out to be ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. They love each other deeply, but they can’t articulate the fears, anxieties, and stubborn desires which complicate their relationship, so their silent moments of shared, intense emotion – like the audiobook at the beginning of the film – are coupled with frustrated moments of crosstalk, mutual misunderstanding, hurt, affront, and anger. LB, as a self-centred, self-discovering adolescent, often fails to think about how her actions and speech are affecting her family, whilst Marion’s worry and care about LB manifest in being overly critical – she seems completely incapable of speaking positively to LB, including a deeply painful moment where she refuses to compliment LB’s prom dress.

They both reminded me of real people I know, real pangs of discomfort I’ve felt hearing a family friend speak slightly disparagingly about her daughter’s university chances, or an old acquaintance roll his eyes at his parents’ careful efforts to help him. It felt so refreshing seeing that complexity get handled on film – often parents are just supplementary figureheads in their child’s story (or vice versa), and if the film is interested in the parent-child relationship, it rarely gets its teeth into the sheer nastiness which can come out in certain parent-child relationships. There are, of course, teenager-centric films which get into complex parent-child dynamics – the differing burdens of childhood illness on parents and children, like in The Fault in Our Stars; parents’ work intersecting with children’s feelings of neglect, like in Coraline; radical inability to communicate or understand, e.g. The Virgin Suicides – but that richness of both love and frustration on both sides is a rare thing to see.

Love, Simon isn’t aiming to be as deep on this matter as Lady Bird, but it still has its own insights. Mostly Simon’s family is pretty happy and saccharine, but when Simon comes out, I think Simon’s father’s reaction – garbling a joke, panicking, leaving, shutting down – showed excellent acting and direction: it did what most good acting does, which is to break down a dichotomy of response (here, between the coming-out reactions of ‘I love you and everything’s fine’ and ‘BEGONE FROM THE PREMISES, DEMON GAY’). That confused, choked response conveyed the rush of forces acting on Simon’s father: desire to defuse the tension, desire to support, desire to downplay the situation, confusion, shock, grief at the reality of change, grief at the loss of a presumed similarity, grief that he hadn’t realised sooner. I’m sure more realistic reactions like that have happened in films before, but I haven’t personally seen any, and I found it refreshing: it broke down the scripted feel of both overly saccharine and uniformly harsh reactions, both of which close the door to further growth and development in the parents’ reaction to their child’s queerness.

ii. romantic relationships: centrality, development

In Love, Simon, there are tropes present, but I liked how it approached some aspects of teenagers’ romantic relationships. The ambiguity about Blue’s identity meant that we got a different model for how relationships can develop, pertinent in an age where dating is conceptualised as mainly visual (think the structure of apps like Tinder) and connection is determined through in-person interaction, but where, conversely, deep, lasting relationships have developed without that visual focus since the advent of the internet (through MMORPGs like World of Warcraft, for instance). The bit at the end was cheesy, but that’s what they were going for, and it was so sweet to watch.

Most of the other romantic stuff was pretty run-of-the-mill – the couple who like each other but things keep getting in the way; the unrequited crush; etc – but there’s one other aspect I’d like to mention, which is how Simon’s falling-out with his friends is handled about 2/3 of the way through the film. A less nuanced film would just have Abby, Leah, and Nick getting pissed that Simon meddled in Abby and Nick’s relationship, without them understanding about Simon’s bind due to Martin’s blackmail. But what I liked was that both Abby and Leah acknowledge the pressure that the blackmail put on Simon, but they make clear that it doesn’t excuse his disrespect for both Abby (by treating her like a ‘piece of meat’ to be given to Martin in exchange for his own safety) and Leah (by sending her on a date with a man he thought she loved, knowing that he wasn’t interested in her). It’s not the tired ‘it’s all a misunderstanding, guys’ conflict: they understand what happened, but they still argue that Simon’s disrespect for their own romantic lives and autonomy wasn’t okay.

While Love, Simon is dually focused on Simon’s coming out and his budding relationship – though the two threads aren’t separate – LB’s relationships in Lady Bird are significant but aren’t the central focus of the movie, which I liked; while it makes sense for a romantic relationship to be central to Love, Simon, since it’s a sensible mode within which to discover something like queerness (which is intrinsically tied up with your relationships to other people), Lady Bird’s focus on self-discovery works better with the romantic relationships not being central, otherwise it would perpetuate the tired stereotype that a woman’s ‘coming of age’ has to be pretty-much-entirely experienced through falling in love with a man. (It being central is fine, but I don’t like the implications that somehow, teenage girls cannot Mature into Full Human Beings unless a dude and his dick shows up.) LB’s two relationships are with the too-perfect-guy and the douchebag-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit, neither of which provide really new perspectives on teenagers’ romantic relationships – neither character has much depth in the film, either – but I thought the sex scene and its aftermath was very well done: LB’s recognition that the performative significance she’d given her first sexual experience was different from the reality, and her recognition that the guy she’d slept with wasn’t worth the language she’d inherited for it, rang very true. (Also, the situation bore out some excellent humour. ‘I was on top! Who the hell is on top for their first time?!’)

iii. friendships: the status problem

I think Lady Bird is a great film, but the part I found the least inspiring was LB’s friendship arc. I’m pretty sick of this formula: protagonist is best friends with good, loyal, but low-status friend/s -> protagonist manages to get in with the popular kids and abandons their low-status friend/s -> protagonist realises popular kids are shallow assholes and they’ve made a horrible mistake -> protagonist apologetically returns to low status friend/s, there is a bit of anger and conflict, but eventually they all make nice. I’m sick of it because I feel like it doesn’t ring true.

Now, I have been through secondary school, recently though not overly so (I graduated from sixth form in 2015). I know that status is a thing in secondary school and that it exerts an influence. But I dislike this ubiquitous storyline which implies that a) every school conforms to a rigid hierarchy of popularity and that b) literally everyone gives a shit about improving their status. I found Love, Simon’s group of four much more authentic in this regard: ultimately, Simon’s group of four just enjoy each other’s company, rather than being rigidly grouped based on status or fitting a recognised ‘type’. Depicting popularity as being present but not all-encompassing seems to resonate more with how my school worked, where there were recognisable groups but a lot of boundary-blurring, and where different subcultures could - usually - peacefully coexist alongside each other.

Because it adheres closely to the student-social-climber model, the astounding depth of familial relationships and notable depth of romantic relationships in Lady Bird isn’t replicated in LB’s friendships. Not every character needs to be an incredibly complex seventeen-year-old (I’m fine with Kyle just being a bit of a bored poser), but I feel like the film either tried and failed to give Jenna depth or just agreed she wouldn’t have any, and I feel like it would have really served the story for LB to realise that the girl at the top of the totem pole actually had problems and internal conflict, despite her status and wealth. As it is, she just stays ‘bored rich chick’ from beginning to end. Julie isn’t given as much depth as she could be either – all her appearances just seem to reinforce ‘sweet nerd archetype’, and no attention is given to her own brief romantic relationship and romantic turmoil - though I don’t begrudge them the prom scene (it was very sweet).

Overall, I didn’t realise just how refreshing it would feel to see a group of friends who experience growth, development and conflict, but who also just really like getting iced coffee together! And the fact that it did highlights a problem with friendship stereotypes in high school movies.

[sprigsofheather]

the darkness

i’ve given in to the darkness lately.

it’s a darkness that enshrouds me and scowls at me before it grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me down to its depths, and i can’t breathe, and i can’t see, and it feels like there’s no way out of the black hole i’m in.

but it’s the darkness i’ve always known, it’s a place i’ve called home for a lot of my life, a wee child, before i grew old enough to learn how to pretend everything was fine -

i adorned the black hole with fairy lights and fashioned a façade of being alright, a plight for healing disguised with disingenuous meaning but i faked it till i made it - somewhere, at least.

but i’m so scared, i’m so fucking scared of the feeling and so severely wounded that it’s easier not to care that i’m bleeding, bleeding from my roots and into the offshoots breaking into a million pieces.

you can understand this, right? not even the brightest light i can muster can synthesise the fragments of my soul back together - before they all fall apart again.

and i fall apart so easily, wilting like a flower, a blessing and a curse... so i ask God for help but my faith has been wavering so he hasn’t been listening lately, and i haven’t been listening either, really.

i just listen to the most evil voices in my head that are telling me that being in love means pain - it’s the story i know best, from the guidelines that were set for me growing up. i’m still a kid when it comes to love.

but i learned over time that these voices are maligned, so i’ve been known to just seek the sweet songs that can be sung into my mind, but the sugar was saccharine and rotted my teeth and i engorged on what was good like it was a fucking drug sucking from its teat like i could never get enough,

i can never get enough, it’s never enough, i’ll admit it: i’m an addict, a hedonist, a junkie, wasted. wasting away. a life to live for seems so far away.

and i smoke to hide the pain in my chest, the pain in my heart that never fails to ache. i feel like if i can inflict the pain myself with another sort of poison, it’ll be the antidote to the pain that’s already there. it’s a pain that i’ve chosen, and if i choose to hurt myself at least i have control over what hurts me. because i’m scared of being hurt by others because it’s hurt before. 

it’s hurt so much before.

***

‘we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’ oscar wilde once said, and the gutter i find myself in is cold and damp and unforgiving. i submerge my fingers and toes in the black sludge of the drain just to feel something. just some sort of something. just to feel like something is there for me. a sick sort of comfort tends to me.

and i clench my hand into a fist and the sludge spills out and stains my wrist the colour of the most pained parts of my heart. black.

i feel like i’ve clutched onto the hands of my most venomous demons, but i only need to look up to the night sky to see the stars of hope shine onto me, eternally, and to see you there with your hand, outstretched for me. healing awaits me, angels sing for me.

but your hand has been there for me less and less because i’ve kept denying you and pushing you away. slapping the hand away instead of cradling it to my chest. and the angels now sing their song of warning before they fly back to heaven, because i’m been waiting to be forgiven without being willing to repent.

because i choose the demons over you, almost every time. the devil is tempting me and i’m confused and scared because he’s wearing a mask of your face, and it’s fucking terrifying, but it’s what feels like home... 

and the cut is so deep, it seems, that when love threatens to flower it overpowers my nervous system and the wound re-opens and bleeds and bleeds and it just doesn’t seem to stop... i thought the wound was healing, but only now am i just feeling some of the pain that i haven’t felt for years. time to tend to the past and cry the tears of a wounded girl, a wounded woman, a wounded soul fraught with fears.

***

the morning after i met you, i left the sofa where we slept together and went to my room and cried. my heart hurt and so i cried; my heart hurt because it sensed the possibility of love and immediately began to throb with pain. and that was arguably the thing that hurt the most, that in the acknowledgement of something so beautiful and divine, the possibility of the greatest thing we have - the possibility to love - that my demons should smirk at me and show me no mercy.

here’s your pain motherfucker, and you’re going to feel it. no chance of being in love until you deal with it. let’s have it here, right now, whilst he’s here with you. show him the bitch you can be and see if he still wants to be with you. and serves you right if he leaves you. 

that’s what they say... but i know it’s not true. i know i’m deserving of love but i’m hurt so i’m hurting and hurting you...

so i take responsibility for the pain i have caused, for the disgraceful way i have used my words... our words are our weapon, a double-edged sword - so easy to protect, but so easy to cause harm. i’ve done what i thought was right, but i admit that i’ve been wrong. and i forgive myself above all for being human.

i used to delude myself with the illusion that i could be all light and no dark. i used to think i had nothing but good intentions for anything and anyone, and i was wrong. it’s wrong, anyway, to believe that we can be nothing but beacons of good. i’d misunderstood the nature of being human, and i’ll admit i had an unrealistic expectation of myself for being more than who i was, being more than anyone around me, more than i ever could be, or anyone could be.

because if i was perfect no-one could see the ugliness that lies beneath me. and i did a good job of decorating a broken soul with extragance and embellishment, and now when i’m confronted with myself and my honesty i can only tell a story. i’ve dramatised my life into an art, a tragedy, a comedy.

and our love story is gothic, it’s no coincidence we both like macbeth, and that was one of the first interests we shared. remember back then? our love was still pure but now it’s been tainted and dragged through the mud. an innocent flower that’s been trampled on, its purpose misunderstood. and the serpent came out from under’t and spewed pure venom...

but that’s the thing with flowers - they’re ephemeral, they don’t last forever. that’s what’s beautiful about them really, how they bring us joy for a fleeting moment. and appreciating that joy in the moment of life is the experience of love, but clinging onto what’s dead will only hurt us more. 

and lest we forget that flowers will always grow. they die quickly, but they grow again... maybe it’s time to let what needs to die away to die away, and to plant the seeds for something new to blossom. and let’s nurture that. mother nature is on our side, she’ll ensure our love will not be forgotten.

flowers, remember, are delicate. i need the gentle warmth from the sun, the nourishment from my roots beneath me, the replenishment of the rain. an existing set of conditions put in place to ensure i thrive. i’m only now starting to realise what’s best for me and what’s not, but i’ve survived this whole time... all i can say is that this flower knows how to regenerate quickly when she needs to, and some seeds and seasons are better than others.

definitely.

and after confession i can see the glint of light, now, looking up from the gutter. i’ve loosened the chains on my neck, and i’ve accepted some of the help from my angels, and now it doesn’t suffocate to look up anymore. the stars are slowly starting to come out, in my mind, in my emotions, and now i’m starting to see that they were always already there.

even if the clouds cover them, even if the night sky is blanketed with black. even when i was blinded by illusions and i believed they weren’t there... the stars are always there, and we know that, we have trust that they remain, even when they’re unseen. that’s a lesson between us we need to learn... that hope and light are our beacon, and it’s always there, even when we believe it’s not. even when everything from our past makes us believe that it’s not. it’s there, it really is. and we must follow that north star.

july 2020