#where light shines shadows fall on ao3

[nebula-gray]

battle network 5's microserver incident is so intriguing to me because like... on the surface, it's really silly. dr. regal's ultimate plan for a world of evil is to make every extremely pissed off, and it leads to some really funny dialogue.

and i've noticed that people have a hard time taking it seriously, which is fair because... look at it. it's not taking itself seriously. but if you stop and think about it, it's terrifying.

everyone is so caught up in their own emotions, society can no longer function. people want to destroy things, start fights with other people, stop working, and all around cause chaos. in a world where almost every problem is solved through netbattling, people are resorting to physical violence. imagine how quickly things would fall apart if everyone was like this, how soon people would die if no one could cooperate.

and the thing is, battle network couldn't possibly show the real consequences of a scenario like this. it would quickly become too dark for a game aimed at children, and wouldn't mesh with the tone of the series. i understand why they went the silly route, and i'm glad they did so.

unfortunately, i think it leads to people taking the plot and the villain less seriously. dr. regal is already hated by a lot of people, and i truly believe this is due to bad writing rather than a flaw in his own plan. like, if soulnet had worked and people were like this forever, it would be disastrous. way scarier than a typical take-over-the-world plot, because you're directly manipulating people's emotions to make them suffer. and the only reason lan and megaman can fight back is because they have literal plot armor. if not for that, there would be no fighting back, no fixing this. it's scarily effective, and it makes me sad that no one seems to give regal credit for this.

i just... i love battle network 5, and the microserver incident is so interesting to think about. i hope i can get people to look at it in a different light the next time they play.

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[lorelune]

some quarry

|| mydeimos x reader || E/18+ || dark content || yan mydei & self destructive reader || wc: 12.5k || ao3 ||

You are very familiar with dancing and its many forms. It's unfortunate that Mydei has taken note of your fondness for flames and their consequences.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: helloooo!! this fic is a trade with beloved oz (@owlespresso)!! they asked for yan mydei and dears i delivered. mydeimos is a character i find narratively so fascinating and i hope that was injected at least a lil into this fic :3c thank you to mao (@yinyuedijun) for beta reading this piece as well!!! getting a second set of eyes on mydei and his character in this form was so vital truly

please mind the tags on this one!! this fic does include explicit noncon/dubcon near its end. in additional, yandere themes like stalking and mydei being QUITE overprotective. read if you'd like, don't if it's not your cup of tea!! that being said, enjoy! 🩷

CWs: dark content, yandere mydei, gender neutral reader with afab anatomy, noncon/dubcon, stalking, protective mydei that goes too far, self destructive reader, avoidant reader, almost bath sex, a single non-verbal threat of ankle breaking, fingering, piv sex (pronebone), reader is a dancer, a few references to phainon/mydeimos, author-brewed kremnoan lore

It is difficult to dance with flame when daylight lays eternal, endlessly. It’s hardly as fun, as enthralling and mystifying, to dance with light while it's so light. 

The tradition of bibasis was created long before you were born, back when the Titans were sane and Castrum Kremnos had yet to fall to Strife driven mad. There used to be a dark sky then— night— where the scholars of the Grove say that balls of light, hearths hung in the heavens, dotted the sky, weaving fate.

You like to imagine what the Era Chrysea could have been like. What it would have been like to live forever and dance with your flames under a starry night sky. It feels romantic and nostalgic despite you never having experienced it before. Perhaps it’s a collective memory, etched into the soul in a way that the Grove has yet to understand. You know you’re not the only one who yearns for bygone days that you didn’t live. 

You, thankfully, have enough of your wits about you to recognize that the only way is forward. There is no night sky for you to perform your bibasis. Only dark enclaves, carved in the stone cliffs below Okhema. They are no Castrum Kremnos, it’s a relatively polar living situation, but you have found you don’t mind it all that much.

Especially since you can dance your bibasis as your ancestor’s intended— as a shining light in the deep dark.

The cave is nearly perfect circle cut deep into the rock face. Along the sides of it, a Kremnoan crowd jeers. You can hear how impatient they are, hungry for a show and the camaraderie that will follow. The room is pitch black, the torches haven’t been extinguished, so you can slip into the center of the room unnoticed. 

With a spark of flint, the bracelets around your wrists and ankles ignite. 

The flames throw light across the room, casting shadows over the faces of your audience as you walk a wide, sweeping circle over the space. The aulos sound, trilling as your dance truly begins.

You know the steps by heart.

It’s as easy as breathing. You kick off the ground, jump, and kick your leg as far back as they’ll allow. The licking flames around your ankle streak through the dark, and a chorus of cheers follows. Your arms crest above your head, lowering down as you fall from your leap. You follow inertia. Falling low, throwing your legs out, and dragging the licking flame slowly over the ground.

The heat of the flame doesn’t burn you yet. 

It only hastens you.

...

You dance like this until it hurts to breathe. Until your muscles ache and the flame threatens to brand you with its mark. It eats through the wound, slow-burning cloth enough that you feel it singeing hairs on your arms and legs. 

It’s not until the end of the dance that you notice the crown prince idling near one of the crudely arched entryways.

Your breath catches when you notice him. You nearly stumble and fall on your ass, which would be very embarrassing considering you do this dance once a week and haven’t had any notable stumbles since the Kremnoans’ earliest days in Okhema. Most of your missteps simply get integrated into your routine, your leaps and low lunges. Losing your track record of improvisation and finesse over the crown prince would be understandable, but a blunder nonetheless. 

You can’t help yourself; you spin on the tips of your toes over the crown prince. He’s easy to spot. Even among your people, he towers over them. His shoulders are broad, his chest ample. The shadow he strikes is mouthwatering.

You’re brazen in the way you stride up to him, a flourish in your steps. There are a few cheers from the drunkest members of your audience. Mydei looks unaffected, despite the way you stalk him like a large, predatory cat. You do see his gaze flick up and down your body. It’s brief, a hardly there glance. It would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. 

You’re a bit hurt he doesn’t ogle you or at least look at you a bit longer. 

Half the fun of these things is twirling around the desire of your onlookers. Being ogled by near-strangers is another part of the dance you’ve become so familiar with. You would figure that Mydei, despite his title, would show a wisp of want at the very least. The crown prince is a man— he can’t be immune to your curves, steps, and dress. He comes to your dances often enough to actually indicate that he wants to be here.

But he never shows desire, really. No matter your provocations, no matter the way that you curve your spine and leap, streaking with flame, Mydei stays stone-faced. 

It’s your own personal game to attempt to get some reaction from him. It’s too entertaining.

You sidle up to him, wearing a sly smile. His shoulders square. In time with the aulos, you spin closer, bracing on one foot, pivoting with a sweeping gesture. The flame licks your skin; your dance is almost over. 

Your back presses to Mydei’s front.

He’s hotter than the flames on your extremities. He’s a furnace, a forge, smelting something far more dangerous than a sword or spear. 

You tilt your head back, speaking with a curling tone and cat-like smile. “Crown prince.”

It’s a whorish greeting, but isn’t it meant to be? You hear him huff out a breath, you can’t tell if he sounds annoyed or amused. You don’t stay close enough or long enough to find out.

Rather, you push off Mydei, an immovable wall of muscle really, and leap back into the center of the room. In a swift motion, you undo the barely-there knots of the fabric on your wrists and ankles. It’s practiced, you’ve practiced this part, because it really would look clumsy if you did it wrong. 

They’re all dropped into a smoldering heap in the fire basin in the middle of the room. From your waist, you swipe a small bottle tied there. You take it in one go, the burn of harsh liquor coating your mouth like its own layer of flame. 

In a single motion, you spit into the fire pit.

A high plume of flame follows, lighting the residuals of your garb and the logs and kindling you laid out long before your dance. 

As the flame explodes and you raise your hands above your head, the crowd roars. 

And your crown prince remains silent.

...

After you dance, the Kremnoans of Okhema do one of two things. Party or bathe.

Today, you’ve chosen to party. Mainly because Mydeimos hasn’t ditched the gathering as he usually does. Which affords you the perfect opportunity to bother him.

It helps that you immediately have a few goblets of wine.

You’re handed one almost immediately as the torches are lit after your dance. It’s thrust into your palm with a slap on your mostly bare back from one of the spirited, older women who always attend your dances. Your biggest supporters, really. 

The alcohol helps chase off some of your self-consciousness too.

What you wear during your dances is... revealing. Worse than revealing, it's really nothing at all. Your chest is partially bound in silks. The skirt tied around your waist billows where it falls over your upper thighs. The little shorts you wear underneath would be entirely indecent if you wore them alone.

(You suppose that even these garments, despite how scantily clad they make you feel, are somewhat generous covers, given that when the bibasis was performed on Castrum Kremnos, the dancer would be essentially naked.)

(And Okhemans are far too prudish for such dress despite their love of public bathing.)

You down the rest of your goblet, wiping over your lips with the back of your hand. A pleasant buzz settles in your blood and behind your eyes, it makes staring down Mydei all too easy.

Some of your aforementioned aunties are crowding him, talking his ear off, it looks like. His arms are crossed over his chest, which is really doing some insane things for his tits, and despite the fact that the aunties are definitely in their cups and talking relative nonsense, the crown prince listens diligently.

He’s a good man. It’s too bad that you enjoy messing with him so intensely. 

As you approach, you half-bow, spreading an arm out wide as you. “Crown prince. How rare of you to linger like this.”

The aunties giggle at your dramatics. Mydei looks unamused. Not blank-faced, not angry, but a third thing you can’t identify well in your state. Perhaps disapproving— that seems right. This feeling of his is entirely directed at you; the aunties have been spared from his ire.

More for you.

“He’s been waiting for you,” one of the aunties slurs. “‘Says he’s worried. Aren’t you lucky?”

“Cora—!” Another of them admonishes, slapping the other woman’s shoulder. “Don’t interfere!”

You smile at Mydei, burgeoning with an otherworldly amount of mischief. 

“Waiting for me? I’m honored. Are you looking to share a drink? I’m sure I can find something—”

“I don’t drink.”

“Ah, yes. Your delicate sensibilities—how could I forget? Pomegranate juice, then?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Suit yourself.” 

One of the aunties, Cora, hands you a half-full goblet, and you take a heavy gulp. It’s honey wine, rich on your palate and sticky in your throat. She takes it back from you, scuttling off with the rest of her group. They’re giggling like school girls as they do. You lick your teeth, sucking off the last sweet wine. “What did you need from me, Mydeimos?”

He stares at you with a scoff. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn’t seem like he wants them to remain that way. The crown prince isn’t the type to be tongue-tied, so you find it curious that he seems to be. You tilt your head and invade his space. Your palm falls over his chest, the thump of his heart like a drumbeat. 

“Don’t—”

“Loosen up, my dear prince.” You gesture around you. “It’s a party. Even if you won’t imbibe with the rest of us, enjoy the festivities.”

“I have better things to do.”

“And yet, you’re here, waiting for me, apparently. And you still haven’t told me why, either.”

“Let us speak elsewhere.”

“Oh, something needs to be said in private? How brazen.”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t think of you as particularly prudish— why not just say it here? I’m sure you can keep your voice down.”

You tilt on the balls of your feet, leaning your weight into him. He bears it without flinching. When you sway, blood too slick and lush to not to. Mydei steadies you with a hand on your waist. His hold there is far too gentle. You could call it tender, though you’d blame such a description on the wine roiling in your veins.

You grin up at him, smitten. His face is flushed, red painted onto his cheeks, melding into his handsome features, both high and low. The staining flush fades into his hair and melds with the firelight. 

“You’re drunk,” Mydei says. It’s simply a fact.

You hum and nod. “I would certainly hope so, by this point in the night.”

“I had hoped you’d be sober enough to be able to take this seriously for at least a moment, but I thought too highly of you, it seems.”

That makes something odd and painful twist in your chest. Mydei looks at you like you disappoint him— all the time. Not as though you’re a nuisance, but that you’re more trouble than you’re worth. It’s a look you’re used to, but the expression rarely matches his words. He’s terribly polite with his own people, and you are one of those, and so he is polite with you, even if his face looks like he’d rather be scolding you.

As he is now.

You push off of him with a scoff.

“Fuck off,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Find me in the morning. Perhaps I’ll be ‘serious’ enough for you then.”

He says your name as you spin around, ready to scamper off into the throng and forget that Mydeimos has a unique dislike for you. 

He snatches your wrist— actually the middle of your forearm. You flinch with the contact, spinning without thinking, kicking into his stomach as a reflex. It’s a messy move, one born of muscle memory rather than technique. The liquor in you makes the motion sloppy.

Mydei catches you, holding you up with a wide hand under the back of your knee. Your breath catches.

“You burned yourself,” he says.

His gaze flits from your wrist, burnt— scalded. He’s being dramatic— to you, all disapproving again.

“I’ll find a healer later.” You attempt to break from his grip, but he holds you there. 

His gaze is lit with fire of his own, lightning that cracks the sky and shatters the land. It pierces you, running through you. It’s immediately sobering.

There’s far more than disapproval in it.

You jerk, stumble, and fall on your ass. Your head— spins— fucking ow— and you accept someone’s hand— not Mydei’s— and rise on shaking legs. You feel like a fawn, cloven-hooved and clumsy as you walk backwards away from him. The mouth-drying wine won’t be enough to make you forget about— this. 

He calls your name once more, but you’re already fleeing the scene.

...

You avoid Mydeimos the next morning. And after that too. You avoid him at all times, actually, with an expressed amount of effort that is legitimately difficult to keep up with. 

It’s for the best— you tell yourself this often as you avoid his most frequented locations. You dodge the Chrysos Heirs when you see them out and about, worried Mydei will pop up just as easily as they seem to. The Kremnoans tend to prefer the hot baths, your crown prince is no exception, and despite your own partial nature to the steaming, almost bubbling baths, you don’t go near them. Instead, you resign your daily soaks to the more populous open bath and deal with its just-above-tepid temperature. 

The aunties notice. The uncles, too. You’re a notable figure in the Kremnoan population— the dancer who flirts with flames and dares to show the world. 

The type of dance you do is a dying art.

It’s why Mydei took note of you, you think. Your performances are spectacles. They have been ever since you were skilled enough to twirl on your own and not be afraid of the flame licks. These days, you spend your days teaching the young Kremnoans who want to learn. Or practicing yourself while the little ones watch. It’s less of a performance then and more of a demonstration. 

Your… selfish interest in Mydei started when he began to show up at these informal lessons. You like to think that this is mainly because you were holding them at one of the training arenas that he frequently sparred with that snowy-haired Chrysos Heir at. He made a habit of watching you spin in the daylight— not with your usual fire, just the yellow-white glow of Kephele’s Burden. It’s only you and your steps, the taps of your bare feet on stone before you throw yourself in the air. 

You really enjoyed his attention back then.

Because— you respect Mydeimos. How could you not? You’re not dumb, and even if you don’t keep up with all the political intricacies of the relations between Okhema and the displaced Kremnoans, you know Mydei is willing to do just about anything for the comfort and safety of his people. That includes you and your unseemly vulgarity and provocations. 

You know that just beyond your range of conscious awareness, Mydei is protecting your dying dance. 

As much as you respect him, you must torment him. A little. Because he is so damn stoic and impenetrable. He revels, yes, he’s battle-forged, revelry is vital, but there’s a part of him that holds back from the other side of the coin of carnality. There is violence and pleasure. You tempt him with the latter.

It’s really... really easy to. He’s built like a fucking brick-laid wall. He always uses scented oils after bathing. Seeing him after a hot bath is fucking lethal. Slick with oil, smelling of herbs, spice, and his own unique musk even after luxuriating in Okhema’s best baths. God forbid you stare at him and the gleam of his tattoos; you’ll be done for. He takes good care of his hair too. One of the aunties helps him trim it every few weeks; her wife rebraids it whenever she sees him out and about.

Mydei is also very... cute. You’d never say this outloud as some of the traditionalists around you would probably consider it treasonous. But thinking that the crown prince is cute is not a thought crime, and you can’t silence the little, cooing feeling you get around him sometimes. 

Despite who he could be, Mydei remains so kind-hearted. One might not see it if they weren’t looking for it. But you do. The way he entertains the children of your people so easily. He will weave them explosive tales of battle and valor. He ‘spars’ with them too— which is really just him letting the kids beat him up until he throws them off him (lightly) with a battle cry, meant only for play and not bloodshed. He lets the Kremnoan grannies tease him and pinch his cheeks when he thinks no one is looking. 

And he looks at you with pride.

Maybe— your desire is simply to please him more. And your cultivated sex appeal is an avenue to that. And it’s just... flirting. That’s all it’s meant to be! Your purpose when dancing is to be enticing and prideful; it’s what you embody. You don’t find it to be too out of bounds to impress yourself on Mydei for a bit of playful flirting.

It had been playful, anyway. 

...

You’re hiding in a private bath, late in the evening. Scrutinizing the burn scars on your wrists, slick with rivulets of water, dripping lazily back into the steaming pool below.

You burn yourself all the time— at the very least scald. You don’t understand why Mydei made such... a fuss about it. About you. It irks you. 

This isn’t how you’re supposed to play together, Nikador slain.

Mydei— he fucked up the rhythm. You’re supposed to antagonize him, and he’s supposed to take it like a good, stoic crown prince despite your behavior probably annoying him a great deal. You’re supposed to not care, dance into the crowd, and make ‘fuck me stupid’ eyes at him, and neither of you are supposed to do anything about it. You don’t fucking want to do anything about it.

Mydei has apparently decided that he’s done playing, you think.

A bathhouse worker announces herself before ducking inside of your room. She carries a goblet and a plate of cut fruits. Blush fans out over her rounded cheeks. 

“U-Um,” she stutters, sandals slapping the wet tile of the floor. “Mydeimos requested these be sent to you. And that he’ll be waiting outside the bath to speak to you. He said it’s urgent.”

You grimace and roll your skull. The back of your head bumps the tile behind you, not hard enough to ache, but hard enough to thump. 

“Please tell him to leave me be,” you sigh. “And you can take the fruit.”

“I— Um.” This poor girl. You rise from the bath, the light, thin cotton of your bathing dress clings to the curves and edges of your body. Stretching, you paw at your nearby waist bag. You have a handful of balance coins you can give her for the inevitable trouble you’re causing her. 

You extend your arm as far as it will go, and your bag is still a little too far out of reach. The bath is simply too luxurious to get out of fully at this moment, and you huff before throwing one leg up and over the side of the tub.

You arch your back, stretching low, and just barely snatch the leather belt of your bag. 

And, fates aligned, Mydei enters the room. His presence emanates over the steam-filled. Your poor bath attendant looks like she could pass out. And clearly— clearly— Mydei was not expecting to see you tummy-down, ass-up, arched on the bath tiles while nearly naked. 

He flushes crimson, matching the reddest parts of his hair. You don’t fare much better— your cheeks heat, and you immediately slip back into the water.

“Mydeimos—” You sound shaken; you are. “How brazen. I’d kindly ask you to leave.”

He— stutters, already shuffling back. “I— will be waiting outside. Have the decency to speak to me yourself.”

You snap back at him, “And you have the decency to respect my modesty.”

Mydeimos stares at you. His pupils slitted. They cut into you like a blade. It makes you feel too exposed.

Your modesty has never mattered to you before this moment. He knows this. So do you.

He turns, leaving you with the click of metal boots on tile. “Find me later then.”

You won’t be, actually. You’re going to be avoiding him twice as hard because clearly he wants something from you and you have zero intention of giving it to him. Even knowing what exactly he wants, actually.

The poor attendant looks like she has forgotten how to breathe. You crawl back to your bag and hand her a lump of coins with an apologetic look on your face. You imagine it’s quite pathetic. You must be quite pathetic. Turning down the crown prince, slick and indecent in your thin robes, and heavily tipping an attendant to both apologize and encourage her to stay quiet.

She seems to get the idea and scampers off, leaving you alone with the tray of juicy, ripe fruit and a goblet of what is undoubtedly pomegranate juice to taunt you. 

...

Mydei is at your dance that same evening.

You see him before the torches are snuffed. He sees you too, you think, but you force yourself to ignore him in favor of your performance.

It only half works.

The cloth around your wrists is bound such that the outer layers burn slowly and an inner layer is soaked with a viscous, fire-retardant liquid. It keeps you mostly... mostly unburnt. In the old days, in Castrum Kremnos, dancers like yourself wore the extremity burns that came with your art with pride. They were indicative of prowess. You’ve found that Okhema is less accepting and prideful when you walk around the streets with fresh wounds. So, you’ve become very diligent in wrapping your wrists and ankles to prevent actual, lasting injuries. A few flame bites don’t scare you.

However, this evening, you’re unnerved by Mydei’s unwanted presence. His gaze feels like a brand, hot iron tucked into gemstone embers, a silent threat that you’ll be burned by something other than your own controlled fire. 

Frustratingly, you know that if you asked him to leave, he would. He’d probably just be waiting around a corner for the remainder of the night, ready to stalk you down like a big cat.

Mydeimos remains, and you attempt to dance as usual. But the whistling of the aulos and the drumbeats feel a little wrong, and you’re embarrassingly off-beat. You stumble more than once but disguise the blunders with a well-timed lunge or leap. The fourth-ish time you misstep, you turn on your heel wrong, and pain shoots up from your foot to your leg. It hurts badly enough that you snap your jaw shut, teeth clattering against each other. Your leg gives out, and your knee crashes into the stone floor.

The most sober of the crowd seem to still— this isn’t part of your usual routine. You rise and try to make it seem natural, but your next step— fucking hurts— and you crash to the ground. The wrapped cloth around your limbs begins to slip off, you fully put your hand onto the burning strip of fabric that has been shed with your stumbling.

“Fuck—” You curse under your breath and flinch away from it. 

You don’t even realize Mydei is there until there are large, hot hands under your arms, hauling you back and away. You— fuck him— fight against him, elbow and kick at him, but he is the indomitable crown prince, and he is not moved by what are essentially the swats of an angry kitten (you are the angry kitten).

With a dizzying amount of dexterity, especially given the low lowlight, he tugs the remaining flame-ridden cloth from you. He snuffs it just as easily. It all happens so quickly that you can’t protest properly, can’t curse him out either. The torches are relit just as Mydeimos stands, dragging you up with him, still hoisting you under the arms like you’re nothing more than a doll. Or corpse.

“This performance is over.” His words won’t be questioned even as you begin to snarl at him under your breath. “Take part in your regular merriment all you wish.”

‘Regular merriment’ is the two barrels of wine that have already been popped open and dipped into. 

The crowd still manages to cheer (traitors, all of them), the aulos and drums resume, and despite your protest, Mydeimos drags you from your stage, your theater, and you have a sinking feeling that your one-sided game has come to an end.

...

It becomes immediately clear that you cannot run from Mydei now. He has corralled you, cornered you so efficiently. Your egress has been smashed, no alcohol to blame or drunkards to weave your way into. 

You cannot hide from him as he drags you away.

Well— not drag. Carries. Over his shoulder, specifically.

You protest— because how could you not? All of your kicking and snarling doesn’t do anything more than get Mydeimos to throw you over your shoulder like you’re nothing more than a sack of grain that he’s helping a passerby move from one place to another. Except you’re not a sack of grain, you're a vaguely tipsy dancer who would much rather be enjoying the afterparty.

Mydeimos only sets you down once you’ve sufficiently punched his spine and lower back. It doesn’t affect him, and he carries you all the way to the hot bath without issue.

He sets you down on one of the massage tables; he treats you more gently than a sack of grain then. His touch isn't unkind and he makes sure you settle, unwobbling, on your backside, legs dangling off the edge of the table. One of them is already swollen around the joint of your ankle.

Mydei frowns— he notices too. He drops to his knees to inspect it. 

With an uncomfortable amount of reverence, he scrutinizes the injury.

“Mydeimos.” You hope to interrupt his... overt concern. “Stop that. Stop this. It’s unbecoming.”

Mydei, with one hand cradling the underside of your knee, lifting your foot closer to his face, and the other cradling the sicklish instep of your foot, flicks his gaze to you. It moves back down to the injury, to the burns that marr the skin there. There’s a ring of thickened, textured skin from your fire dancing. You never saw them as— a bad thing. Battle scars, you thought of them as.

With the way Mydei is eyeing them, like they’ve personally offended him, you can’t help but feel an edge of... guilt for allowing yourself to be injured like this. You usually don’t care. Scars are nothing to be ashamed of— your mother taught you that when she was stabbed in the gut by a Furiae tideling. She still wore the revealing tops she adored, the ones cut to show her stomach and the molted, gnarled skin there.

Your little burns are nothing against that. Yet, Mydei looks at them, looks at you, like you’ve been grievously injured. 

“I should forbid you from your dance,” he says, voice clear and irrefutable. “This is unacceptable.”

“Fuck you.” You kick him with your other leg, not hard but enough to startle. “No. That’s— stupid.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“Nikador slain, Mydeimos. It’s a few minor burns, once a week, in exchange for the joy and excitement of our people— your people— I say it’s a fair trade, don’t you think so?” 

“No. It’s not.” He drops your ankle, futzes around under the massage table, and pulls out a long bandage. The kind that stretches and holds pressure. He wraps it gingerly around your swelling foot. From the stash that you didn’t even know was there, he grabs a salve. Gauze and bandages too.

You frown. With a lurching tilt, you attempt to snatch the supplies from him. “I can do this— my fucking— self—”

Mydei rights you with a single hand against your sternum. The metal of his gauntlet is slick with condensation from the bathhouse air but still a bit chilled against your skin. 

He stares at you. That sharp gaze of his leaves you defenseless, uncomfortable in your skin. 

“You cannot be trusted with your own well-being.“

There’s… something in the way that he says it. A finality to his words, a statement of absolutely unflappable fact, he provides you. It makes you feel… small. And foolish and weak.

“Yes, I can be.” You sound defensive, it makes you cringe inside yourself. “I’m perfectly capable of handling my ‘well-being,’ thank you very much, Mydeimos.” 

His jaw locks, tightens. You see the strain of it in the tendons of his neck. He— he still hasn’t let go of the fragile skin and bone of your ankle. As you sober up, increasingly quickly given the conversation you’re having, you’re aware of the ache in your limbs. The sting of burns that you… may have ignored. But it’s your choice to ignore them! 

In a rush of motion, Mydei stands, still holding your leg. The flow of the action pushes you back, flattening you to the massage table so that you’re forced to lie on it. When you try to at least get on your elbows, keep your tender belly somewhat less flat and exposed before you lose your composure any further—

Mydei stops you. A hand laid over your sternum pushes you back down. The sharp points of his gauntlet tease into your skin. A threat that you’re sure many others have felt before under his hand.

You didn’t think you’d ever be one of them, not like this. 

“You are not a fool, nor are you stupid,” he says. “And I would think that you have enough sense to put aside your childish ego when it comes to something as paramount as your own health.” 

“It’s not— it’s not a childish ego—“ You feel like you’re being flayed open under the heat of his gaze and touch. “It matters to me— and to others—“

“There are far safer ways to indulge your dancing.” Mydei fingers drum over the bones of your ankle. “Your performing peers have almost entirely put aside dancing with live flame.” 

“Cowards.” You spit, voice trembling. 

“No, they’re just more honest than you.” Mydei leans forward. He eclipses the haze of steam and low, warm light of the room. “They don’t want to experience such pain in order to provide joy. You disregard that pain in favor of… what?”

“Fuck you, Mydei.” You really push up against him now, but it’s unmoveable. “Let me up—“

“Attention?” Mydeimos stares at you, grips your ankle harder. “Is that what you crave so badly?”

“I ‘crave’ my ability to move and exist as I wish—“ 

“Clearly not,” gently, but firm all the same, Mydei squeezes your twisted ankle. A half-formed sound escapes you as pain rockets up from the appendage. “How would you expect to move, let alone walk, when you’re injuring yourself so carelessly?” 

“Let me up—“

Mydei’s grip on your ankle tightens. It— hurts, actually. More than a little. An involuntary noise, a squeak, a fucking whimper bursts up from your throat. 

“You have a liar’s tongue.” Mydei tells you. 

His gaze flicks to your ankle. Then back to your face. Then back to your ankle. He squeezes— harder. He’s still not putting anything close to his full strength into it, but you have the bones of a dancer, the body of a mover, not a fighter.

He’s… not going to—

“Mydei—“ you feel paralyzed, frozen. So unsure in your belly and behind your eyes. 

He’s not going to break you, is he?

Mydei pushed your ankle the wrong way. You can’t help but squirm, attempting to tug yourself away. He is unyielding. Your words of protest are stuck in your throat. 

“What you really want,” he says, “is just a game, isn’t it? The feelings of others. A drunken sport for you, is it?” 

“That’s not—“

“Don’t lie.” It’s a threat, you realize. Mydei's hulking form moves closer, pinning you fully. Your legs are forced around his body, bent at the knee. It would be an intimate position under other contexts. 

Not this one. 

“A-And so what if it is?” You manage to crack a smile, nervously looking between Mydei and your ankle that— he wouldn’t, would he? “Flirting a little— it’s within my right, isn’t it? I’m not hurting anyone.”

Mydei frowns at that. 

“How callous of you.” 

It clicks then. It’s like you’ve been dunked in the cold bath, not the hot one that you’re flattened so close to now. Immediately, you’re sober, you’re so alert it feels like your heart is going to tear out of your chest. 

The swirl of emotions in your chest is overwhelming— shame— fucking shame— fear, hot on your tongue too. Sadness at your misunderstanding; you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. 

“O-Oh.” Is all you can manage to squeeze out. 

Mydei inspects you. He has you where he wants you, you think. You’re immobile, forced to reckon with whatever he presents you. You can’t do anything but take what he says— and it’s Mydei, so of course you believe him. Something awful grows in the pit of your stomach, like a fungus that crawls along the lining of your guts. The backs of your eyes sting. 

“Do you understand?” He asks.

You’re certain that he’s going to break your ankle. Shatter it right then and there. 

“S-Sure.”

Mydei stares at you, then lets down your ankle and releases it. Free of pressure, the promise of something far worse than being pinned is not quite gone, but it’s... somewhat diffused.

Mydei opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the laughter. The floating, high kind, fueled by wine and merriment. A gaggle of girls stumble into the baths, you recognize them as some of your regular attendees. They hang off each other, bracing themselves on the railing down to the bottom platform, to the bath and the massage tables.

You freeze, Mydei looks unphased. 

The girls notice you and— gasp. Audibly. The fucking dramatics.

“Oh my gods,” one covers her mouth, the strap of her dress slipping down her arm. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not—” you rush to say, pushing against Mydei’s hand. 

It’s a jolting movement, one Mydei doesn’t fully expect, and, perhaps by reflex or perhaps with some repressed intention, the claws of his gauntlet dig into your chest and he pushes you back into the damp wood of the table. 

Blood pinpricks where the gauntlet digs in.

Mydei notices, scowls, and then an unreadable look takes over his features. He lets you go without another word and departs wordlessly but swiftly. He looks back at you just before exiting.

His gaze pierces you. It’s a promise, it’s a threat, it’s a death knell that every fiber of your being tells you that you must avoid.

...

You do see a healer the next day. Or, rather, you contact your usual girlie, requesting a house call. You did manage to drag yourself to your little home the night before, but walking on the sprain was a pointedly bad idea.

She fixes you up with a splint and gives you a bit of ointment to put on the small wounds on your chest. The cuts spread out from between your collarbones, all the way down to your sternum. Your healer, a doe-eyed blonde, tells you that they’ll scar in the shape of a star (“How pretty will that be?”)

You have to make sure it doesn’t scar.

Your encounter with Mydei... unnerves you. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen the crown prince intense before. You’ve spied on him and that Deliverer Chrysos Heir more than once during their spars. Mydei strikes with blows that would maim an opponent with any less strength and finesse than the other. He fights with intention, and he speaks the same way. Mydeimos bears a heavy crown and an even heavier burden, and he’s constantly vying for control and sway between the elder Kremnoans and the seats of Okhema. He does not do this with pretty words; he does so cuttingly. He is kind to those he wishes to be kind to and lethal to those he wishes to be lethal to.

You’re not sure which side you land on anymore.

It’s a bad idea, continuing to attempt to ignore him. But this time, it feels more... paramount. Less childish and more like you’re trying to save yourself from something bigger than the fallout of your brazen flirtations.

You lock the door and hide in your little apartment for four days.

It’s coward behavior, but truthfully, you don’t know what the fuck to do.

You don’t want to face Mydei. You don’t know what will happen if you do face him. You’ve already canceled your dance for this week, citing your injury while thinking of Mydei’s disapproval of you performing at all.

You shouldn’t care so much about his opinion. 

You haven’t before— it’s not like you weren’t somewhat aware of his disapproval. Or, his perceived disapproval. In your mind, the reason why he always left your performances before their end, before the carousing and revelry, was because he was too disgusted by the overtly… enticing nature of your dance and flagrant disregard for your safety to stay. 

You have always disregarded his… disdain? Lack of interest? That’s half the reason he was so fun to tease, or attempt to tease. Getting a rise out of the crown prince was one of your pleasures for a while.

Now? You’re… perhaps a little scared to get a rise out of him. Your ankle still throbs, bruises have bloomed under your skin where he gripped so fiercely. You’d, actually, like to avoid attracting his attention at all for the time being. You don’t want the crown prince to have any opinion of you. The ideal situation would be for you to rot in your apartment for as long as it takes for Mydei to forget about... whatever all that was, and you can go back to your dancing in peace. 

However, you cannot rot in your apartment forever. One must eat, and your stash of bread and olive oil runs out very quickly. Not to mention that you’re... perhaps— going through some very big, complex emotions, and nothing soothes like a carb smothered in high-quality olive oil. You’ve been indulging and your empty pantry is the consequence.

You venture out of your apartment on the fifth day, wearing a cloak to cover your face (rather dramatically) and heading to Marmoreal Market during its least busy hours. It earns you some odd looks, but you don’t particularly care. You’re in your hermit era. Your ascetic era, actually, because you’re going to make the cask of olive oil and two loaves of bread you purchase last for at least a month. 

... Okay, maybe not complete asceticism, because one of your favorite vendors has a fresh batch of sesamous rolls out, and you’re just a mortal, human person, and you cannot resist the supernatural call of a flakey, nutty pastry when all you’ve eaten for a week pantry basics.

So, you procure six. Which is excessive, but you make decent money as a dancer, and you’re kind of going through something.

With your wares secured, you start to head back to your home. Your safe haven where you can pretend the crown prince didn’t consider breaking your ankle. Or bedding you. Or some unholy combination of the two. You can’t be sure and truthfully, you don’t really want to be sure. 

(It’s unfortunate that the lionesque crown prince has been on the prowl for you.)

His voice, low and rough, bounces off the marble of Okhema’s inner hallways. You freeze when you hear it, panic lancing through you. He’s not far and it seems he’s rounding a corner, talking to— fuck— Cora, damn woman.

You scamper back up the hallway, looking desperately for a place to hide. A pillar to duck behind, a cart to hide under— fuck, you’d slip into a pond if it would allow you to escape this impending interaction. 

Mydei, however, is a warrior and far faster than you in every regard. The hallway is relatively empty, and the best cover you can find is behind a not-so-large pot and vining, flowering plant that curls through one of the open air windows. It’s— not really cover. But if Mydei wasn’t looking for you, he wouldn’t see you.

Except, Mydei is very clearly looking for… something. Probably you. Scanning left and right, up and down as he walks. Cora chatters by his side, her arm looped through his. Traitor, you think. You thought Cora was on YOUR side. But, apparently not. 

(It’s easier to blame her for things she doesn’t even know then acknowledge any of the unpleasant feelings that have been creeping up your throat the past few days.)

You flatten yourself to the wall, praying Mydei doesn’t see you.

It’s foolish, really, because one look in your direction and his eyes lock onto you. Regardless of your cloak and shadow-covered face, he recognizes you. You curse under your breath and kick off the wall. Running off is paramount. You can (probably) lose him in the markets and their growing crowds. 

You’ve never been known for your speed or stealth, however. Only the grace of your steps. It doesn’t help that your splinted ankle is already aching from all of your walking. 

Before you’re two steps from your hiding spot, there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, tugging you backwards. You choke, grasping at the cloak’s tie around your neck. It only takes a single motion to loosen it, and it drops to the ground. You whirl around to curse at Mydei, who is still staring at you along with a very mischievous-looking Cora.

“Oh, dear,” she says, hiding a smile behind her palm. “I fear I may be about to intrude on something.”

“You’re not.” You straighten yourself up and overdramatically (or perfectly dramatically) brush dust from your robes. “This is actually harassment. Cora, could you escort me home, please?”

You give her a pleading look, probably looking like a sad, wet puppy, but she does not waver. Instead she looks even more pleased, giggling to herself as her frizzy, silver-grey curls bounce around her jaw. 

“If this is harassment, I ought to get into the business of being harassed.”

“Don’t joke, please.” Mydei frowns. “And what would Sara think of such pursuits?”

“She’d attempt to join in, Mydeimos!”

You turn, ready to leave this weird, flirting-but-not-flirting exchange. Mydei seems engrossed enough, but he still shoots out a hand to grab your shoulder. You curse, ready to snap at you, but he’s at your back. A furnace-like presence that eclipses everything else in your line of sight.

“I’ll escort you.” Mydei says it in a way that brokers no argument. 

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“It’s not an offer.” He tells you, stooping so just you can hear. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s unignorable and sharp enough to pierce. You shudder. The phantom pain from the healing bruises on your ankle makes itself known.

You sigh, looping your arms with Mydei, reluctantly, like it’s the worst fate in the world. Cora howls as you do. Mydei looks rather unimpressed. Your theatrics don’t seem to phase him, not actually— rather, whatever he is seeing underneath your performance is what’s bothering him. 

You wish you were drunk. Maybe you should’ve bought wine along with your sundries. 

It’s too late to regret now as Mydei steers you away from Cora and the vining, budding plant that could not hide you from the eyes of your undying crown prince.

...

Mydeimos does not, actually, take you back to your apartment, much to your chagrin. He leads you into the baths through a back entrance. There’s no chatter between the two of you as you walk. You have no interest in attempting conversation when you are being dragged through the bathhouse somewhat against your will.

It’s only when you think of the blessed loaf of bread and fresh baked goods that you start dragging your feet.

“Mydeimos,” you huff. “The steam in here will ruin my groceries. Unless this is some shortcut back to my apartment that I’m unaware of, take me home.”

“I will.” Mydei continues to walk because you, tugging on his arm, really does next to nothing to stop him. “After we talk.”

You sigh. It’s not really worth it to fight him on it at this point. Maybe, after you talk or whatever, you’ll be free of his oppressive presence and can go back to dancing (and maybe even forget about his stunt at the hot bath. Maybe.)

Mydei drags you far into the bathhouse, down hallways you don’t recognize. The marble molts from white and grey to black and silver. It’s almost warm beneath your feet. Part of you thinks to ask for more details of where you’re being led, but you think better of it. It gets quieter and quieter. The air feels thicker.

Eventually, you find yourself a private bath. Far larger than the ones available for rent in the main bathhouse. The basin seems deeper, wider, with a current curling in the water from somewhere you can’t identify.

You eye the round bath and its blueish, perfect-looking, steaming water, then look up to Mydei with a scowl.

“We’re in private.” You extract yourself from the loop of his arm and cross your own over your chest. “What did you wish to talk about?”

Mydei looks at you, deadpan. You revel in the reaction. “Do you enjoy being daft on purpose?”

“No, actually. Though, I would very much enjoy forgetting about the... events that followed my dance.”

Mydei frowns at you and clicks his tongue. It’s then that he decides shedding his already objectively indecent outer (and inner) robes is the best course of action. You scoff and turn away from him. You do not need to see this man naked. He already wanders around half-naked and you have enough mental images of his likeness stored in such a state to not need to see him entirely undressed.

There’s a slight splash behind you, and it’s only then that you turn around. The churning water that comes up to just below his tits protects some of his modesty. Bare minimum decency, really.

You frown so hard that you think you might get a headache.

“Get in.” Mydei nods to the bathwater, steam already making his hair frizzy.

“Absolutely not.” You frown. “For a litany of reasons, I will stay on dry land while we ‘talk’, Mydeimos. Allow me this much.”

Mydei stares at you. He looks at you with the same precision and violence that a lance piercing a fragile chest would have. It makes you freeze in place. 

It’s only then that you become aware of how close you are already to the bath’s luxuriously large basin. How Mydei, far stronger and swifter than yourself, is not all that far away from your tender, healing ankles.

Your gaze snaps from your feet back to him. It’s already too late.

In single deft motion, he has you by the calf and pulls you into the bath. One of his arms shoots out as you crash down, you feel it on your back, up your spine, to guard your head and neck despite plunging you into the uncomfortably deep bath. You yelp as you hit the water, half-drowning as your head slips under the water. Mydei hauls you up a moment later and drags you next to him. 

You must look like a wet cat. You feel like a wet cat— a pouting one as you stare at him incredulously. Your light clothes are soaked and— indecent. Fucking indecent and half-floating in the water with the current and heat of it. 

“What the fuck—” 

“I wouldn’t have had to do that,” Mydei interrupts, stern in a way that makes your stomach flip, “if you didn’t keep running away.”

“I’m not running away.” (You are.) “You just cannot let this fucking— thing go. This a you problem.”

Mydei looks sick based on his expression. You lean away from him in the bath, crossing your arms, horribly aware of your own exposure. 

You feel like a cornered animal.

“You’re so—” Mydei sighs. His composure is fracturing. Part of you is deeply enchanted by watching this occur and the other is horrified by it. You’re so close to him, so bare to him. It makes your skin itch. He breathes out through his teeth then stares at you. You feel his gaze down to your marrow. “Your obstinance is infuriating. But, you’re aware of this, aren’t you? Are you taking pleasure in the trouble you cause?”

“No—?”

“I don’t believe you,” Mydei’s tone is scaring you. “You revel in this. The affections you give and how you dash from the consequence of your kindness, whether it be bad or good to you. You run from the recompense. You cause reactions only to turn the other way when they actually occur. To yourself, even to your own body. It’s been difficult to watch. Unbearable, even. You look away from your own discomfort with such dexterity.”

“Choke,” you say reflexively. 

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Mydei’s jaw locks.

“Must I give you a taste of your consequences in order for you to understand their severity?” 

“I think—” You drift away from him in the bath. To the otherside of the pool, hopefully creating enough distance that you can slip away. “That you should go spar with that snow-haired one who clearly wants to fuck you. How about you blow off some steam that way, yeah? I’m sorry for flirting with you and not sticking around for anything else. Just kinda my thing, you know?”

“It’s—” Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose with his uncovered, ungaunleted hand. “Is that all you think this is about?” 

Seeing the bare skin of his muscular forearms pre-massage table incident would’ve probably had you salivating and causing problems. Now, like this, exposed and all too aware of how your clothes are sticking to your skin under the water, the sight brings you nothing but distress. He’s strong beneath the little armor he does wear.  

“Look,” you interrupt him, kicking away from him (with your bad foot— ow—) to a distance that feels safer, “Even if I was flirting with you— I don’t owe you anything beyond that. It’s just... light-hearted, yeah? Besides, you’d know if I wanted you in bed Mydei.”

This— strikes him. You can see in the way his expression darkens. It’s a good distraction. Mydei may be a brutal fighter, but there’s a tender heart there. You admired it, prior to him tossing it aside to pin you down and nearly break one of your limbs. 

“Would I?” Mydei asks, his body coiled tight.

You heft yourself up out of the bath and sit on the lip of it. The air is much cooler than the hot, hot water. Steam curls off of your skin.

“I would’ve just asked if you wanted to fuck.” You shrug, attempting nonchalance. You have no idea if it's landing.

You’re mostly lying. You haven’t had anyone in your bed in months. Physical pleasures that drift so far, so seriously, haven’t interested you in quite some time. You get enough contact from the revelrous dancing following your performances and the dirty, frantic kisses you share with strangers on the way home. This carnality never follows you past your apartment door. 

Back when you were fucking, more regularly, it was long-term partnerships. This whole flirting with no strings attached thing scratched an itch in the back of your brain entirely polar from that. 

You don’t bother explaining any of this to Mydei. It— it feels too late for that. 

“Do you only know how to lie?” He asks.

You look away from him to the condensation-slick stone and dark tile of the floors. They seem far more interesting than affording this guy any amount of further eye contact.

“Depends on who you ask, I guess.” You shake your head, tracing a vein of marble with your eyes. “For what it’s worth— I’m sorry for playing with your feelings. I didn’t realize you’d take all this so seriously. That’s my folly, and I’m sorry for the trouble it’s caused you.”

Silence follows.

Your words crest over the light gurgle of the ever-filling bath. The syllables lay heavy in the air. You don’t know how you really expect Mydei to respond. All you hope is that he lays this stupid heart-to-heart, intervention nightmare to rest and you can go back to wallowing in your apartment until your ankles and wrists heal enough for you to resume dancing (with flame still, by the way.)

In the seething silence, you stand with a sigh. You decide, actually, that this encounter is done. Hopefully Mydei got his scolding out of his system and whatever hurt feelings linger in him can be resolved by that so-called ‘Deliverer’ blowing his back out in a few hours.

You get two steps from the bath before you realize you are terribly, horribly wrong. 

Mydei grabs your ankle. The sprained one, the one that is swollen and wrapped because you stopped wearing your splint early because it was annoying. Pain shoots from the limb and as he yanks, you drop. There’s no cushion to the fall other than how you catch yourself on your hands. The sting is immediate and you nearly crack your skull on the tile. 

You turn to give Mydei a piece of your mind, because what the fuck— but he’s already rising from the water. Naked, half-hard, and so much bigger and stronger than you are.

It all hits you then. 

The situation at hand, really. How much you’ve pissed this guy off, how far you’ve pushed him— the fact he brought you to the depths of the bathhouse to a private room to have this conversation. ‘Conversation’, you realize too, is generous.

This is a duel, one you were destined to lose.

“No—” You push up from the tile, scrambling on the slick surface, but in a single move, Mydei has you pinned on your tummy. A hand splays out between your shoulder blades and he climbs to straddle your hips. Just over your ass. The garment you’re wearing is so thin and the panties you’re wearing are just simple cotton. They’re soaked through.

“Mydeimos— wait—” You need to stop this. It’s vital, it’s vital— you need to run.

“I’ve given you an opportunity to listen. I’ve explained how you ended up in this state.” He applies pressure to your back. It squeezes the air from your lungs with exhales against your will. “And yet, you can’t even do that much. What you do hear— is devoid of the actual intent that I know you understand.”

“Let me up, Mydei!” You shove at the ground. Mydei gathers your wrists in one large, scalding hand and pins them to your lower back. His grip burns more than your flame ever did.

He leans down over your body, flattening you. 

“You have no idea how to take care of yourself.” His voice is hushed, sticky in your ears and you whine. He’s— he’s stupid and dumb and you’re scared— “Mind and body, you’re so reckless with yourself and care not for the harm you inflict on yourself. And on others.”

“Mydei, p-please—” You’ve been reduced to begging this quickly. Your pulse rabbits under your skin.

“You were given many chances.” Mydei hand drifts down your back, following the slope of your spine, the curve and bow of it. “You were presented many opportunities to acknowledge your behavior, really acknowledge it, and you still didn’t. I know you’re not truly ignorant to your own patterns. You wouldn’t be so adept at turning away from them if you were ignorant.”

You try to kick your legs up. Your feet hit Mydei’s back with no effect. 

“As a result,” his words are rough and silken all at once. “You’ve forced my hand. You must be shown the consequence of your actions.” 

You squeak out his name, turning your head under the pressure of him. When you finally meet his gaze, it’s impenetrable. Your— stupidity, foolhardiness— idiocy and indifference have brought out a side of the kind-hearted crown prince that you never expected to be on the receiving end of. 

Dread pools in your gut and you claw against the floor.

...

You know it’s not just about flirting. 

It’s about the wounds. It’s about the way you care not for how many mornings you wake up hungover with the taste of someone else’s spite and berry wine still clinging to your teeth. It’s the way you don’t mind the burns you get, that you ignore the sting and aches you get from your art. You don’t eat sometimes, entranced in learning new steps to a new melody. It’s how you cozy your way up to anyone who suits your fancy and will give you the time of day. It’s about how, despite how legitimate their affections may be, you twirl from the potentiality of closeness and back into your flames. 

If you didn’t know these things before, you know them now, on the tiled floor of the private bath. 

You tremble, grasping at the slippery ground for any type of purchase as Mydei pushes a third finger into your cunt. 

It’s too much, too big, too fast. Mydei’s hands are a warrior’s, strong and rough from years of training, and you feel the texture of them as they work their way, with some difficulty, into the clutch of your cunt. Each callous drags against your opening and you drop your head on to the tile, barely restraining a pitching cry from the back of your throat. 

Mydei, for his part, fucks you with his fingers slowly. You’re not all that wet for him, despite how he’s alternating between slipping his other hand under you to rub your clit and petting over your hip as if to calm a startled animal. 

You are a startled animal, really.

“I y-yield—” you choke out, again. You don’t know how many times you’ve said it at this point. Your throat feels dry despite the damp air. “I yield—!”

Yielding won’t stop whatever Mydei is doing— you know this, but you have to at least try and resist.

He hushes you in a way that isn’t tender, but isn’t cruel either. His thumb strokes over your side and you barely keep yourself from crying. You bury your face in your arms.

For how much you don’t want this, Mydei isn’t being cruel with his touch.

There’s force behind how he is pinning you down. How his legs are braced over the backs of yours, how one of his hands presses into the center of your spine to keep you belly-down. He bears down on you unrelentingly.

But it’s not cruel. It’s not harsh— just— unignorable 

His fingers drag on your insides, pressing against your sweet spot with an infuriating amount of tenderness given your predicament. He’s drawing desire out of you, coaxing you into a state you have so diligently avoided.

The delirium of carnal pleasure. Fucker.

A noise lodges itself in your throat. You can’t tell if it’s one of discomfort or desire. 

He continues like this, fingers curling in you with enough gentleness that you could, under different circumstances, fool yourself into thinking it was the touch of a proper lover. The pump of his fingers in and out of your cunt gets easier, wetter, much to your dismay. You don’t want to admit that there are little, pleasurable sparks beginning to curl from your toes up to your spine. 

You hope that what’s making you slicker is blood and not your own arousal. 

Mydei strokes your back as his pace increases, each thrust into your insides begins to punch. Each stroke and curl is directly over your sweet spot. He’s learned your body so well, so quickly.

“Fuck you—” You spit at him, breathless, unfortunately. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

He sighs behind you, squeezing your hip in a way that you’re sure will leave a bruise. “Even like this, you deny yourself?”

“Especially like this!” You shout, your voice bouncing off the tiles. “You c-could’ve, like, I-I don’t know— asked me to dinner or something first.”

Mydei stills behind you. His fingers are deep in your cunt as he does, too warm and keeping you too full. He shifts forward, you can feel it, feel the looming shadow he casts over you. His hand tangles in your hair, dragging you from where you’ve been hiding in your arms. Pain nips at your scalp and you gasp with it.

Mydei is nose-to-nose with you, his gaze hot and piercing and uniquely infuriated.

“If I had, you would have said no.” His lips press to your cheek. “Even if you had wanted it.”

He’s the fucking worst— he really is.

Mydei doesn’t drop your head as you squirm beneath him. His fingers move again, harder, faster, pumping in and out of your hole with sick, twisted squelching sounds. You’re slick, you’re wet, and you are undeniably... enjoying this. On some level. Somewhere. And Mydei’s right, isn’t he? That, had Mydei propositioned you traditionally, you would’ve turned him down. You might’ve even laughed in his face. He probably has known that reality longer than you’ve been aware of it yourself.

You have no retort; you can only glare at him.

It’s hard to maintain your disposition like this— as pleasure rolls over itself in your belly and as Mydei is slowly undoing all of your carefully kept defenses. Maintaining— nonchalance has, more or less, gone out the window.

Mydei wants that, you understand. He wants to break you down, and it’s working.

You lose yourself in the feel of it, in the unrelenting weight and presence of Mydei at your back and his fingers in your cunt. It’s hard to think beyond that and the glowing sparks of pleasure that make you drip. It’s— a little hard to breathe with all the steam. And maybe you’re breathing a little too frantically from the shock of being penetrated and not really wanted it. Maybe your own helplessness has made you more a prey animal than a dancer.

You feel the heat in your gut coil tighter, hotter— burning— as he curls his fingers just right, rolls the pearl of your clit with a haunting amount of dexterity. 

“I h-hate you—” you sob, giving one last, valiant attempt at bucking him off of you. “— Mydeimos—” 

Mydei growls. Something angry and more animal than you’re used to. A swoop of something akin to terror shudders through you. Mydei doubles his efforts at taking you apart with nothing but his hands.

You come around his fingers. Your cunt flutters around his digits and the sickening wet sound of flesh and slick goes static in your ears. A sound is ripped from your throat, one that you can hardly hear as pleasure overtakes you.

Before you can really come down, Mydei flips you, so you’re on your back with your legs spread. He kneels between them. Still naked. Fully hard. The tip of his cock is a raging purple, wet with pre.

“You still cannot let go of your liar’s tongue?” He grabs your jaw in one hand. The gesture is firm, but tender, in a way that’s so him. 

You whine— you can’t make yourself form words. Your so-called ‘liar’s tongue’ is too thick and heavy in your mouth.

He looks at you then— examines you, assesses you. Your chest heaves as he does, shivering in the sticky air.

“One more opportunity,” Mydei says. “Listen well, flame kin.”

You nod with a rolling, loose neck.

Mydei strokes over your cheek. “Admit that you revel in your own suffering.”

You whine, trying to close your thighs. Push him away— please, Nikador slain—

He continues, “Admit that you seek your own suffering and push away pleasures. If you can, which I know you can, this ends.”

“That’s basically just admitting that y-you’re hurting me, you know.”

“I’m giving you what you want, apparently—” Mydei’s hand finds its way to your throat. It doesn’t squeeze, but the threat of pressure looms. “Pain. Even if we both know that that’s not really what you want, is it?”

Something weird knots in your insides. You want to push Mydei away, but you know it won’t work. You want to run from this bath, but you know that won’t work. Mydei has you in his grasp, under his predator-like gaze and you cannot escape it.

Your attempts have been feeble. Your sharp tongue hasn’t done you any favors either.

“What do you think I want?” You ask him, voice shaking and breathless all at one.

“Pleasure,” Mydei says, so matter-of-factly. “You’re just too rabbit-hearted to allow it.”

You want to lambast Mydei, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. But you abstain. You’re too tired, too worn down by... everything.

“Fine,” you say, far too softly. “I—I would prefer to hurt than feel good, most of the time. I know it’s not great. Are you happy?”

Mydei sighs.

He looks vaguely disappointed and for a very terrifying moment, you think that that’s not enough. That he’ll find some other way to wring more of your very fragile truth out of you. You’re not sure you could take it, truly. You feel close to shattered— the heart of you fears how else Mydei would push you.

He rubs below your eyes and pulls his thumb back wet. You didn’t even realize you had been crying.

“I’ll accept your answer.” Mydei says. “But know that I am watching— and expect a change in your behavior.”

“S-So no flames?” You swallow. “And w-what, no revelry?”

“No flames.” He reiterated. “I’m certain the Grove can create some alternative that is safer. And you may still revel, but if you wish to entangle yourself with the physical, you will find me.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll find ourselves back here.” He nods to the bath. All of its cruel tile and stone. Your ruined bag of groceries, tossed into a corner. There’s a massage table in the corner you hadn’t even noticed. “And you will receive the carnal from me, regardless.”

The part of you that is used to twirling and spitting is quiet. Dead, maybe, if not dormant. You rub your eyes and think about your bed. About the pastries that are soggy and inedible at this point. Your isolation and the fearfulness you’ve carried over simply being seen.

(How running and hurting has worn you down and how unfair it is that Mydei saw it so easily. And, in retrospect, maybe he was quite patient with you.)

“Okay.” You sniffle. “I-I agree.”

Mydei sighs again. This time, it’s pure relief. A knot comes loose within him so visibly. His slick shoulders sag and he sinks on his knees just a fraction. You, for your part, collapse into the tile. Boneless, wrung out, and slick still dripping out of your core.

...

It’s after one of your dances, sometime later. Normalcy has taken a new shape and you have allowed it too. 

(Though, you hardly had much of a choice. You’ve been leashed.)

Your body is... mostly healed. Your ankle still aches sometimes. On your worst days, you need a cane. A perfectly crafted piece from a Kremnoan artisan, commissioned by Mydei when he noticed the way your limp persisted.

(When you saw that the healer Chrysos Heir about this persistent injury, she had been quite perplexed. The wound was entirely healed, a sprain shouldn’t linger like yours has. ‘It must be psychosomatic,’ she had said.)

You still dance. You still revel. Even without flame licking your skin, you still lunge and leap. Your revelry is, perhaps, more subdued. You do not sidle up to potential prospects so brazenly. Truthfully, you don’t entertain any suitors at all these days. Either because you don’t look for heated gazes the way you used to or those gazes aren’t turned to you as often anymore. 

(You suppose that even if your new leash isn’t visible, it’s still noticeable.)

You do not antagonize the crown prince in the way that you used to. You would say that your roles have flipped, but that isn’t entirely true. 

You used to tease— Mydei does not tease. But he does take.

You often find yourself as you are now— laying, stomach down, with Mydei overtop of you. He cages your skull in with his forearms braced on either side of your head. His breath is hot and loud in your ear as he presses his cock into your dripping cunt. 

You groan in unison, your sounds far more pitchy and desperate. 

Mydei isn’t too rough with you these days. He fucks you well when you need pleasure. You’ve gotten better about going to him for it rather than him having to track you down and fuck you stupid in a shadowy corner. These days, you end up in a bed. Surrounded by his scent usually, being stretched and opened with his fingers and tongue. Pleasure is given to you in heaps, and you have found it is much easier to accept it than attempt to run.

(Not when the lion-souled crown prince has made you his quarry.)

When Mydei grabs your hips, bare-handed, you keen. You sink into the bed, arching your back into a slope that angles his cock just right inside of you. Your toes curled as he fucks you hard and deep. He might be praising you for your good behavior. Words are being panted in your ear, but you feel a little too out of your body to tell what they are. 

You feel even further from your flesh when Mydei’s rhythm begins to stutter. You feel like a different person, experiencing this connection from a thin, spidery tether, when he spills inside you. The gush of sticky warmth, followed by the feeling of being— full— keeps you far away. 

You’re brought back when he presses a kiss to your nape. Then another to the side of your throat. He turns you easily, gently, easing onto your back. 

You feel so exposed like this. Belly-bared, chest heavy and dewy with sweat. Between your legs feels, somehow, sticky and numb all at once. Your lips are parted with each heaving breath, a little too fast, a little too prey-like. 

Mydei looks at you with a fiery reverence that scares you a little more each day. 

“Beautiful,” He breathes, his braid half-undone and bangs sticking to his forehead.

You don’t get to digest the comment before he’s nestled between your legs, thighs up on his shoulders, eating his cum out of your cunt like it’s his last meal. He’s slow with it, but firm. Always firm, always unyielding in what he decides is true and right. Before all of this, you admired him for that resolve.

Now? You’re not sure if you scorn it or love it.It hardly matters, anyway. 

You come on his tongue while he sucks your clit. Your voice cracks and shatters, made raw so easily. Your vision crosses and you tug on his hair with enough force that it must hurt, you think.You think about apologizing for it, but you choose not to. Or maybe you’re simply too wrung out. 

Mydei pulls up and away from your core. His lips are slick with your slick, wet with his own spent. He grabs your jaw and kisses you, filthy and slow. The mingling taste of you keeps you just tethered enough to writhe and keep your legs spread for him, in case there is more to be had.

He breaks from you, panting, and pulls your head into the crook of his neck. It’s a gesture that feels like it should come from a lover, not whatever Mydei has become to you. Your keeper, your jailer— maybe a lover, too. Someone with such a cruel title wouldn’t treat you as gently as Mydei does.

(It’s easier to think this way.)

The smell of him invades you. Gone is the light scent of incense and fragrant oils that permeate the room, and all that remains is unique, familiar musk of Mydei. Sweat, polished metal, and bur

You lean into the hollow of his throat. It’s better to embrace, rather than to resist.

(Your ankle throbs.)

For some time, you stay like that. Eyes shut and world slow, you shiver as the high of ‘pleasure’ wears off and leaves you off-kilter. What tethers you to your reality, your relatively new, somewhat uncomfortable reality, is Mydei. It’s always Mydei. The heat of his touch, the piercing nature of his attention, and the specific flavor of uncomfortable tenderness he reserves for only you. 

It’s not so bad. It’s less painful in some ways. There’s no more flames licking your ankles and wrists— the only embers that are allowed near you are the ones within Mydei’s own gaze. 

(Maybe— it’s just a different type of pain. One was yours to wield and torch yourself with, and the other is a scalding reminder that leaves no visible mark.)

Mydei must notice you’re too deeply in thought. His hand cups the nape of your neck, his thumb rubs little circles around your spine. He’s warm like a hearth, kind like one when he wants to be, too. You knew that before, and you know it even better now.

It’s better, you remind yourself, to work with your conditions the best that you are able to. It’s better, it’s better, it’s better.

You lean into Mydei’s warmth and go slack. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief as you do. 

[peachesofteal]

MELOS (PART ONE)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist / Melos masterlist

Azriel/female reader Part one of four (part two here) - 8.5k words - AO3

Tags: 18+ mdni. Torture scene, asphyxiation (not the sexy kind), angst. Azriel hates himself. Feelings of despair, fear, panic, longing. Amren uses "boy/girl" so I can too. Mention of spanking. Trauma. Post ACOSF, HOFAS, canon-compliant. Cassian is a meddler. Azriel doesn't like surprises.

In the woods just inside the confines of the Middle, Azriel finds a puzzle.

More aptly, Azriel finds you, bathed in the glow of the sunset, iridescent snowflakes from the first snow delicately falling to your shoulders, your hair, the tip of your nose.

There’s magic on the wind carrying your scent, something different he cannot place, tang of petrichor sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Strange, beautiful creature, the shadows whisper. He’s inclined to agree.

Strange indeed.

For a moment, he thinks of Bryce. He remembers her entrance into this world, her stories of her home, things both he and Nesta have no concept of. The star on her chest.

She is of no threat to us. 

That’s not for you to decide.

He slips into the caliginous wisp curling around his shoulders, a shroud of darkness allowing him a closer look, just as a persistent huff at the edge of his mind pulls his attention.

Where are you? 

Working.

Working where? 

South. There’s a snort.

One-word answers, how sufficient. You’re not a pariah. Come home. 

Once I’m finished. 

The conversation eclipses his focus until you slip on the frozen riverbank and he tenses, gaze swinging to where you’ve caught yourself with a squeak, one hand behind your back, palm slicked with mud. 

His wall falls entirely, distracted, and Rhys' curiosity piques. 

Who is that? 

No one. I’ll report to you later. With that, the conversation ceases, Azriel’s walls of tenebrific smoke rising to block out the irritated hiss of his brother.

The edge of the Middle is considered somewhat safe, though not without risk, a perplexing fact that spurs him closer for a better look as you rise from the river, frozen blades of glass crunching under the sole of your boot. Your ears are pointed, limbs elongated, both markers of High Fae, but something unknown still lingers, a natural, earth rich sillage left in your wake. Your hips swing from the effort of pushing up the bank, backpack in hand, and the sway distracts him. It’s hard to ignore the shape of you, the weight of your breasts, the pert bow of your top lip. Gods, at full height, you barely reach his shoulders, and his body reacts in a way that’s out of his control.

Rhys’ warning is ice between his ears, a wound still fresh even though it's old. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.  

He’s long let her go, but the command from his brother still sits bitterly in his stomach, along with untended desire. That's all this is, misplaced salacity.

Still, even your calves draw his eye.

Lovely little female, the shadows croon. He grits his teeth and falls into step behind you, cautiously allowing inky tendrils to sprawl across bramble laced ground. One licks too close, just barely caressing the edge of your heel, and you freeze.

So does he. An unnatural stillness falls over the wood, culminating into a quiet so loud it shatters as you fix wary eyes on the space where he stands. He holds his breath, ice crystal laden cirrus clouds parting overhead, drawing back the curtain on a star filled night sky, silver light shimmering across fallen leaves. 

The night's splendor shines on you like a blessing from the Mother herself. 

You blink, lips parted, quizzical, anxious expression bringing your brows together. “Hello?”

You can’t… you can’t see him, can you?

Your reaction puzzles him. How is it you are out here, in the Middle, so brazenly, so recklessly, calling out to a place filled with such sinister, monstrous magic and monsters?

You tilt your face to the break in the clouds, downy white snowflakes sticking to your eyelashes and dotting your cheeks in such a way it’s seraphic. The shadows, his shadows, vibrate with frenetic, enchanted energy.

Beautiful, they coo as they reach for you, nearly finding the bend of your neck before he snaps them away.

You shift the backpack hung from your shoulders and take one last look around, confused, until you shake your head, spinning on your heel to head into the forest. The urge to follow you is too great, your presence here is now a riddle requiring answers, if not for his own curiosity, then for the safety of the Night Court, his family. Who knows who you are, what you are, what your business is in this place-

Shadowsinger. Nuala’s whisper halts his pursuit. The fox is here with news of Koschei.

With one more long look at your retreating back, he reluctantly steps into a pocket of a shadow, leaving the Middle and its new mystery for another time. Soon.  

Azriel does not like surprises.

In fact, he prides himself on rarely ever being surprised, at least in Velaris.

So to stumble upon you at the Palace of Bone and Salt, to see you in the midday sun, boots and muddied cloak replaced by a plum stained linen dress, hair pinned up in various places off your neck and holding a large canvas bag at your side, stops him in his tracks. He falls behind Cassian and Nesta without a single word, slowing his steps to mimic how you drift through the stalls and storefronts, nodding and smiling to others as if you belong here. As if this is your home. The wary look in your eyes from the other day has been replaced by a radiant, celestial glimmer, one drawing those around you closer, and something squeezes around his heart at the sight.

Our sweet girl. 

Stop it. 

“Az?” Nesta turns, noticing his absence, Cassian following suit almost immediately.

“Sorry,” he replies smoothly, running a hand down the buttons of his shirt. Even from paces away, the scent of your skin fills his nostrils, dampened wood from rain and freshly fallen fruit. Foolishly, his gaze lingers too long, long enough his brother notices, and breaks out a broad grin.

“See something you like?”

Cassian plants himself directly in your path, pretending to look on absentmindedly, perusing a stall piled with fresh cuts of meats. You try to move around him, but the flow of bodies stalls your momentum, and you nearly trip over your feet, giving Cassian an opportunity to reach out and steady you.

“I’m sorry!” You grip the straps of your bag, righting yourself after recovering from the stumble, and Azriel closes his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his brow.

“That’s alright. I’m Cassian,” he grins, extending his hand. There isn't a male, female, or child in this place that does not know them, but the introduction is polite, at the bare minimum. At its depth, it's a way for his some time insufferable brother to stick his nose in a place it doesn't belong, and when you don’t reciprocate, he breezes right past, ignoring the awkwardness of your refusal. “This is Nesta, and Azriel.” Azriel inclines his head, and you look from Cassian to him, before settling on Nesta.

Most in Velaris look away from Nesta, like they’re staring at a star so bright it hurts their eyes, but not you. You meet her head on, studying curiously, and her lips quirk to the side in a barely-there smile.

“Ignore him. He’s an oaf sometimes.” She playfully nudges Cassian with an elbow, and you relax slightly. His brother doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone however, and clears his throat.

“This is the part where you tell us your name. It’s customary.” You’re taken aback for a second, a micro-expression of unease no one else tracks save for himself before recovering with a tepid smile.

Your name rings like a bell, a chime of music, strings and key perfectly played in harmony. The shadows sigh.

“Do you live around here?” Cassian pushes, and teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“Yes, I- I work at Moonflower.”

“The apothecary?”  

“That’s the one.”

“Maybe we’ll see you there sometime. Nesta’s always in need of a new elixir.” She raises a brow at her mate, who flashes Azriel a mischievous smirk.

“Oh, I work in the back.”

“You’re the apothecary.”  They're the first words he's said to you, and they're wrong. They slip off his tongue too cold, too calculated, and he doesn't miss the way you frown in confusion.

“I’m an alchemist, but… yes.” Your voice is a shade above a whisper, quiet beneath the bustle of the market, and his eyes meet yours, circling in your inescapable gaze like a spider in a web. Cassian coughs, breaking his reverie. “I uh… I should get going, I’ve got a lot of work to do. It was nice to meet you all.” He wants to disappear into the crowd of the market after you, but he dreads the weight it would carry with his brother, the unrelenting questioning and pestering it would produce. 

“You too!” Cassian hollers, and then faces him with a wide grin. “Well, she’s-“ Nesta smacks the middle of his chest, and Azriel glowers.

“Don’t.”

He finds you again in the Middle, same backpack and boots, diligently picking through a patch of chartreuse moss. He swallows his scowl. Why are you out here alone, again? It frustrates him. Why put yourself in such danger?

He's struck by a fantasy, one of you with your pants pulled down your ankles and bent over his knees, sweet cries filling the room as you take your punishment for such recklessness, his open palm raining smack after smack down onto your ass.

Madness. He shakes the vision away, coming to stand at your side.

“Hello.” You whirl, startled like a rabbit.

Nice, the shadows groan, and his wings flex.

“H-hi.” Music again, a melody on the breeze, and shadows flutter around his shoulders, scrawling across the ground to where you kneel. He orders them back, wielding a sharp-edged command that cuts, but they stray farther, stretching for you, carefully floating across your forearms.  

He’s stunned, briefly, and then gathers his wits, yanking them away. They’ve never, never behaved this way. Born for him from desolation, tamed from darkness incarnate, he’s shaped them into obedient spies, tools spread across Prythian, ethereal wisps capable of things others cannot comprehend. Always in service, always compliant.

You look up with a little bit of wonder in your eyes, pretty little smile tugging at your mouth. He should say something reassuring, something kind or friendly to ease you, but such sentiment fails him, and he scowls, snapping at you instead. “Why are you out here by yourself?” Your face falls, effectively chastised like a child who’s been caught in a cookie jar.

“I’m… I need things. Ingredients.”

“And you need to come out here to get them?”

“The plant life is more vibrant here, more uh, c-concentrated? The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…” 

“The Middle is a dangerous place.” He replies flatly.

“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.” You glance at your bag at the edge of the clearing, eager for an escape he imagines, though he’s not willing to let you go.

“You’re quite far from Velaris.” You nod, but offer no explanation, and he raises an eyebrow.

“I winnowed.” You rock back on your heels and stand, shuffling closer to your backpack. He doesn’t move to stop you, just stands in the center of the moss patch, studying your every move. “I've got to get back,” you explain, offering him a nervous smile, one he doesn’t deserve, or return. You wilt. 

It strikes a chord in the pit of his stomach, and in a last-minute moment of weakness, he sends a shadow to ride the coattails of your winnow, issuing a stark warning to reaffirm the mission.

Observe and report to me. Do not make yourself known. 

Always.

Our sweet looks beautiful tonight, the shadows report in a whirlwind of excitement, and he pauses mid cut as the male in front of him whimpers, twisting, trying break free from the chains.

That is not worthy of a report. He blatantly ignores the possessiveness, the pet name. For now.

She’s going to Rita’s with a friend. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Her dress is blue. Cobalt.  

Why are you reporting this? 

We’re acting as instructed. 

This is a futile information, he chastises, and the answer is resounding silence as he shakes his shoulders and turns back to his prey, the crying, bloody Fae strung up by his wrists.

“Where were we?”

Outside of Rita’s, Azriel lurks in darkness.  

His family is inside, unaware he���s in the alley, tucked away from prying eyes. He’s freshly showered, blood scrubbed out from beneath his fingernails, blackened door in his mind firmly shut and locked away, just like its twin in the dungeon.

It’s been too long since he’s gone out, always choosing to slink away just before the conversations turn to plans, separating himself from Mor, and Elain, distancing himself from scrutiny or worse, pity.

Tonight, he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t shake the idea of you here, so close, so tangible.

He slides from the shadowed pocket, and Fae step around him, eyes going wide and inclining their heads as a sign of respect. 

Respect. A joke. The city cannot fathom what he has done in his lifetime, and if they did, respect would be the furthest thing from their mind. 

He dons his mask, cold indifference, severe gaze, and slips inside.

Cassian knows he’s here before he’s in view. A brother’s intuition, an instinct that has served them well in battle and elsewhere, since they were young.

Tonight, he greets Azriel with a wide, knowing grin, dragging his gaze to the other side of the room and Azriel has no choice but to follow, spotting the obvious immediately.

You. 

You’re perched at a table, legs crossed, smiling, laughing, holding a too full glass of wine. The dress is cobalt blue silk, delicate lace stitched on the hem, thin straps exposing your neck, your clavicle, your back. For a moment, he imagines his mouth on those places, he dreams about what you might taste like, how smooth you’d be against him, the contrast of his ruined hands and your satin skin.

His cock throbs, sense and composure momentarily slipping away before he regains control.

The shadows sigh. Our beautiful girl. 

Stop calling her that. 

Why? She is beautiful. And she is ours. 

“Az!” Feyre is delighted, trying to wave him over. He’s always had a soft spot for his High Lady, endlessly impressed by her resilience, her love and commitment to both his brother and the Night Court, her kindness. “It’s been so long,” she teases as he slides into the seat at her left, pointedly ignoring Cassian’s smug expression.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work.”

“We miss you. You haven’t been at dinner in weeks.”

“It’s true,” Mor says softly at the other side of the table, brows creased in concern. He gives her a small, reassuring smile, one he hopes conveys the truth. It’s not your fault. She visibly relaxes.

“So, Az,” Cassian stretches, too big for the booth, arm coming around Nesta and tugging her close. “What brings you out this evening?” Fucking. Hel.

“I’ve missed you all.” It’s not a lie, not exactly, even if he’s been keeping his distance, it doesn’t change how he feels about his family, how he loves them in his own way. How it’s easier sometimes, to love others from afar, how envy has infected his lungs and every time he takes a breath, he wonders why the Cauldron chose not to give him what his brothers have. A bond. Love. 

At night, when he’s alone in his bed, he accepts the truth, the reality of being unworthy, of being a bastard, of being malevolent and repulsive. It was so easy with Mor, to long for someone so beautiful, so close to his heart but still unattainable, to dream of himself as a male one could love, could be proud of, a love who would choose him, again and again, even if it wasn’t true. Even if he knew for a long time, it would never be true. A fantasy like Mor is an easy escape from the nightmare in his head.

And Elain. Elain. A vision with big doe eyes and caramel hair, a beautiful girl whose life was lost, and a new, confusing one was born in its place.

A perfect obsession.

She too, was a dream. Something to cling in the longest hours of the night when sleep wouldn’t come.

But he was a monster, and he was undeserving.

Not true. 

Feyre catches his eye and gives him a warm, knowing look. “I’m happy to see you.”

“As I am you.”

You’re drunk.

He doesn’t need the shadows to confirm it, it’s clear from across the room. You teeter on the edge of the stool, giggling, radiant in the wash of dim lighting.

He’s not the only one who notices. Around you, other males watch from the corner of their eye, letting their gazes sweep from head to toe, lingering too long on your breasts, the curve of your waist. A male brushes his hand across your shoulder, another offers to buy you a drink. Rage curls in his stomach, jealously flooding his veins with vigor.

They’re touching her. The shadows are frustrated, hissing and snapping angrily, rattling around him like a black cloud.

I know.

His teeth might shatter from the amount of pressure coming from his clenched jaw.

The male following you out the side door at the end of your evening is the straw that snaps him in half. He abandons the table, his family, slipping away into the crowd as Feyre calls his name.

“Let him go.” Cassian rumbles on the last wind of a chuckle, and he loses the parting words as he pushes the door wide, cool Velaris air stinging his cheeks.

“No need to run off.” The male’s arm is slung around your waist, your face twisted into a sour swirl of intoxication and discomfort. Incendiary anger licks up his spine, flames violent and desperate to lash out. "Let's go back inside, have another drink." 

“No,” you straighten, but both Azriel and offending male catch the liquored wobble in your voice as you hold your jacket to your chest. “No, thank you.” He tugs you closer.

“Come on, I can-“ It’s all Azriel can stand. He’s gone in one moment and by your side the next, fingers digging into the male’s arm.

“She said no.” You look up into his face, eyes wide and unfocused, but he doesn’t miss the way you relax with relief, like you’re happy he’s here. Happy, an emotion rarely felt by those who encounter the Spymaster, happy like you’re soothed by his presence. It’s unfamiliar to him, just another suprise dealt by your hand. The male’s eyes go comically wide, blood draining from his face, sputtering something Azriel is deaf to. He's too focused on the pulse rapidly fluttering beneath your jaw. “Are you alright?”

“I’m… yes.” You lurch, half stepping back, half stumbling, and he steadies you. When you don't pull away, the shadows chirp. 

“You’re drunk.”

“Yup.” You punctuate the single syllable with a hiccup, inky tendrils curling around your wrist, petting, soothing. He braces for your fear, the uptick in your heartbeat, shallow respirations, but they don’t come.

You giggle instead.

The shadows preen and purr with glee. Our girl.

His shreds of control are slowly slipping away, deteriorating in your presence, and he lets the mask fall away to reveal a small smile. You suck in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?” You nod rapidly, but your balance is still askew. “You’re too drunk to winnow.”

“I wasn’t going to. I live a few blocks that way.” You nod to the east and then pivot to the west, unsure. “Or that way. I’ll know once I get to the street.” He frowns.

“You’ll walk?”

“Well, yes. That’s what those of us do if we don’t have those.” You point at his wings, gaze lingering before you look away sheepishly.

“I’ll walk you.” You blink, surprised, confused, just as he is. The words were not planned, they appeared, conjured from the cold air, pushed from his mouth by some unknown force.

There’s a twist beneath his ribs, a small piece of him rapidly stretching and spreading, pulling him apart to make more room.

“What? I- I can walk fine, I’m fine.”

“It’s cold.” His voice is soft, softer than he’s ever heard, and it must be enough to quiet your protests, because you purse your lips and relent with a sigh.

“Alright then.”

It’s odd, to want to know another, to want to understand another outside his family. This throbbing ache, freshly blooming in your presence, is different compared to the festering desiderium he’s held for Mor, for Elain, the pining turned fetid, foul in its taste across his tongue, infatuation, obsession, anything to avoid focusing on the darkness constantly closing in around him, the black tar filling his lungs, drowning him. He was born, molded, embraced by the bleakest parts of this realm, and there’s not enough water in it to douse the rage and disgust burning in his soul. His people are monsters, and so shall he be. 

The shame of it all, punctuated by his infatuation with Elain, the necklace debacle, is fire in his veins, but the iridescent halo shining onto your shoulders from your porch light quells it somehow, gentles the heat. “How often do you visit the Middle?”

You give him a sheepish look. “Often, lately. I’ve lost my main supplier.” 

“Why is that?” The Sidra saturates the breeze, briny and sweet, teasing your dress into a flutter at your knees, his shadows hovering over your skin, craving to cloak you in their darkness, shield you from wandering eyes.

“Most of my plants and powders come from the Spring Court, and I can’t really afford the… inflation.” Inflation is a polite way to put it. Tensions between Spring and Night have resulted in rising costs of goods, and total derailment of trade in some cases.

She’s worried her words offend you. 

“That’s understandable.” He tames his voice, and your shoulders relax by a fraction. “Still, it is a long way from home, if anything were to happen.” An understatement. The Middle holds horrors most cannot comprehend, wicked creatures that would love nothing more than to prey on and devour something as lovely as you. He still cannot wrap his head around the fact that you frequent it in the first place. Even the bravest, strongest of Prythian do not. 

“I can handle myself.”  He wants to protest, wants to ask if you truly know what lurks in there. “Mostly.” You add as an afterthought, little hiccup, little giggle, fingers fumbling for the door handle. The hair on the back of his neck stands stiff.

“Mostly?”

“It’s not like I haven’t run into trouble,” you’re vague, shrugging it off, and his gut clenches.

“What kind of trouble?” The breeze turns to wind that whips, cold with the sting of frost. 

And then you roll your eyes.

It’s so… bratty. His wings twitch, lightning rolling through membrane like a storm on the sea.

Wild one, the shadows chirp.

Too wild, maybe. “How old are you?” You lift your chin with a sniff.

“One hundred and two.” So young. 

The High Lady just turned twenty-three, the shadows remind him drily.

Fair.

“So… did you walk me all the way home to hold me hostage on my front step in the cold?” His laugh is a surprise. It comes deep from his chest, a genuine rumble in his ribs, more authentic than the half smiles and nods he’s been giving others for years.

“If I was holding you hostage, you’d know.” He murmurs, stepping into your space, tracking the dilation of your pupils, the quiver in your bottom lip. Normally, these reactions would insinuate fear, but you don’t smell of it. You smell like desire, like you’d succumb to him, bend for him, arch for him. “Are you cold?” Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders and down your arms, and he dips close, closer than he has any right to. He has no right to you. No right to such a strange, beautiful creature, a mystery by all standards. He who deals in death, who poisons all he touches, would stain you. He'd drag his scarred, marbled fingers under your silk dress and taint you. 

“Y-yes.” He catches the scent then, the damp foliage from fresh rain crushed under heel, soaked moss at the roots of an ancient tree. It jolts him back to reality, mask settling into its rightful place across his face.

“What are you?”

“What?”

“You’re High Fae… but there’s something else.” Hesitance flickers in your eyes, and you pull away, creating distance. Good. He needs it. You confuse him, cloud his judgement, sowing uncertainty he’s not used to.

And every time he looks at you, his chest aches.

“Nothing important.” He cocks his head.

“Is that so?” You shrug.

“I’m a half-breed.” He hides his disgust at the term, but it doesn’t change the rage it ignites, the disdain.

“Half what?”

She barely knows you; she has no reason to trust you, the shadows sulk, unhappy with the turn of events as you take the last stair and open your door, turning to for one last look at him. 

“I’m not a threat, Azriel.”

Truth. 

“Any news?”

“No.” The silence is long suffering, and after he offers nothing further, Rhys sighs.

“Azriel-“

“I have work in Dawn this coming week, leaving tomorrow. I expect to be gone for a full seven, even eight days. I’ll report back once I’m home.”

“Okay.” Azriel’s shield is wall of shadow impenetrable by most, and even though the relationship between them is strained, his brother would never force his way into his mind.

If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.  Or maybe be would. 

He was given an order; orders are meant to be followed, something Rhys’ own father instilled in him early on, and though it's been months, it's still too bitter in the back of his throat. Rhys’ father ordered him. Often. Treated him as one would treat an object to be used, a weapon to wield. Azriel was defined by the shadows, for his usefulness, not for who he truly was. 

He had never been on the receiving end of this manner of treatment from Rhys, and he could not deny that he had trouble stomaching it. 

“Where have you been staying? Your townhouse?” He schools his features, smothering the annoyance at what he knows must be common conversation between his brothers.

They’re worried about you. Cassian misses you at the House of Wind. 

We’ve cohabited for over five hundred years; some distance is not going kill him. 

“Yes, wanted to give Cass and Nesta some space.” The lie is as flimsy as they come, because he doesn’t care. He needs space. “They’re quite loud.” That isn’t a lie, at least. Rhys studies him.

“Where are you, Az?” It's not a literal question. He and his brother share many things, but the strongest strings are knotted tight around each other’s darkness, bonds forged in agony, in rage, in revenge. There are parts, pieces of each other that match, heinous, wrathful pieces hidden away but never healed. When Rhys asks where he is, it’s to know how deep he is in the gloom that never leaves.

“I’m here.” It’s short, be he cannot give anything more. Cannot give more to the High Lord, Rhys, his brother, the one he has given everything to. The one he has been most loyal to above all. The one who would treat him now, as his father did. 

He pities Rhys, in a way, something he’s never held for him in the past, but now… now is different. Rhys is different, his stakes have never been higher. A mate, a son, a realm on his shoulders, he's struggling, in his own way, and the collected High Lord is few and far between these days, in his place a reactive, high-strung male he doesn’t always recognize. He’s not sure Rhys recognizes himself either. 

“You won’t get too far?” At the root of it, no matter how turbulent this time between them may be, the bond of brotherhood is the strongest of them all, holds them fast to one another, keeps them close, even if one strays.

And so, Azriel assures him, the words gritted through his teeth. His rage is a tangible thing, a living breathing thing but no matter how angry he may be, Rhys is still his brother, even in these iterations. The realm changes, scales tipping back and forth, but the brothers remain steadfast through times of peace and battle.  “I won’t.”

He’s to leave for Dawn this afternoon, but for some reason, he finds himself at Moonflower’s front door.

It’s early, half of Velaris still waking up, and the shop is clearly closed, though it doesn’t matter to him. He knows you’re here, sodden gorse and peeled bark drifting on the morning breeze from a large back window. For some unknown reason, it soothes him to know it, to be able to account for your whereabouts.

He pulled his shadows back from surveillance, convinced he would leave you alone, let this rest-

but he still flew here this morning.

It bothers him, this magnetism, the draw towards your presence.

You’re a mystery needing to be solved, that’s all.

“Shadowsinger,” your head cocks. “What brings you here so early?”

“I wanted to ensure you won’t be visiting the Middle this week.” Your brows knit together.

“I uh… no. I won’t need to go for another two weeks, I think.”

“I’ll accompany you next time.” His patience with this situation is wearing thin, but his agitation with himself spills out onto you. 

“That’s not-“

“It’s not a request. You’re endangering the Night Court.” You smother a flinch.

“I’m not, I swear, I’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”

“That remains to be seen.” He’s the Spymaster now, cold and unfeeling, but you’re still not scared. “Your refusal to disclose what makes up the other part of the half-breed in you is reason enough.” He uses the term as a weapon, and it hits his target, as always. Azriel never misses. You wince, glancing down at the floor, shoulders slumping a tad before you right yourself. The barb stings because like Rhys, like Mor’s mother and countless others, you’ve faced the abuse, the vitriol, the torment from those who would crush you beneath their feet if they could.

It hurts, a whip lashing across his cheek, bleeding him for the pain he’s causing you. A consequence, another mark on his soul. You lift your face again, the emotion gone, and you nod.

“Okay then.” An overwhelming urge to reach for you comes over him, to tug you into his chest and shield you with his wings, hide you away from all the ugly, terrifying things in this world-

Including himself.

He shoves it to the side, buries it where it belongs, where the light doesn't touch, and nods. “I’ll be away this week but when I return, I’ll come by.”

He doesn’t say goodbye, and smothers the urge to get one last glimpse of you, even though he wants to. 

There’s dirt beneath your fingernails.

You’ve been digging around in the same riverbed for almost an hour now, rifling through rocks and silt, bottom half of your body soaked and muddy, again. “There we are,” you murmur plucking an iridescent onyx stone from the marl and placing it in your bag. 

He has… so many questions.

And he’s afraid to admit to himself he finds you… enchanting. Clever, beautiful, kind. He wants more, wants to soak you up, dance to the harmony of your voice.

Ask, the shadows encourage. Talk to her.

He’s been standing on the bank a few paces away for some time now, leaving you to your foraging, but never letting you get too far away. You haven’t said more than ten words to him, and he hasn’t pushed you. The disgrace of the last time the two of you spoke still weighs heavily on his shoulders, another tally in a long list of transgressions. 

Try. 

“How does it work?” Your head snaps up.

“What do you mean?”

“Your work. Moonflower sells elixirs and potions, but they’re an apothecary, and you’re an alchemist.”

“Well, I am an apothecary too. Contraceptive tea doesn’t make itself,” you give him a mischievous smile before turning serious. “Magic binds better to precious metals. I transmute and mix them together, then pair them with salts or chemical compounds found in herbs and plants. One complements or enhances the other.”

“You’re putting metal in them?” You shake your head.

“No, I extract the minerals from the metal after transmutation and infuse the elixirs. I can make everything from contraceptive tea to…” You trail off, lips pressing into a thin line.

“To?”

“Poison. Faebane.” He hears your heart flutter, pulse ratcheting upward as you give him a cautious look, and every muscle in his body tenses.

“Who do you make it for?”

“I’m not sure, I received an ongoing order request signed and sealed by the High Lord years ago, and I’ve been producing it ever since.” You stand, brushing your hands off on your thighs, mud caked in the lines of your palms, head tipped back to peer at him. “It’s picked up by one of the Wraith sisters each month.”

Does she know? The shadows don’t answer.

“I like them,” you continue, making your way up the bank, “Cerridwen even gifted me a hooded shawl last Solstice. It’s beautiful. I wear it often.”

“I see.”

“I think the Faebane is for the Spymaster,” you peek at him coyly, mouth quirked to the side in a small smile. “Who is also the Shadowsinger, right?” He fights to his expression neutral. 

“You know.”

Of course she does. Our sweet is very clever. 

“I thought… maybe. I wasn’t sure.” He’s beginning to worry about your instincts. First, he discovers you’re spending time out here in the Middle, alone, and now, he learns you’ve suspected he’s the Spymaster, Rhys’ torturer, this whole time.

“It doesn’t concern you?” He blurts, incredulous. You should fear him. You should be terrified and disgusted. You should be smart enough to recognize his rotten, tainted soul.

“No. I make poison, after all.” You shrug. “I don’t make judgements of others.” Guilt twists like a knife.

“What I said the other day, about being a half-breed…” You wave your hand, trying to brush him off.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not, the shadows hiss. You hurt her.

He pulls up short, turning to face you. “It was cruel, and I am sorry for it.” He’s locked in your gaze, the rest of the woods, this place, Prythian disappearing as he loses himself in you. He hears it again, the mellifluous harmony of a grand orchestra, notes and chords playing together in an intoxicating paragon, richer, more potent than any wine, each one building upon the other, creating a song that draws him in, urges him to reach for you, cup your face and hold you there so he can memorize every refraction of light in the kaleidoscope of your eyes. “I-“

“It’s okay,” your hand brushes his, and he tenses, preparing for the recoil, the disgust, but it never comes. Your touch is gentle, fingers slipping between his, silk on scars sliding together seamlessly. He wants to push you away, wants to tell you not to touch him because you’ll dirty yourself. He’s a monster and you’re something else, something winsome and full of wonder, something not for him. “I forgive you.” You forgive him. He almost laughs at the absurdity. Forgiveness, as if that’s something he could ever earn, as if there was a way to seek and find it. As if he even wants it.

From many it would mean nothing but from you… it’s different. It's a balm, cool water over a burn, sunlight shining down on him in a dungeon. 

You don’t look away, and you don’t let go. You hold him there, in front of you, gentle and patient, but unyielding. The throbbing ache that’s become ever present beneath his ribs grows, and it drags him close, a magnetic pull he can’t fly away from leading him straight to you. It’s a power strong enough it could bring him to his knees at your feet, his entire existence whittling down to the sound of your breathing as he carefully cradles your face.

“Azriel,” your whisper is music, heartbreakingly beautiful, a hauntingly familiar melody he may have been hearing all his life and had been none the wiser to. A siren's song on the sea. Captivating. Intoxicating. He strokes his thumb across your cheek and falls away into it, pressing his mouth to yours, drinking you in. The kiss is careful at first, a delicate question posed between two with one waiting for an answer, and when it comes, it comes with a symphony, ambrosian and endless, unleashing a warmth unlike he’s ever felt through his chest.  He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be marring you like this, staining you, but he cannot stop, and when you tug him close, lips parting to allow his tongue past your teeth and find yours, you cling to him, the purr of a whimper building in your throat. 

What is he doing? He's snapped out of the spell. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you turn your attention to your bag, mindlessly fidgeting with the collection of flora and rock in the bottom, avoiding his eyes. Embarrassed. Shamed by him, rejected by him. 

No! the shadows lament. “We should keep going, if you have more things to find?” You nod, looking past him towards the woods.

“Right, yeah.”

“Your dagger is loud, by the way.” It's the first thing you've said in thirty minutes, and it's strange, like you. 

“What?”

“The dagger,” you motion to where Truth-Teller is strapped to his thigh, “it’s magic is loud. I can’t imagine what I’d find if I-“ Something cracks in the woods to the north, far enough away to echo, close enough to raise his hackles, spread his wings, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you into his side. The forest groans, turning malicious, wicked power crawling through the brush towards the river.

Leave. He curls a wing around you as a shield.

“What-“

“We’re leaving.” There have been lesson learned here, too many times, and he’s not about to risk you. He conjures a pocket, a corner of star flecked shadow, and tugs you into it, leaving the Middle behind.

He decides to sleep at the House of Wind.

It’s a shield, a technique to combat his desire to be close you. If he’s close to Cassian, to Nesta, if he’s here, he’s not there, with you, where he dropped you off at your doorstep, where the two of you lingered before you disappeared into the house. He’s not battling his instincts, his need to sit on the roof and keep watch.

He’s here instead. Where he should be.

Cassian grins from his spot on the couch at the sight of him, Nesta casually looking up from her book. “Out with your witch again?” He pulls up short, blood turning frigid, freezing through the veins in his wings all the way to his heart. “You didn’t know?” Cassian’s head swings towards her.

“I thought we discussed waiting for proof, Nes.” Azriel shoots him a murderous glare.

“Having discussions about my life, then?” It’s a small rock in an ocean at this moment, but it adds fuel to the roaring fire of rage curdling his stomach. Nesta raises an eyebrow. 

“No,” his brother protests, “I thought- Nesta suspected something, but I didn’t want to tell you until we knew without a doubt.” He emphasizes the last few words, and she shrugs.

“She’s a witch, or at least, partially. The power is unmistakable. She has that smell, too. Old trees.” She's lost for a second, in a memory, silver fire crackling and then gone, and he knows she knows, where you've been, where he's followed. You don't just smell of old trees, you smell like the Middle.

The shadows coil around his shoulders, peeking out at Nesta like she’s personally offended them.

It’s not what you think. 

You knew? And kept this from me? 

He’s rarely, if ever, is so irascible, but this information ignites an anger so fierce his siphons hiss and glow cobalt blue, power straining against his control, desperate to be unleashed.

“What are you going to do?” Cassian shouts at his retreating back, and he caresses Truth-Teller’s hilt.

“Find out for myself.”

Your words pound in his head like a drum.

“The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…”

“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.”

His mind spins as he flies through the night, shooting across the sky fast enough for the wind to prickle at his cheeks. A witch. 

Witches are dangerous creatures. They’re power hungry, desperate to collect as much magic as this realm will allow, and then use it as they see fit, whether it be for good deeds, or evil ones. This unpredictability combined with their thirst for young blood, a compulsion fueled by the corrupted core of their stolen magic, makes them a threat.

Makes you a threat.

Your house is small, but comfortable. A narrow townhome nestled in a row of others with wide plank wooden floors and variations of dark colored paint on the walls, cozy and calm. Bookshelves overflowing, large worn velvet couch, bundles of herbs on your living room table, in your kitchen. You have an assortment of mugs, mismatched wine glasses and china, clothes haphazardly draped over chairs. To someone who doesn’t know you, it would seem messy, but to him, it’s fitting. It makes sense.

It's the only thing that makes sense in this moment. The rest of it, his ignorance, the disobedience of the shadows, his blindness, all bear down upon him. He failed to recognize a threat to this Court, his family, he allowed himself to be distracted, again, by a female, he succumbed to an enchantment, a bewitching. The strange pull he felt towards you, the music in his head, the throbbing behind his ribs, all a spell set upon him, by you.

You’re stunning in your sleep. Wrapped in sweet dreams, lashes feathered against your skin, rolled onto your side. You’re only wearing a nightshirt and underwear, the curve of your hip visible from where your sheets are half kicked off. Lovely.

He lets you linger in a last moment of peace. If you wake before he’s ready, he doesn’t know what magic he’ll face, what creature he’ll truly encounter, and he wants to hold onto to this, to you, before it all changes.

He brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers and that thing inside him weeps, something agonizing trying to claw its way forward, but he buries it deep.

By the time you’re awake, it’s too late.

“Azriel?” Your voice is weak, confused, and you blink blearily at your surroundings, stone wall, stone floor, small light at the roof of the chamber that’s too far away. He keeps the space lit by fae lights instead, flickering and low, illuminating the space just enough to see him, and a table in the corner.

You're trapped in Faebane cuffs and chained to the floor. Fragile, weakened by your own creation. 

When you become fully aware of your surroundings, you thrash, fear thundering in your heart. “What is this?”

“Thought you might like to see how the product of your hard work is used.” You tug at the cuffs to no avail, and then look up at him with eyes so sad, so frightened, it stops him in his tracks.

Why does this feel so wrong? 

Think, Shadowsinger. The shadows beg but he banishes them, still enraged by their betrayal.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” He shrugs. Casual indifference, cold regard. The Spymaster, the torturer.

“No?”

“I haven’t done anything, I haven’t, I swear.” He bends shadow over your eyes, marring your sight, plunging you into darkness and you gasp, twisting and turning, looking for the light you won’t find. “S-stop.”

“You’ve been keeping something from me, haven’t you, little half-breed?” He mocks you with it, drenches it in disdain, and you shake your head weakly.

“I haven’t… I swear, I ju-just wasn’t ready-“

“To tell me you’re a witch?”

“I’m not!” You cry, and he covers your mouth with insidious tendrils, cutting off your airway. You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and your panic is ripe, flooding the room, its acrid scent making him nauseous.

The gag holds for a minute or two, and when he releases, you slump over, gasping. Truth-Teller burns in his hold.

“Tell the truth, and it’s over.” Please.

“There’s n-nothing to tell.” Frustrations mounts and he cuts you off, this time for longer, long enough he registers the slowing of your heart, the lack of tone in your muscles. Shadows wrap around your throat, pressing on your windpipe so hard you’re whistling, slow leak of air turned tea kettle as you try to breathe.

He allows you a moment, and then resumes, pushing you to the edge, walking a slow, measured circle around you like a wolf stalking prey. There’s a pull deep inside him, something tugging at him, a desperate plea he does not understand.

Please. Stop this. 

He releases, you relent. Finally. “It’s my mother,” you rasp, tongue darting out to lick your lips, “she- it was her. She was a witch, and my father is Hi-gh Fae. He had an affair, and then banished her to the Middle. It’s wh-where I was born. Everyone would b-be so afraid of me if they knew, but I’m not- I’m not a witch. I’m ju-ust a half-breed." You’re sobbing now, each heave increasing the agony inside him, broken, raw sound echoing throughout the chamber. His mother’s face flashes in his mind and his stomach flips as he breaks out in a cold sweat. “I use that side of my to make things. Th-the alchemy, that’s all it’s good for. It’s not even that strong, I swear.”

Truth. 

It’s all truth. Every word. Every broken, desperate, frightened word.

He is a fool. 

He pulls the shadows from your face and you stare at the floor, small against the stone until you finally look up at him, cheeks soaked, eyes-

Something snaps.

Threads of brilliant cobalt blue spin from him, each string plucked in celestial succession to create perfect harmony, and the shadows sing. They sing for you, they sing to you, they sing the song he should have known all along. They sing of the path laid before him, the bridge that would carry him to you, the chords and notes coming together in a crescendo of souls, a blazing bond sealed by fate.

Mates. 

The threads stretch and strain, the music rising, but your side, your part, is missing. It’s dark, thickened by bramble and bracken, sharps and flats, lost to him in this moment.

This moment, where he has broken you. Tortured you.

He feels it all. Your terror, the agony. The sense of hopelessness overflowing and soaking the threads. 

“I-“ He falls to his knees, shadows twisting around the cuffs to unlock them, “I’m sorry.” You’re trembling, curling in on yourself and he wants so badly to pull you into his arms, to hold you close, wrap himself around you and beg for forgiveness. He wants to promise he’ll protect you; he’ll care for you; he’ll keep you safe. He’ll be worthy of you. He’ll fix this.

But how can he after what has been done. After what he has done. 

“I w-want to go ho-ome.” The words are covered by sobs, and his hands shake as he gently takes hold of your shoulders, pulling you out of the dungeon and back into your bedroom.

He stands there, helpless and lost as you crawl away from him into your bathroom, the handle locking with a resounding click. The bond is alive and open on his side, your distress and fear and despair radiating down into Azriel, the strength of your emotions ripping him apart.

You don’t want him here, that much is clear.

Cassian is still awake when he returns, and his brother ripples with shock at the sight of him.

He knows how he looks.

Crazed. Devastated. Possessed.

“What happened?” He lurches forward, still dressed from evening training, siphons gleaming, scanning for a threat, a fight, a reason for Azriel’s agony.

He’ll find none. Only Azriel is responsible for this horror.

As always. 

“She…” He can’t say it, can’t force the words. Can’t accept the truth, the terrible, painful truth. “She’s mine.” The blood drains from Cassian’s face. “She’s mine.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I- I didn’t… I didn’t get very far but I still… I still-“ He chokes on it. “She was so scared, Cass. She never… she was never afraid of me; from the day we met. She always, she looked at me differently. She trusted me. She… held my hand.” Cassian’s eyes slipped close. When they reopen, they’re determined. Strong.

“You’ll fix it. I know you will.” Azriel doesn’t hear him.

“I don’t deserve her, or this bond. When she realizes, she will sever it, and she’ll be right to. I have never been worthy, and the Mother knows. That’s why this happened.”

“That is not true. You made a mistake, and you were trying to protect your family, your court. She will understand… in time.”

“How?! How could anyone understand this? Excuse it?” He yells, and a door down the hall opens, Nesta appearing in the room, sharp and assessing.

“What’s going on?”

“Go back to bed,” Cassian growls, and though she glares, she listens. “Az, listen to me. It will be alright. You can fix this, you can.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You will figure it out, and we will support you, we’ll help in any way we can. It will be okay.”

“She will never forgive me.”

“And you’ll never know that until you try.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and then fisting it at his side. “This is Nesta’s fault.”

“Cassian,” Azriel snaps, patience shredded. “Not everything is your mate’s fault, for fucks sake. Stop projecting your guilt over your own transgressions onto Nesta. I’m sick of it.” Silence falls between the brothers, and after a long moment, Cassian nods.

“I deserved that,” he eyes him cautiously, “what do you want to do?” He needs silence. Solitude. Cassian knows, but he’ll still say it out loud, if only to make it clear. Don’t follow me. Don’t send others to check on me. 

“I need to be alone."

[starryeyed-apple]

making up after a fight - caleb

★ wc: 1.1k ★ content: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, some dark (romantic) imagery, mentions of toring chip, mutually obsessed CalebMC ★ masterlist ★ ao3

Caleb returns home late, his frame outlined by the entryway light you'd left on, just in case he came back tonight.

Stepping into the darkness of the living room where you wait, he slips off his Colonel's hat and long, thick jacket. Stripping himself of that mask which had made him unfamiliar to you.

He looks as exhausted as you feel, shoulders slumped with the lingering weight of your argument.

"Hey," Caleb calls softly when he sees the shape of you lingering in the shadows, the familiarity of his voice a beacon in the dark.

You pause, shifting in place where you'd been restlessly pacing, waiting up for a possible glimpse of him.

"Hey," you whisper, feeling the tension strung tight between you.

A brief moment of hesitation later, and you're crossing the room to each other, sinking into each other in the sweet rapture of your reunion.

"I didn't know if you'd want me here," Caleb murmurs, an uncertain mumble into your skin, nuzzling his face against your neck to try and get impossibly closer.

Sometimes it felt so wrong, to be so separated physically. You should be connected, always; veins attached, lifeforce exchanged, hearts beating as one.

Your fingers curl through his hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp, drawing a hum from deep within his chest.

"I always want you here," you murmur, hands moving down to span across the broad expanse of his shoulders, squeezing him tighter to you. His grip flexes and tightens on you in response. "I never want you anywhere else."

Caleb sighs, deflating with the sound, sinking so far into you that you nearly stumble to the ground. You know if you did, if you ever fell, he'd gladly fall with you.

"Good," he whispers, a catch in the natural rasp of his voice.

You let him rest in your embrace for a moment before gently nudging him back. Your lips twitch up at the dissatisfied whine climbing up his throat at being apart from you, but you don't let him get far. You would never let him stray so far away again.

Thumbs brushing under his eyes, you lightly trace the dark circles there, visible even in the low light still shining from the entryway.

"Come on." Dropping one hand away, the other finds his. Your fingers entangle with his effortlessly, an easy second nature as you tug him after you. "Let's get you to bed, baby."

The gentle glow of red that blooms across Caleb's cheeks in the dark almost has you pulling him into you again. But you stay strong, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. It's an utter reversal to your shared childhood when you were his little shadow, stuck to him like glue.

Now, he sits on the edge of the bed, eagerly following your loving direction as you undress him. His eyes, wide and transcendent as unexplored galaxies, follow your every move. As if you are the only world that existed in all of the dark, empty expanse of space.

Maybe you are. He'd seen that darkness—at least, more of it than the average man. He'd flown so high, seen it all, and come crashing down, burning through the stratosphere in his descent.

And still, he'd crawled home to you with every aching breath, clinging to you with the soil of his empty grave staining his fingertips.

Not a care for the worlds he'd seen, needing only the air of your earth to fill his lungs. You, nestled into his chest, filling the cavity and wrapping around his heart to keep it beating. Each and every pulse for you, you, you.

Caleb needed only your gravity to keep his feet moving, down the path that would wind back to you. Just as his own gravity had always captivated you, bringing you right back to him.

How lost you were without him.

What an empty, yawning abyss his chest had been without you.

Under the covers, your body wraps around Caleb's; limbs tangling, chest pressed to his back. Your arms encircle his broad chest, hands pressed over the fast, steady thrum of his heart.

Up, up, it races, then back down. Crashing so fast it was startling, and you press your cheek against his back.

You feel his heartbeat skyrocket again when your nails gently scrape against the thin fabric of his old shirt. The worn blue fabric that had sat in your drawer, well-loved and used often since you'd lost him. Now it was back where it belonged, hugging his skin in places where he'd grown even bigger, stronger.

His pulse spirals quickly back down again, and you don't need to see his face in the dark to know how it slackens just slightly. The unnatural furrow of his brow, the unnameable look passing through his eyes as he struggles against it, before it's all gone in a blink. Before he's fitting just a bit better into their mold.

You remember the burning sensation in your arm. How it had poured through your veins, eating you alive with desperation and possession, just as surely as it tried to erase you altogether.

It's a reminder of the argument that brought you to this point—your fear over his disregard for the danger he puts himself in, and his willingness to keep you at arms length from said danger.

Your hold on Caleb tightens.

His hand finds one of yours on his chest, stroking lightly along the backs of your fingers. Up and down, almost tickling at the barest hint of contact. He lifts it to place a chaste kiss to them.

"I'm here," he whispers, and you almost want to laugh at how he still knows exactly what you're thinking.

You know if you did laugh, it would twist. Bitter and angry, barbs to ensnare and burrow under your skin. Because even though your Caleb was still here, still in your arms, they wanted to take him from you.

But he was still here. You cling to the thought. Turn it into a mantra, until it evolves into a prayer.

Still here. Despite everything.

Still yours.

"I know."

But your voice catches, and Caleb presses a few more kisses against the back of your hand. Each kiss lasts longer, his lips adding more pressure.

Your body curls tighter around his, tangling yourselves further. Never again did you want to know where you were separated.

You wonder if he can feel your own heartbeat racing against his back, with nothing to calm you, to keep you in check.

The thought makes you angry again. It lessens only when his hand squeezes yours, before placing it back on his chest with your other one.

His heart was slow now, but it was still beating, and there was the prayer again.

Still here. Still yours.

"Rest, honey," he coos at you softly, and you relax on instinct; tight muscles unraveling, thoughts untangling.

"You'll be here in the morning?"

Caleb sighs, tracing old, familiar patterns along the back of your hand. It soothes you, and you melt into him.

"Always."

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 7)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

-

You watch him like a hawk after that. 

Not because anything’s changed. In fact, nothing’s changed. Seeing him drag a man by the collar of his shirt, the look in his eyes punishing and severe, has only confirmed the essential imbalance in your relationship. You don’t suffer the same fate as that man being dragged from the bar not because of mercy or leniency or forgiveness, but because the truth hasn’t yet come out. You’re safe because the truth is still hidden, a fact that could change at the drop of a hat. 

The thought makes you wary. You watch John in the days after with a scrutiny that borders on the paranoid. Does he already know? Has he left you stewing in ignorance all this time while waiting for the proper authorities to arrive? When he looks at you, does he see the blood on your hands? Does he know that he’s looking at a murderer? Does he know that your sins weigh on you like heavy stones dragging you down into the earth?

Every time the porch steps creak, your heart turns to stone and betrayal rushes up your throat like acid, and it burns. 

Then the door opens and John walks in. His face lights up when his eyes fall on you. “Hi darlin’.”

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath and slump into his embrace. 

You’re waiting for it to happen. Even when he pulls you into his chest at night, a big arm settled around your waist and his palm spread wide over your belly, you tense and wait for the truth to come out. But all he does is sigh and fall asleep, tucking you closer into his chest. You stare at the wall until the grooves between the wooden boards start to expand, the darkness encompassing every inch of the wall before bleeding down to the floorboards and up to the ceiling. Then you wake up and it’s the next day. 

The truth is imminent. It shines its light on the darkened path before it and stalks forward. You cower in the shadows waiting for it to find you, hopeful that it won’t. Sure that it will. 

There’s never a good moment to pack your bags and leave, and the longer you stay—as the days turn into a week since you first disembarked from the train and wandered into a town soaked in russet and red—the harder it seems to get a moment of peace. Though John wasn’t exaggerating when he said that a sheriff’s job never stops, you hadn’t thought that it would involve so much. 

Between chores and John and the townsfolk, you can’t get a moment to yourself. The closest you come to it is when Kate leaves you to your thoughts while she helps the customers. Even then, she still comes by every now and again to offer you a tea or brandy ball to suck on. 

You resent the idea that you need to be babysat, but he isn’t exactly wrong either. You’re not too stubborn to admit that. Under Kate’s watchful eye, you aren’t scurrying off anywhere. Instead, you help out around the shop where you can, offering to stock the shelves and sweep the floors. On occasion, you even get on your hands and knees in front of the shop to pull up the weeds, but that draws more attention than you’re comfortable with. They simply aren’t as concerned with weeds out here.

Most of your time is spent loitering around town waiting for John to take you home. Sometimes you join him for the day, trailing along after him when he goes out to collect the taxes or you accompany him when he has to attend trials and hearings in the court house, where you sit quietly in the public gallery and watch in rapt attention as the magistrate conducts the court proceedings, but there are days where that’s simply not possible.

“You’re gonna spend the day with Laswell, alright?” John tells you, pinching your chin to tilt your head up. 

He loves that little gesture, you’ve realized. Loves to touch you and guide you with a hand on your back or chin or arm, a hand brushing down the side of your waist to pull you in, gripping you by the nape of your neck just to hold. Even now, in broad daylight and in front of the window to the general store where anyone could look out and see the two of you, he keeps his thumb there, reluctant to let you go. The thought makes your neck go hot.

“When will you be back?” you ask.

“Later this afternoon—before dusk, so don’t go worrying about heading home without me. I have to see to something a few towns over.”

“Oh…what do they need you for?”

John frowns. “You’ve got an awful lot of questions today.”

“Never mind. Have a safe trip.” You don’t know why his reluctance to tell you anything frustrates you so, especially when he has good reason to, but even you can hear the way your voice grows petulant. 

His thumb squeezes against your chin, holding your head in place when you try to turn away. “I’m overseeing a hanging. Couple of men were found guilty of murder.” He studies you so intensely that he can practically see in your eyes the way your stomach turns at that. “See, I thought that might upset you. This is why I didn’t wanna tell you, darlin’.”

“It’s fine,” you say, swallowing. “I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, brushing his thumb up your chin until it tugs at your bottom lip, watching the way it snaps back into place when he releases it. 

He makes every moment feel like a last goodbye and a homecoming. You almost can’t meet his eyes under the intensity of his stare, but you also can’t look away. Not with how he looks at you like some precious thing. 

You expect it before it happens, but when he dips his head to plant a soft kiss on your lips, you go breathless for a moment. His beard is bristly against your skin, just south of coarse. The kiss turns into another, even more tender than the first. You resent the way you lean forward when he pulls away, chasing after him. 

“You be good for Miss Kate, okay?” he says, waiting for your reassurance. 

“I will,” you rasp, mortified at how easily he unravels you and how plainly you let it show. John grins when he hears the tremble in your voice. 

Then he leaves, riding off towards where the horizon dips below the visible and you watch until he disappears completely, falling away with it. Kate beckons you inside after that, and it’s just hot enough out that you gather up the skirt of your dress and follow after her, climbing up the steps to the general store.

Kate is a tough nut to crack. She’s kind and never rebuffs your questions when you make conversation, but she also isn’t exactly forthcoming with personal information. She seems more than happy to let the conversation lapse into silence. When there isn’t a customer to serve, she’ll take out a leather-bound notebook and write, going so deep into her own thoughts that you sometimes need to call her name a couple times before she’ll respond. 

“Kate,” you say again, waiting for her to finally blink and look up, which she does with only the faintest glimmer of impatience in her eyes. “Care to join me on a walk? I need to stretch my legs and…well, I don’t know my way around just yet.”

She snaps her book shut, winding a bit of string around it before placing it back beneath the counter. “There’s a restaurant on the other side of town if you care for a bite as well. I could do with something to eat.”

It’s not as much of a walk as you might have expected. You learn along the way that Kate has lived in town for several years, taking the shop over from her predecessor, a former employer prone to drinking and prone to expiring from that very same vice. She speaks of him with familiarity and affection for the dead, but none of the longing and misery that you’ve come to expect from someone grieving a loss.

“You came far just to find a husband,” she remarks when the two of you are seated at a windowside booth in the restaurant. She spreads a cloth over her lap and you follow her lead. 

You bite your lip. “I’ve heard good things about the frontier.”

Kate looks amused by that. “Now who’s been lying to you?”

You laugh, half genuine and half to keep the atmosphere light. You don’t tell her that no one lied to you about going out west because no one had said those words to you in the first place. There hadn’t been enough time for a conversation after the event, only enough time to unlock the study door and wash your hands of the blood in the sink downstairs before fleeing the manor with only your purse and cardigan, the feather duster still lying on the floor upstairs. You hadn’t even bothered going home.

There’s no telling what your aunt and uncle must have thought. You try not to think about that because there’s no going back now. You had the luxury of a single cry on the train as it chugged away from the station and the day slipped into night, but nothing more than that and nothing since. 

You tuck into your food when the waitress comes back with your meal.

“John said you were a schoolteacher before this?” Kate says, pulling you back into the conversation. 

It makes you nervous to lie too much about a subject you hardly know, so you smile and nod instead of responding. 

“You must be quite the polymath,” she continues, eyes downcast, not allowing you a good read on her. “Arithmetic, writing, history—goodness knows the skills one needs nowadays with the leaps and bounds in education. Thank goodness for the Common School reformers, giving women the opportunity to develop young minds.”

“Yes,” you croak, then clear your throat. “I certainly did my best to…educate the children.” 

Comical, given that you’d dropped out of school at the age of fourteen to work in a factory sewing buttons onto shirts. 

“And was the profession enjoyable? I know John mentioned you were keener on starting a family than continuing on as an instructor, but was it an informative experience?”

“Oh yes, it was. I enjoyed it. Immensely.”

“It must have been nice to work in a profession with such little turmoil.”

“I couldn’t have asked for better,” you agree, your smile tight now, wavering only a bit at the corners. 

Kate stares at you for a beat too long. It makes your stomach hurt and you fight against the urge to wilt under her stare. You can’t imagine you’ve said something wrong with how little you’ve said, but her stare makes your skin crawl. 

Finally, she smiles, the skin around her eyes creasing. “Well, that’s just lovely to hear.”

You put the conversation out of your mind on the walk back, sure that you must have imagined the flicker in her eyes. 

John comes back earlier than you expected. You swear your heart jolts in your chest when you hear the sound of a horse whinnying outside the shop out of nowhere and a man’s low, rough voice responding back, soothing it. You hear the sound of dismount, boots hitting the ground hard, and then come up the steps, each step making the spurs on the back of his boots rattle. 

When he opens the door, his eyebrows jump up at the sight of you already there waiting. Your eagerness should embarrass you, and it does, but there’s not much you can do about it, and there’s even less you can do about the way you melt when he says, “There you are, darlin’. Time to go home.”

Precious is the world where home has come to mean something tender and soft, even as much as you’ve pushed against it. You still hold fast against the notion, steeling yourself when John helps you up onto Buttercup and follows suit, riding home at almost a gallop. You hear his laughter on the wind when you yelp and nearly slide off, his arm around you the only thing holding you in place. 

“It’d be easier to ride if I had pants,” you complain when you dismount, hands pressed to his shoulders when he helps you down. “How do women even ride sidesaddle on their own?”

“Plenty of women do, darlin’. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“We can get you pants if you need them so badly,” John says, looking up to the sky like Lord help me suffer this woman. “But that means I’ll be teaching you how to ride Buttercup on your own. Think you can handle that?”

You balk at the thought. “…Let me think about it.”

He snorts. “You do that.”

He leaves you to your thoughts when he takes the horses out to the paddock for a bit. 

You sit out on the porch and watch the sunset while the horses run around the pen, soaking in the last hour of daylight. Overhead, clouds as big as mountains pass, heavy like an oil painting. Off in the distance, you can see thick clouds blotting out the sky entirely, the belly of them split open and letting out a downpour of biblical proportions. You only grow a bit nervous when you notice the wall of rain moving closer to your house with the wind, inching forward more every minute.

It’s not long before John notices it too. He whistles for the horses and waits until they trot back over to the gate, fixing the lead to their mantles again and leading them one by one back into the stable. A light drizzle begins to pour. It churns up the dust and dirt when it hits the ground, scenting the air with the fragrant smell of earth.

You head over to the stable as John brings in the last horse, hovering by the door while you watch him run his hand down Buttercup’s muzzle, whispering softly to her. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t acknowledge it, his attention focused solely on her. 

It gives you a chance to admire him from the back. Thick thighs in indigo jeans that seem almost painted on. Shirt tucked into his jeans, stretched taut at the shoulders; dark droplets of rain drying already. The dusting of hair on the back of his neck. You can see the fine lines on his forehead and in the corner of his eye from the side angle and it reminds you again that he’s older and more weathered than you, settled into his age rather than floundering in it. 

“It’s raining,” you say, just to have something to say. You shrink under his gaze when he turns towards you, faint amusement in his eyes.

“I noticed.”

You cringe at that, aware that he knows. He’s the one that brought the horses in after all. There’s just something in you that feels compelled to open your mouth when he’s around. An impulse that makes you cheep like a bird. 

“Looks like a bad one,” you mutter instead of shutting your mouth, instead of hightailing it back to the house and shutting all the windows to keep the rain from coming in. Useless girl. 

“Probably rain all night,” John says, squinting out at the sky through the open door. It’s darker now, a storm brewing. 

“Is there…is there anything we have to do? To get ready?” You don’t know why you say we like this is a partnership, but it comes unbidden and you know if he told you to hurry back and take in the porch chairs, you would. 

“Nothing to worry about. I’ll close up the stables and seal the windows—storm probably won’t hit for another hour or two. After dinner, we’ll turn in early.”

With a final stroke down Buttercup’s jaw, he steps away and moves towards you. You feel rooted in place again at his approach; the thought of taking a step back never even occurs to you. When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate to reel you in by your hips, drawing you into a deep, wet kiss that he breaks only when you whimper into his mouth. 

“You feelin’ better about being out here?” he asks, low and intimately. “Looked like you had a good time with Laswell.”

“She’s nice,” you say, deflecting from the other question. 

John hums his agreement, readjusting his hold on your waist until every inch of him is pressed against you. Your breasts are flattened to his chest, belly pressed to his; every hard inch of him, solid as an oak.

“C’mon, honey, talk to me,” he murmurs. “Have I been treating you right? You still have any reservations about marrying me?”

“Bit late for reservations, isn’t it?”

He clucks his tongue. “‘Course it ain’t. Won’t change anything, but I still wanna know.”

It’s hard not to consider the possibility of being honest with him for a change when his gaze borders on the devout. No one in the history of time has ever looked at you like this, like you hung up the moon and stars. The thought chokes you up. In all the years of your life, has one other person looked at you and asked if everything was to your liking? John’s love borders on reverence, straddles the narrow divide between the telluric and the celestial, the earthly and the divine. 

It’s dizzying. And you’re not built for subterfuge. Not built to lie to the one man that, despite everything, despite taking you from your former life by force, has offered you a new one on a silver platter. 

You wet your lips, conscious of how dry your mouth suddenly is. John’s eyes follow the glide of your tongue over your lip.

And then you lie. “None whatsoever. I’m happy here.”

Maybe it’s a half-lie. After he shuts the stable doors and barricades them to keep the doors from swinging open in the midst of the storm, you wind up back on the porch watching the dark clouds up in the sky slowly approach, John at your back this time. 

John tilts your head up into another kiss. You don’t know when you made the conscious decision to let him think you amenable to this relationship, but you cling to that thought desperately when his tongue licks into your mouth velvety smooth. 

The roof extends out over the porch, keeping the two of you dry, but you can hear the sound of raindrops pelting the slate shingles. 

“You’ll see, honey,” he says against your lips, the words rumbling through you, buzzing under your skin and making it tingle. “‘M gonna make you so happy. Never gonna even think of leaving me.”

The words dissolve on your tongue. Swallowed down dry. With his arm hooked around your waist and hand tilting your head up, there’s no way you could think of anything else except wanting more. 

It’s hard to talk when he has you up against the railing, your dress pulled up and his fingers spreading apart your lower lips. It’s not the first time he’s touched you there, but it’s the longest he has, at least without the barrier of your underwear. His fingers spread your labia delicately, middle finger running up the wet seam. He hums into the back of your head while he does and presses a kiss into your hair. 

“Always so soft and wet here, darlin’,” John murmurs, stroking his fingers up your inner lips and petting the sensitive nub at the apex of your sex. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been aching for it? Been waiting for you to give me the word.”

Waiting, he says, while tucking a finger into your sex, curling it up into you and chuckling under his breath when your hands clamp tighter on the railing and your back arches. Just a single finger feels like more than you can handle. John has thick fingers; thick fingers with calluses that you can feel on the delicate flesh between your legs. It plugs you up tight, more so when your core clenches involuntarily around his finger. His chuckle descends into a groan, then a sigh. 

He pulls his finger out against the squeeze of your internal muscles, ignoring the way you whisper, “No, please” under your breath. 

You only stop pleading for more when he swirls his finger around your pearl again, lavishing it with attention. “Aching? I’m not—”

“You are, darlin’,” he breathes, and now you feel him pull you from the railing, stepping back to take a seat on the porch swing. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you across it instead of with your back to his chest like he did in the bath the other day. 

“Anyone could come by—” you hiss, fluffing the skirt of your dress out around your thighs when he tries to push it back up to get his hands back on your nethers. 

“You tense up when you’re nervous, honey,” John cuts you off, forcing his hand back up your dress until he pushes his finger back into your quim, delighted to find it hotter and wetter, practically dripping onto his lap. “See, there you go. Just relax. I’ll make you feel good, darlin’. We’ll take care of that nasty ache.”

You pant through each pulse of his finger. You don’t even think about looking up to meet his eyes, not when he stares down at you with obvious adoration and devotion, the emotion splayed across his face. He looks entranced at the sight of you coming apart on his fingers, a flush high on his cheeks. 

“No one’s gonna come by. Not this far out. ‘Sides, they know to keep their distance. Newlyweds need their space, right, darlin’?”

Supposing he’s right and no one comes out this way. Isn’t it still unseemly to do this out in the open? So far from your marriage bed? John seems incapable of relegating his affections to that space, unconcerned with propriety or modesty. You wonder with a spark of fear if he’d even budge if someone were to come trotting up the walkway on horseback or if he’d just wave them off and send them on their way. You don’t think he’s the kind of man to want an audience, thank the Lord, but he seems entirely unphased by even the idea of being intruded upon. 

You melt when he shushes your worries, feeling you tense against him, and sinks his fingers in deeper, now another. Don’t fret, he murmurs against your temple, sighing softly. I’ve got you, honey. Ain’t going nowhere.

You aren’t, are you, you think wildly. The land around here goes on forever and the train whistles by only twice a week if you’re lucky. Then townsfolk know you by face and a false name, but that would be enough for them to grow concerned if they were to spot you heading for the train with your suitcases packed, and with John or one of his deputies always in town, there’s little chance you’d be able to board without one of them interfering. 

Still though, it’s better than the alternative. For over a week now you’ve been on high alert, waiting for an arrest warrant to be slipped onto John’s desk with your likeness drawn on it, and for him to come collect you stone-faced and furious. It could still come. 

He keeps you tucked into his arms and nestled close, shushing you when you hiccup and pinch your lips together to keep quiet. He lets you have that, unphased by the way you try to hide it, only tutting when you try to fight it, curling his fingers up inside you and rubbing a spot inside of you that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I could just take it, but you’re gonna give it to me, darlin’,” John says.

And you do. Messily, noisily. Burying your face in his neck and sobbing it out, humiliation wrung out of you, squeezing out every drop. He smells like musk and old sweat, amber warm. Liquid gold. You press your nose into the skin of his neck and draw in a breath so deep that you go lightheaded. 

John keeps his fingers tucked in you until you stop shaking, talking you through it even though you hardly hear a word. How could you over the rush in your head, the blood in your ears? When you open your eyes and look around, the sky is swollen and dark, the wall of rain 

“C’mon, honey,” he says, pulling his fingers out and placing his hand low on your belly. “Let’s go inside.”

You sit across from him at dinner, eating under candlelight. The weight of his gaze for once isn’t stifling. 

The rain only starts in earnest when he’s pulled the quilt over the two of you and pulled you into his arms. The rain pelting the windowpane dulls to a low roar when you turn over and snuggle deeper into John’s chest, pulling the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, the grass will be greener than the day before. You can feel it in your bones.

[kiwriteswords]

Those Christmas lights keep shining on [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 1.2k|| AN: I wrote this in like an hour because I needed some Christmas fluff because I am officially on break from work for 2 weeks!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, Hotch feeling like a bad parent, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Supportive reader, Actual tooth-rotting Fluff

Sypnosis: In the midst of the hectic BAU schedules during the Christmas season, Aaron Hotchner decides to break away from late-night work to surprise you with an impromptu drive through a mesmerizing display of holiday lights.

Aaron Hotchner leaned back in his chair, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the paperwork strewn before him. It was late, the office nearly empty, the quiet whirr of the BAU at rest a stark contrast to the usual buzz of activity.

Through the glass of his office, he watched you, his gaze softening. The way your brow furrowed in concentration over the files, the occasional tuck of a stray hair behind your ear—it never failed to draw his admiration.

Christmas was just around the corner, a fact barely noticeable amidst their chaotic schedules. Every year, the festive season seemed to sneak up on him, leaving him scrambling at the last minute for Jack’s gifts, a task he felt increasingly inadequate at as time slipped through his fingers. This year felt particularly overwhelming; he had barely started his shopping, consumed by a nagging sense of falling short.

But tonight, he decided, would be different. Tonight, he'd focus on what he could control—the small, yet significant moments he knew would bring you joy.

Setting aside the case files, Hotch stood up, his decision firm. The paperwork could wait. He straightened his tie and jacket, took a deep breath to shed the day’s weight, and walked out of his office directly toward you.

You looked up at Hotch as he approached, a question in your eyes, perhaps expecting another late-night briefing or a new development in the case.

“Get your coat,” he instructed, a gentle but unyielding tone in his voice as he slipped his own wool jack on over his arms.

You paused, your expression a mix of confusion and curiosity. “What’s going on? It’s only seven.”

“Just this once, follow directions without a debrief,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The rare, playful note in his voice prompted a small, intrigued smile from you as you grabbed your coat and followed him to the car.

The drive started silently, the usual route home unfolding before you. But instead of turning towards your shared apartment, Hotch took a detour, the car winding through streets unfamiliar in the night’s embrace. You watched the passing scenery, the glow of street lamps flickering through the window.

Finally, you couldn’t hold back your curiosity. “Aaron, where are we going?”

He glanced at you, his eyes steady on the road. “Trust me?”

“Always,” you responded the simplicity of your answer a comfort to him.

Soon, the urban sprawl gave way to rows of houses adorned with Christmas lights, each home a canvas of vibrant colors and twinkling designs. Hotch pulled over, and the world outside transformed into a magical display. He reached forward, turning the dial on the radio up. The sound of Christmas carols echoed softly through the SUV while reds, greens, and golds danced across the snow-dusted lawns, reflecting in your wide, delighted eyes.

“This is us just…driving around, looking at Christmas lights—it’s small, I know. But I wanted to do something, anything, that feels like we’re not just passing through the season without acknowledging it,” Hotch confessed, watching your face light up with every new display. “And I wanted to make sure, despite everything, I’m doing something right.”

You turned to him, your hand finding his across the console. “You’re doing more than you know, Aaron. These moments--they mean everything.”

You sat there for a while, the soft sounds of holiday music from the car radio mingling with distant laughter from nearby houses. The worries of unshopped gifts and the relentless tick of the clock faded into the background, replaced by the warmth shared in the car.

It was these small gestures, Hotch realized, that stitched the fabric of their memories together, weaving a tapestry richer and more enduring than any perfectly planned holiday could offer. And as you leaned against him, the chaos of the world outside melted away, leaving nothing but the simple joy of the season—and each other.

Hotch drove slowly, the car creeping along the snow-lined streets as each house competed with the next in a dazzling display of festive lights. Occasionally, he glanced over to see you leaning closer to the window, your breath fogging the glass as you took in the spectacle. The joy evident in your features, illuminated by the soft glow of multicolored lights, filled him with a quiet satisfaction that had become rare in his line of work.

“Look at that one!” you exclaimed, pointing to a particularly elaborate setup featuring a life-size sleigh and reindeer. “It’s like they’re gearing up for a North Pole takeover.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound mingling with the soft Christmas tunes playing in the background. This was making him feel years younger. 

“They’d give Santa a run for his money,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. It was these fleeting moments, he realized, where the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lighten—a gift in its own right.

Turning the car into another brightly lit street, Hotch took a moment to observe your profile against the backdrop of shimmering lights. The way your eyes sparkled with each new discovery, how your cheeks had flushed from the cold when you’d first stepped outside, and the way your hair, loosened from its usual style, cascaded in gentle waves around your shoulders, framing your face in a soft, almost ethereal halo.

“I’m glad we did this,” he said, his voice low and reflective. “I’ve been so caught up with... everything. It’s easy to forget what time of year it is.”

You turned to him, your expression softening. “We all get caught up, Aaron. But it’s these moments that bring us back. You’re not failing Jack—or me. You’re here, with me, now. And that’s more than enough.”

His hand reached for yours, fingers intertwining naturally. The warmth of your touch was grounding, a tangible reminder of what he often lost in the shuffle of case files and criminal profiles.

As the night deepened and the snow began to fall in gentle flurries, Hotch pulled over near a particularly impressive display. “Come on,” he said, a spontaneous decision lighting up his tone as he opened his door. “Let’s take a closer look.”

You followed suit, stepping out into the crisp night air. The snowflakes caught in your hair, sparkling under the streetlights. Hotch couldn’t help but think you looked like a part of the festive scene itself, radiant and joyful.

Together, you walked along the sidewalk, your breath visible in the chilly air, laughter mingling with the soft jingle of Christmas music from nearby speakers. Hotch felt a sense of peace settle over him, the kind that had been elusive in recent times. He looked down at you, his heart swelling with an affection that was both deep and enduring.

“This is perfect, Aaron,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you stood before a house decked out in twinkling icicle lights.

“It is,” he agreed, not just about the scene before them but the entire evening. “And so are you, in every way that matters.”

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

[travelingtwentysomething]

Prompt: “Pick a god and pray” they said, and you did, praying to every god you knew. And as you did this a name popped into your mind, one you didn’t recognize, yet you prayed to them all the same. In response the air stood still, like even the world had forgotten their name.

Devotion Tastes So Sweet On Your Lips (AO3)

It was another one of those nights- Steve was running through the dark trees, waking nightmare chasing him down.

He prayed his footing stayed true. He prayed that his breaths didn't falter. He prayed that the hungry darkness falling fast in his shadow didn't catch him.

He prayed to all the gods. Every deity he had ever learned of, all the new gods, and the old. He prayed until the sweat burning his eyes blinded him and he felt a root leap up in front of his foot.

He stumbled but did not fall.

But the sound of a snapping maw was closing around the dust he kicked up.

Suddenly, in his desperation, a name floated from the depths of his erratic heart to the tip of his bitten tongue.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest— Please- Please," Steve huffed, a force behind the name punched through his diaphragm and left him no air to plead with.

No sooner had the name fallen from Steve's lips, than the ground fell away beneath him- an embankment, steep and unforgiving in its angle. He rolled past tree trunks, slid over rough roots, and scraped jagged rocks loose for gravity to bring along for the ride.

His body hit the bottom and bounced.

Steve was dazed, his ears felt muffled as if he had landed underwater. He sat up so fast his vision swam, leaving trails of light where the stars shone down on him under the glare of the full moon.

He tried to stand, but his stomach protested- knees, shaken and unsteady, refused to hold his weight. He fell, once again on his back, trying to catch his bearings.

When his head cleared enough that the moon ceased it's dance in the sky above him, Steve sat up slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He strained his ears to hear the snap of twigs or the slide of rocks down the slope he had just ridden as his pursuer followed him into the gorge.

It was silent as a ghost.

Steve pressed his palms to his ears and felt no blood, squeezing to try and pressure shock them into working.

He listened again—

Not even a whisper of wind in the trees.

Steve picked up a twig from the soft bed of moss that had saved his limbs from the worst of the abrupt impact and snapped it between his fingers- the sound sharp enough to startle him.

His ears worked just fine, it seemed- it was the forest that was broken.

As Steve got one knee under him, prepared to make another attempt to stand- a shadow fell over him.

Steve kept his head lowered, subdued under the charge in the air- the unmistakable aura of predator.

He slowly raised his eyes, and only his eyes.

There, standing tall above him, was a Wild God.

"It has been... So long-" The voice was grinding stones carried on the wind, "I'd forgotten what it sounded like." The Wild God lowered his body into a facsimile of a bow. A hand that shadows cling to like smoke, finger tips black as the night and ephemeral, ghosted under his chin, raising Steve's eyes to meet the darkness shining in the Wild God's own. "My name on some desperate tongue."

Steve was struck with a lightning heat deep inside his belly that rose like a plume of ashes from the mouth of a volcano, his face burning under the gaze of the most beautiful and terrifying wonder he had ever witnessed.

"Say it again." The Wild God demanded, voice deep enough to shake the ground Steve knelt on.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest." Steve moaned, unabashed.

Eddie's eyes rolled and the whites flickered behind shivering lashes as he savored the taste of devotion.

[anna-hawk]

Hidden

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank is attending a party he was invited to by Karen and comes across you in a secluded room where the both of you retreated into to get away from the crowd. He's met you before, since you're Karen's friend, but you've barely spoken to each other. The only things he knows about you is that you used to work with Karen, and that you also seem to be attracted to him. A third person coming into the dark room you're hiding inside shows Frank just how much his presence affects you.

Rating: Explicit 🔞 // WC: 3,7k Tags and Warnings: PWP, dom/sub undertones, slightly mean Frank but Reader is down for it, fingerfucking, oral (m!receiving) A/N: I started writing this a few months ago but fell out of the mind space and picked it up the other day again. Maybe Frank reads a little OOC, but I felt like writing him with a slightly mean dom vibe.

Read it on AO3

Moving into a corner as light and loud music suddenly pooled in through the opening door, Frank's eyes lifted to check on who'd come into the dark room he had retreated into earlier tonight. Hidden in the shadows that the thick curtains of the balcony doors were casting, Frank was able to make out your silhouette without you noticing him in return. He watched as you peeked inside the room before you looked back into the corridor to finally enter the room and close the door behind you with an audible sigh of relief. Now, it was only the full moon and the dim light of the outside lamps shining through the balcony doors that illuminated you enough for him to see you move farther inside and take a seat on the large couch. He quietly observed you as you took a deep breath and leaned your head back. Frank didn't know a lot about you besides that Karen used to work with you at the Bulletin. You and Frank had met on a few occasions, mostly during evenings like tonight, when Karen would invite Frank to a party the press was invited to as well, suspecting that he could garner information on some people. You'd also run into each other at Karen's place a couple of times whenever Frank randomly showed up while she had friends over. He never stayed long on those evenings, no matter how often Karen encouraged him to, feeling too awkward to be around that many people he didn’t know. The few instances he'd stayed longer had been when Murdock had been there as well, and he and Frank had started arguing after a short while under your bemused and Nelson's exasperated expressions. 

You hadn't talked to each other a lot except for a greeting and a few short words, but then you seemed to be a relatively quiet person. Which surprised Frank, since it contrasted starkly with your job's description as a reporter. Not that Frank minded that. Whenever his gaze would fall on you, at Karen's or during parties like tonight, Frank noticed that your eyes were never still, always taking everything in. He guessed that this was your work method; less talk, more observation. He definitely liked that. 

“It becomes a lot after a while, huh?” Frank said, after a long minute of watching you slowly relax. Because he knew with certainty that you'd escaped the crowd for the same reason he had. You might be a reporter, but you didn't seem to enjoy too big of a crowd.

You gasped in surprise and sprang to your feet at the sound of his voice, your face moving towards the direction he was standing in. Frank walked into the light and felt glad to see you take a breath of relief after recognizing him. Frank knew that you were fully aware of who he was and what he did, but you never showed any fear or nervousness in his presence. A slight shyness and awkwardness, sure, but Frank had suspected for a while that you might be attracted to him and that this might be the reason behind your behavior around him.

“I'll leave,” Frank suggested with a faint smile. “You can stay and-” he continued, but you took a step forward, a hand outstretched toward him in a stopping motion. 

“No! No, it's fine — I — please stay.” You joined him at the balcony doors and looked at the New Yorker skyline. You sighed after a few seconds. “Yeah, it does become a lot,” you added, answering his earlier question.

Frank only nodded and watched you out of the corner of his eyes. The dress you were wearing tonight really looked good on you. 

“What kind of money do you gotta have to have two big living rooms?” you mumbled into the silence, which seemed to make you uncomfortable, as Frank noticed you playing with the hem of your dress. Frank tilted his head at your question and shrugged before replying. 

“Too much.”

The surprised laugh his answer got out of you had Frank’s lips pulling up to one side. 

“I guess you’re right,” you conceded with a chuckle this time. 

The silence stretched on for a while longer this time, but you seemed more comfortable now. Frank’s eyes, meanwhile, couldn’t stop straying to your face and body. While he’d considered you to be an attractive woman from the start, he’d never had the opportunity to really watch you from that close up. He quickly realized that he’d been missing out. 

“What?” you suddenly whispered, ducking your head before glancing at Frank furtively. 

There was enough light coming through the window for Frank to make out your flustered expression. It seemed like Frank hadn’t been as discreet as he’d thought while watching you. Or, your senses were keen enough to pick up on small details. Frank laughed through his nose and tilted his head towards you as he put his hands into the pockets of his pants. 

“You look real pretty tonight.” He shrugged, and felt something tug at his gut at the way your eyes widened briefly in surprise before you looked forward again. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled softly, as your fingers fidgeted where you were holding them clasped together in front of you. 

Frank’s eyes zeroed in on your mouth as you lightly bit over your bottom lip, only to look away from you forcefully as he felt something stir in his groin. You were so incredibly bashful about the compliment that Frank felt the urge to say something more to see how you’d react this time. Especially since you clearly were attracted to him, as he’d suspected. How would you react if he were to come closer? Speak right into your ear. 

He didn’t move or say anything, however, since he didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable by doing or saying too much at once, no matter if the attraction was mutual. 

However, that idea flew out the proverbial window as the door to the room opened again, and someone stumbled inside. You turned in the person���s direction, only to take a few steps back, as if unwilling to be found, until you collided with Frank’s chest. 

“Shh,” Frank softly hissed into your ear, as he pulled you back from the window and into a short and narrow passage leading to a small bathroom. 

Frank pushed you against the wall and stepped in front of you as he leaned towards the edge of the wall to watch what the person was doing. From the sounds of it, the man, Frank realized, was pretty drunk and looking for something as he mumbled about the lack of light. A second later, the whole room was bathed in bright light as the man hit the light switch. It was only your secluded spot that kept you hidden from the man’s view. As Frank moved back to face you, the words he’d been about to say died on his tongue as he caught sight of you. He could see you fully now, despite the shadows the small passage was casting over the two of you, and your expression took Frank’s will to not make a move on you away entirely. Your eyes, stuck on Frank’s face, were blown dark, while your parted lips were shiny and a deeper color from normal thanks to your repeated abuse on them. Your chest was rapidly moving up and down with your heavy breaths, and the sight of your hard nipples hidden underneath the light fabric of your dress had Frank’s dick coming to life. 

“You make it really hard for me not to touch you, you know,” Frank muttered darkly, his fingers twitching in the pockets of his pants. 

Your eyes widened, and your mouth opened further on a little gasp of surprise, which Frank was only able to hear over the music coming through the open door because he was standing so close to you. Frank slowly let his eyes trail over you, noticing the full-body shiver running through you at his perusal. He hadn’t even touched you yet, and you were already responding to him as if he had. Heat coursed down his spine at your reaction. It had been a long time since he’d found someone who so unmistakably wanted him. He took a steadying breath. He wanted to see how else he could make you react. 

“What’s turnin’ you on like that, huh?” He started conversationally, taking one of his hands from a pocket to trail a finger along the column of your throat, which had your head tilting to the side as your eyes blinked repeatedly. “The hidden spot?” He continued, drawing the finger over the swell of your breasts peaking out of the dress, making him feel the quick rise and fall of your chest. His nostrils flared as your chest instinctively moved forward into his touch. “Or do you like the idea of gettin’ caught?” He met your gaze as he spoke the words and simultaneously stroked a thumb over one of your nipples. 

Your eyes widened again, and you shook your head vehemently, while also moaning softly at his caress. This time, Frank lightly pinched your nipple and smirked as you gasped, but never pulled away from his touch. Using both hands now, Frank tugged at the soft material over your chest and pulled it down, revealing your breasts to him, your nipples hard and skin pebbled in goose flesh. He hummed contentedly and glanced back at you.

“You sure?” he teased, running his thumbnails around both your nipples before pinching and tugging at them. 

One of your hands flew to your mouth to stop the long moan of pleasure from becoming too loud. Frank chuckled lightly and drew your hand away from your face and placed it back against the wall at your side, where you’d kept both hands until now. 

“Frank,” you whispered in a tone that hinted at need and panic all at once, as he started a slow process of torturing your nipples again.

All the while, the drunk man kept looking around for something, the music too loud to tell what it was. It didn’t matter since he stayed at the other end of the room and Frank was too focused on you anyway. You kept biting at your lips as Frank worked his fingers over your breasts, fighting to stay as quiet as possible while breathing Frank’s name here and there. 

“You have no idea how fuckin’ pretty you look like this,” Frank stated in a gravely but steady voice, flicking at a nipple and enjoying the sound of your cut-off cry. 

He huffed out a fond laugh as you looked away at the praise but saw you squirming and pressing your legs together. Without another word, Frank leaned down to take one of your puffy nipples into his mouth and sucked on it with relish. 

“Frank,” you keened in a soft but still high-pitched voice, your head hitting the wall as you threw it back while thrusting your chest into his face. 

Frank groaned into your skin, biting and sucking alternatively at your flesh and feeling your legs tremble. In his stooped position, he reached the hem of your dress and slid a hand along the edge of your inner thighs. You moaned over him, and your legs immediately parted for his searching hand. His length pulsed in his pants as he reached your panties, finding them warm and soaked through with your juices. Pulling away from your chest, Frank stared at your face again, needing to see your expression as he slid his hand inside your panties from the top and stroked two fingers through your wet folds. You looked back at him with wild eyes, your lips parting as you moaned softly. Between your breasts being on full display, swollen and mouthwatering from his touch, and your shiny and bitten lips emitting panting breaths, it was ultimately the pleading in your eyes, the raw need in them that had him moving. He pressed his other hand against the wall beside your head as he slid two fingers inside you, only stopping when he couldn’t go any further. This time, both of your hands came up to muffle your scream of pleasure. He didn’t stop you, though, knowing that it would be impossible to stop your cries of ecstasy from reaching the drunk man’s ears without your hands. Frank felt a shot of smugness at that knowledge, his own arousal only getting stronger from watching you struggle to keep quiet while your burning eyes never looked away from his as Frank fucked you relentlessly. 

“Look at you, takin’ my fingers so well,” Frank rumbled in the short space between you, wanting to see your reaction to more praise. “Suckin’ them in and squeezin’ ‘round them. Bein’ so good for me.”

Sure enough, your lids quivered, and you broke eye contact while also tightening your walls even more around Frank’s fingers. 

“Shit, yeah, jus’ like that. Bet you’d feel so fuckin’ good ‘round my dick.” 

Frank smirked at your keen of pleasure and picked up the speed of his hand. One of your hands shot out to grab at his shirt, your fingers tightening and twisting in the fabric as you fought to keep your moans from spilling over your other hand. It was the first time you’d touched him, and the fact that you needed to anchor yourself to him to not lose it completely had Frank growling in satisfaction. He grinned wickedly as your eyes almost rolled back into your head as he crooked his fingers to apply more pressure right where you needed it. 

“Gettin’ close, hm?” he rumbled against your ear, drinking in your little sounds of desperation. “Wanna hear it, Sweetheart. Lemme hear how you come on my fingers.” 

Your eyes grew wide and panicked at his command, but your hand still fell to the side. Your eyes met Frank’s as you began to tremble, your channel spasming around his fingers as you started to come undone in front of him. Thankfully for you, a loud bout of clapping and celebratory shouts sounded through the whole loft as you cried out your pleasure, making it only audible for Frank, which he was more than happy with. 

Your eyes drooped, and your hand lost its grip on Frank’s shirt as you sagged against the wall with labored breaths. Slowly, Frank removed his hand from your panties and brought it to his face. His fingers and most of his hand were glistening with your essence. He groaned in delight at the first swipe of his tongue over his middle finger, which had your eyes snapping open. Disbelief and arousal shone in your eyes as you watched, mesmerized, how Frank sucked his fingers clean. 

“Good girl,” he praised with a satisfied hum once he was done with licking all traces of you off his fingers. And like before, while you’d just watched him licking up your juices without looking away once, it was the praise that had your eyes closing briefly and your expression turning shy again. 

Frank took a step away from you, giving him a complete view of your bare chest and rumpled dress. What a beautiful mess. His head tilted to the side with a curious smirk as your eyes dropped to his crotch, where the hard outline of his dick was prominent. At his low chuckle, your eyes shot to his again, before you looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring. 

“Somethin’ on your mind, Sweetheart?” He rasped, as he came closer again at the sight of you biting your bottom lip. 

Wide eyes stared back at him, and your tongue licked over your lower lip in a clearly unconscious movement. Just that sight had Frank's cock jerking behind the confines of his boxers and pants, knowing that you couldn't hide what you really wanted. He’d planned to stop there and send you on your way, but the way you kept responding to him, leaning toward him without noticing that you were doing it, had Frank changing his mind once again tonight. 

“Yeah?” He whispered roughly, tugging your lip down and sliding his thumb over the soft and wet skin. “Want me to fuck that pretty mouth?” 

Your sharp intake of breath as his words hit its mark had Frank almost reaching for his fly right then, but he took in a deep breath and leaned in to speak into your ear. 

“Then be a good girl and ask for it.” 

And fuck, that soft, pleading whine you uttered. The way you reacted to Frank was just… Hearing you beg for what you wanted while looking so damn shy was driving Frank wild with lust.

“P — please,” you got out through your labored breathing. 

Frank licked his lips and grinned, wanting to push you just that little further.

“Please what?”

You turned your head away from him and panted, expression torn between arousal and embarrassment. 

“Frank, please.”

“Hm?” Frank nosed along your neck, which had you gasping again. 

“Please … fuck my mouth,” you whispered, the words almost inaudible over the noise. 

That wouldn’t do. 

“Louder,” Frank said, his voice, which had remained mostly teasing, taking on a tone that brooked no argument. 

Frank felt you tremble against him, but he knew that it wasn’t from fear. Far from it. Leaning back just enough to be able to lock eyes with you, Frank saw your lips move quietly for a moment before you spoke again. 

“Please fuck my mouth, Frank,” you repeated, the words louder, although they remained low. You weren’t done, though. “I need it.” 

Frank grinned at your words, while his dick almost hurt with the need to be let out of its confines. “Attagirl,” he rumbled, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip before he took a small step back. 

Without further prompting, you fell to your knees and eagerly reached for his fly. Frank watched you opening his pants and lowering his boxers to let his erection spring free. You were both momentarily distracted as the drunk man finally found what he’d been looking for with a shout of satisfaction and exited the room before slamming the door. To Frank's delight, the man forgot to turn off the light, leaving Frank able to keep watching you in your half naked state. He saw your whole body relax at the knowledge that you were finally alone. A second later, you wrapped your fingers around his length and took him into your mouth without hesitation. Frank hissed as you didn’t waist any time with quick licks and small movements to find out what Frank liked. Instead, you made sure to slick the whole length with your saliva before you took him as far as you could. Frank growled at the sight of your stretched lips, trying to accommodate his size. 

“So fuckin’ eager for this,” Frank grunted in approval, but grabbed you by the back of the head and tilted it back to still your movements. 

With your eyes on his, you understood what he wanted and let your mouth fall open for Frank to push inside. Testing how far he could go, Frank pushed in to the back of your throat in a slow glide. You gagged faintly on the second pass, but you only surged forward for more. Frank cursed and snapped his hips forward, which had you moaning and him chuckling in satisfaction at your reaction. Now that it was only the two of you, you didn’t hesitate anymore, and openly moaned and keened around his cock with each of his slides in. Frank kept his hand on your head, but he wasn’t holding you in place at all. You weren’t going anywhere, more than content to pleasure him. 

“Frank?” suddenly called a voice from the corridor leading down to the room. You seemed to recognize Karen’s voice at the same time as Frank, since your eyes grew wide as Frank thrust into your mouth again. 

“We ain’t stoppin’ now,” Frank stated firmly, as his cock twitched with a fast approaching orgasm, while his hand tightened on your head. 

You moaned and choked briefly as Frank slid as far inside as you could take, your eyes conveying how turned on you were while also showing a hint of panic. Like earlier, it was the need in your eyes that pushed Frank’s buttons. He slid out of your mouth and started jerking himself off with quick strokes. 

“Fuck,” he growled as you shuffled closer again to press your tongue against the underside of his cock, telling him exactly was you wanted. 

He came with a tight groan as he shot all over your tongue, coating it with his thick and warm fluid. You closed your eyes as you moaned at the taste, letting Frank slide back between your lips for a lazy thrust. 

“Frank?” Karen called out again, her voice coming through the opening door just as you were swallowing Frank’s come. 

You stood instantly, tugging your dress back up with a frantic look on your face. Frank pressed you against the wall while he slotted a palm over your mouth. Footsteps sounded from the door and Frank felt more than heard your gasp. 

“Right here, Karen,” Frank replied with an easy tone that belied just how hard he’d just come. “Be out in a sec.” 

“Oh, sure.” The footsteps stopped before they retreated a few paces. 

Letting go of you, Frank quietly opened the door to the bathroom and reached for the faucet to open it, giving the illusion that he was just coming out of the room. 

“Oh, by the way, you haven’t seen my friend from the Bulletin?”

Glancing back at your surprised expression as you were fixing your appearance, Frank made a thoughtful sound before he answered. 

“The pretty one?” Frank wondered with a grin as your eyes widened before you looked away, shyness returning, much to Frank's enjoyment.

Karen snorted at that. “Yup, the one you keep watching from afar.” 

Your eyes snapped back to meet Frank’s equally surprised gaze. Karen really did see everything. Chuckling lightly, Frank leaned in to graze his lips over yours in a brief caress before he stepped around the wall and towards Karen, who was waiting at the door. 

“Nope, haven’t seen her.”

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

03 — MY COMPASS, MY TRANSPORT

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3.

<- previous part | next part ->

“I have nothing else to live for.”

It’s a truth. A deep, earnest one – and it’s the only option you have.

Without Graves, without your Shadows, you have nothing. No income, no family, no support. You're left with the clothes on your body and the shoes in which you stand, with no hope of finding your footing.

In the darkness, the only light shines from the headlights of the truck, and the red of the radio. It’s silenced, of course, but it serves as a beacon of something between you all.

“I don’t – I have no other choice,” you say, voice trembling. You would not break in front of them, but you could feel yourself cracking; porcelain underneath a harsh grip. Turning yourself so you’re completely facing the two, your expression turns desperate. “I want to help you both, and I want to save Phi– Graves.”

You correct yourself at the final moment, wary of your slip up.

“Save ‘im? From what? Feckin’ charges for war crimes? Getting his ass handed to ‘im?” Soap chokes out, incredulous, eyes wide where they meet yours. He winces when he moves forward too quick, straining his arm.

“He’s…” You look down at your hands, merely watching for a moment as they close into a fist and open again. Blood crusts underneath your fingernails. “He’s all I have. I’m sure he just needs a wake up call, someone to snap him out of it.”

“He tried to kill us,” Ghost speaks up, matter-of-fact, but quiet. As if at any moment, his words will wake up the entire city. If there were any civilians left in it, you supposed. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“...And I had to kill some of my men.”

It’s a confession of sin. Like poison on your tongue, yet at the same time, an anecdote to an evil in your veins. You’d killed your men. You’d… done that.

You still haven’t quite allowed yourself to realise it, not yet.

But if it’s enough to keep you alive right now, so be it. You hadn’t gotten this far just to give up over something as inconsequential as pride.

“Ye will tell us everything you know about ‘im. And’ll help us until we figure out what to do. We’re our own bosses now, Sweetheart,” Soap commands, that fucking nickname of his seeming to stick. You don’t dispute it – not right now, not when this is quite literally life or death.

“I promise,” you say, resolute and stern. There was no time for self-pity or wallowing, only time for action and conviction – something you had in spades. “I’m yours for as long as you need me.”

You hadn’t known how true those words would be – not then, and not for a good while. But they were a prophecy, if such a thing could at all be possible for a woman like you.

Soap and Ghost share a look; a brief, yet important one, before Ghost gives the Scot a short nod. Soap turns once more to you, his face betraying the answer of their silent agreement.

“...So?” You suggest, impatient considering the consequences of the next few moments. 

Bringing a hand up to stroke at his stubbled chin, Soap makes an act of pretending to ponder – and it succeeds in stoking the flames at your core, fury burning through you like a liquor-soaked rope.

“I dunno, lass,” he says on a sigh, his ocean eyes betraying a mischief in their depths. “Yer kinda mean to me.”

You might choke him.

Actually, check that, you will choke him. He’s impossible – an arsehole to the nth degree – somehow worse than Ghost in his… foolishness? Was that the right word? Or just straight frustrating-ness?

Seeming to sense your thinning patience, Soap’s hand falls from his jaw with a mirthful smirk, proud of himself. 

“If ye say pretty please, ye can join our lil’ duo.” He finishes the statement off with a wink, and you don’t realise that your hands have curled into fists until the sharp pain of nails digging into your palms force you to resort back to your senses.

You let out a slow, loud breath. 

Neither of them move a muscle, except for the twitch of Soap’s dimple. You hate that you recognise such a small movement, but you easily blame it on the fact that it’s a drilled-in mentality.

“...Please,” you acquiesce, however quiet. 

Ghost’s eyebrow raises. How you’re aware of that, considering his mask, is a props to him. 

“That’s not what he asked for.” His voice is a low, husky thing, and the title of guard dog suddenly doesn’t sound so incorrect.

With your teeth gritted and cheeks straining, you mutter out, “Pretty please.”

Soap’s responding smile is nothing short of beaming, and you almost immediately wish that you could take those words back. Was death really so bad? Would it even be a mercy, compared to deciding to share a threadbare camaraderie with these weirdos?

Too bad time control isn’t exactly a well-researched military weapon.

“Let’s go then,” Ghost slaps his gloved hand against the steering wheel, before looking one last time towards you with purpose, “Sweetheart.”

Soap laughs.

You get out and slam the door in his face.

“Och! You feckin’ bastard, lass,” you hear him screech, before the door opens once more and Soap hops out, fuming.

Turning away, you fall behind Ghost, and quickly take a look around at the vast, empty area that is barren suburbia. Not before responding, however.

“Next time you get shot, I’m not taking care of your ass,” you threaten. “And I’m giving the rest of my sweets to Mr. Melodramatic.”

Soap’s returning mock gasp is, in all fairness, pretty comedic. “You have more sweets? Gimme those and ye lovely bedside manners ‘nd I’ll get a cavity!”

Your returning glare could cut steel. “Keep that up, and you’ll end up with bigger issues than a cavity.”

“I think ye are already the bigger issue,” Soap snaps back, but it’s not inherently malicious. It’s… borderline playful, and that sudden thought has you internally slapping yourself.

“Both of ya – quiet,” Ghost warns.

You both shut up immediately.

With wary steps, the three of you go to step up towards the front door, when Ghost swings out a hand, stopping the lot of you in your tracks. The night doesn’t allow for any of you to see well, but he must’ve picked up something that you hadn’t.

The thought is an immediately terrifying one.

“Pressure plates,” Soap murmurs under his breath, eyeing the square linoleum tile. “Nice catch, Lt.”

Ghost doesn’t respond, instead motioning for you to follow him towards a glassless window. Gravel crunches underneath your light footfalls, easily heard in the deathly quiet, as you move to swing your leg over the access point and drop to the floor inside.

Landing with a soft thud, you go to unfurl from your crouching position, before a loud warning shout from Ghost has you freezing.

Flinching where you stand, your eyes dart to where Ghost has flung one of his daggers, the sharp metal splintering a wooden beam further into the dark room. Realising that Soap sits at your flank, you shift your gaze to spot a red light focused in on his forehead – between his eyes.

“¿Quien esta ahi?” An unfamiliar, accented voice calls out from behind the beam. You could slap yourself for being so careless, in not realising that someone else was in here before Ghost had saved your arses. 

“Rodolfo!” Soap calls out, relief flooding his tone as he rights his position, shoulders back.

A man peeks out from behind the wood, eyes wide and slightly panicked, before they soften at the sight of the two men behind you. “Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!”

Stepping out from around the beam, he reaches for Ghost’s dagger, pulling it away from where it had dug into the oak with undeniable ease. His appearance is striking, with a set jaw and gentle features – he’s quite pretty, but not at all in a way that you find yourself attracted to the man.

“Affirmative,” Ghost responds, accepting the knife back when the man – Rodolfo – hands it to him hilt-first.

“Good to see you, amigos,” Rodolfo smiles, before his appraisal sets on you, confusion sparking in his deep brown eyes. He looks to the two men at your side for an explanation, hesitant in the way he does so.

“This is…” Soap trails off, before coming to a realisation. “Feckin’ hell. I never even asked for yer name, Sweetheart.”

Rodolfo blinks. Once, twice, before his eyebrows furrow and his mouth settles into an uncomfortable grimace.

You shoot a glare Soap’s way, before gifting Rodolfo a polite, yet stilted, smile. Extending your hand, you give him your name, and then your official title.

“Colonel? Graves’ colonel?” Rodolfo repeats back, utterly taken aback by such an introduction. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, quickly hissing to Soap in unamused Spanish, “¿Has perdido la cabeza?”

“I saved his life,” you interrupt, before any verbal sparring begins. “And I’m on your team. I don’t agree with what Graves is doing – and I’m sorry for what he’s already done. But I want to help you. I swear.”

Rodolfo regards you for a moment, his internal walls still heavily locked in place. But he seems… softer, now, in a way. More understanding, maybe, less hesitant as he slowly appraises you, inspecting you under his critical analysis.

The silence stretches, before the soldier raises his hands placatingly, the left side of his mouth twitching into a smooth smirk. “No accusations from me, Corazón,” he reassures, the pet name sliding from his full lips like butter over warm toast.

“Aye, none of tha’,” Soap warns, and Rodolfo’s amusement deepens. Whatever the Scot is about to say next is abruptly stopped by Ghost’s booming demand from behind you both.

“Anyone outside of these walls is now considered a hostile – we’re a team now. This happened under my watch, and I’d bloody well do good to fix it.” His posture is stiff, hand unconsciously flexing around the blade strapped to his belt as he delivers the order. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak in one shot.

You figure he’s stopped speaking, when suddenly his heavy gaze is on you, any ounce of solidarity snuffed out like a match’s flame. “You fuck up once, Sweetheart, and I won’t hesitate when I shoot ya dead.”

It’s as good of a compromise as you’re going to get from the hulking Lieutenant, but you weren’t made Colonel for your talents in stepping down.

“You forget that I outrank you,” you challenge, chin raised and eyes flinty. “And that I saved your mutt.”

“We don’t have a feckin’ dog,” Soap starts, but when he sees the way Ghost side eyes him, and how you give him an unimpressed look, his jaw drops. “Ye bastard! Shoulda killed ya –”

Rodolfo’s hand wraps around Soap’s forearm, the grumbling man twisting in his hold, but not putting up anything close to a fight. “She’s just stirring you up, hermano,” Rodolfo placates, his large eyes meeting yours with a hint of respect in them. It has you straightening your spine, and your resolve.

“We sort this out as equals,” you state, folding your arms over your chest and bucking your hip. Ghost doesn’t, for a single second, shift your mutual eye contact. “And you will all tell me what the fuck’s going on – and what we’re doing.”

“Alejandro,” Ghost quips, sharp and to the point. Finally, you think, his near-black eyes drift to Rodolfo. “We need him back.”

“He’s the only other lad we can trust out there,” Soap adds, his pout easing slightly. Rodolfo finally drops his hand, clapping it hard against the petulant man’s shoulder with a firm nod.

“Already got a head start, hermanos,” he gestures for the three of you to follow him further into the room, before his calculating eyes glance back at you, “y hermana.”

It’s an unknown, entirely different feeling that erupts inside of your chest at the inclusion. Rodolfo was clearly the most soft spoken man of the three, but he had an intelligence to him that you couldn’t wait to unpack. And he trusted you. Or so you had gathered, anyway.

However.

First things first.

“...Where’s Alejandro? I thought he was Mexican Special Forces?” It was, admittedly, a unique kind of embarrassing – how out of the loop you felt, considering you were a colonel under Graves’ command. You’d heard the man’s name before, but it was usually just paired with barracks gossip and warnings to steer clear. Some joke about how the only one who could kill Alejandro, was the soldier himself.

Moving along with Rodolfo, you’re surprised when it’s Soap who supplies you the answer.

“Your fuckwit of a Commander’s got ‘im,” he curses, the words grating and harsh. Deserved, of course it was deserved, yet it was still odd hearing such disrespect for the man of whom you’d idolised for so long.

Of whom you’d given everything.

Switching a light on, Rodolfo stops in front of a large table, a map laid out across the top of it. Your eyes go wide at the intricacies – focusing as the man leans over and presses a finger towards a highlighted spot, watching the three of you where you stand on the other side. Dust floats near the source of the lamp, and the scent of grime hits you a moment later, a familiar thing.

“Graves is holding him here,” Rodolfo explains, his previously mischievous expression settling into a firm, military-grade frown.

“His own personal black site prison,” Soap scoffs, subconsciously flexing his fingers around the straps of his vest. His focus is utterly devoted to the map in front of him, but his anxiety shows itself through the tiniest of movements.

Rubbing his spare hand down his face, Rodolfo lets out a long, strewn-out sigh. “My men are locked in there, too.”

“Then let’s get them back,” you supply with a small shrug when all eyes shoot your direction.

“That’s obvious, lass,” Soap says, lacking any hint of his previous vitriol when he looks around the room. “How we get ‘em back is the question.”

“By breaking in,” Ghost answers, the retort as simple as breathing.

If you weren’t so receptive to body movements, to the smallest of expressions, you’d’ve missed it. Even then, you doubted that anyone could miss how Soap’s eyes soften when he looks to his Lieutenant, how his breath softly hitches in his throat.

You want to claw out your eyes with a rusty spoon.

By the look on Rodolfo’s face, he feels much the same – until he catches you staring, and then his face twists into something much more cryptic. Like a man trying to solve a puzzle without all of the pieces, being forced to jam spares into spots that just won’t fit.

“We need weapons,” you startle out, the words surprising even yourself. You don’t go back on them, don’t even think to. “If we want to stand a fighting chance – we need firepower.”

“Who said you’re with us?” Ghost questions snarkily, but when you go to reply, you find that Rodolfo’s moved to the corner of the room, switching on even more lights, displaying a wrought iron door.

Sliding it open, you feel like a kid on Christmas morning as you take note of the supplies within.

Rodolfo shrugs, but the small, smug grin on his face doesn’t dispel. “It’s well-stocked. This is Ale we’re talking about.”

The affectionate nickname is something you store away for later. ‘Well-stocked’ is certainly an understatement – guns of all types line the walls within the room, all types of bombs and grenades along with it.

“Alright,” Ghost huffs out, the closest to appreciative that a man like him can get.

Soap is much more upfront about his joy. “My man!” He laughs, his dimples etched into his features like the light spattering of freckles over his upper cheeks and nose bridge. “We’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armoured.”

Digging into his pocket, Rodolfo pulls out a set of keys, tossing them over to Ghost with relaxed shoulders. Turning, shock must be evident on all of you, because Rodolfo lets out a low chuckle. “Your wish is my command, hermanos y hermana.”

To the far end of the room, within the adjoined stables, is a fully-armoured forward drive of some sort – sleek and black and fucking perfect.

“Alejandro thought of everything,” Ghost admires, and when you look to him, you swear that you can see a hint of hope shining in his darkened eyes. Your heart skips a beat on its own accord, and you’re absorbed by the all-consuming want to pull it out of your chest with your bare hands, just so it never does such a thing again.

“Yeah, he did,” Soap whistles, before turning back around to face your small band of misfits. With a determined grin, he says as if it’s an afterthought, “Let’s go get ‘im.”

With a stern resolve and an even sterner disposition, you walk alongside your newfound teammates, and get ready for the most difficult mission of your military career.

*

When you’d, stupidly, recklessly, decided to play good guy and helps out the 141 and Los Vaqueros, you hadn’t taken into account how you’d be at the bottom of the totem pole.

While the three men you were working alongside were all considerably close, you were an outsider. At that, an outsider who had, only a few hours ago, decided to swap sides from enemy to ally.

Being paired with Ghost is, arguably, the most gut-wrenching job in your life. By the time that Rodolfo finds Alejandro through the CCTV system, you’re nearly entirely covered in dried blood, and your head thumps with a headache.

Not a headache from war – a headache from the fucking twat with a shitty DIY job for a military get-up.

“You’re seriously the worst,” you grit out, wiping off a bit of Shadow blood that’s been sprayed on your cheek. “I seriously can’t fucking believe that any one of your mates can tolerate you.”

“Who needs ‘mates’ when I have my boys?” Ghost quips back, wiping off his bloody dagger onto his vest, before slotting it back into its rightful position on his belt. His ability to blend into the night, even with the prison lights on, is uncanny – the only tell the white of his stitched-in skull.

You mock a disgusted sound, sticking out your tongue. “You sound like a fuckboy.”

“A what?” And, although it sounds nothing like a choke, you’re sure that it’s an instinctual question.

The sound of a helicopter up ahead has the two of you pausing in your tracks, feud coming to a quick halt. Looking up, you struggle to see the vehicle in the black of night, but you manage to spot the slowly circling heli above the prison.

“Ghost, Sweetheart, what’s yer status?” Soap’s voice trickles in through your comms. Ghost glances at you, before he answers on your behalf, ever the control-freak.

“Comin’ your way.”

Falling into step side-by-side, you focus on the wet gravel underneath your feet, avoiding making any communication with the man to your right.

“Copy. We’re on the move,” Soap replies, before Rodolfo cuts in.

“Heads up on the helo,” he warns. You find that you much prefer him over the other two – in fact, under any other circumstance, you could see the two of you becoming good friends. Maybe, if everything goes well, that could be a possibility – a positive in your world of negatives.

“Don’t think we’re in his line of sight,” you respond, double-checking your route and the helicopter's position in the sky. Rodolfo had warned you all, debriefing in the drive here, that helicopters would likely show up at some point.

Minutes pass, with small comms between the lot of you, when you finally spot the familiar figures belonging to the other half of your precarious team. 

Soap and Rodolfo stand at the entrance, before the two turn at the sound of your and Ghost’s footsteps. They both seem to visibly loosen their stiff shoulders, seeing you both uninjured – and if you do the same, you pray that no one notices.

“The door’s locked,” Soap informs you all, gesturing to the steel entrance5.

With a small hum, Rodolfo reaches for the pack on his vest. “We’ll need to breach it,” he explains, but before he can grab a charger, Ghost raises a hand to stop him.

“No, Rudy –” And that is a nickname that you’ll be using later, “Knock.”

Rodolfo seems apprehensive, but he agrees anyway, giving all three of you separate glances. “On me…”

All of you getting into readying positions, Rodolfo knocks on the door, the sound echoing loud enough to have your blood pounding in your ears.

A moment later, a Shadow – one you don’t recall having met – pushes open the door and moves to step outside. However, Rodolfo and Ghost are quick to neutralise him, softly dropping his body to the floor.

Pushing through the entrance, everyone except for you shoot a Shadow dead – clearing the room in less than twenty seconds. It’s impressive, how smoothly run the operation is, considering the lack of proper authority or guidance.

You’re the first to spot some more Shadows moving your way, down the stairs – calling it out. “More Shadows from the second floor – watch out!”

This time, you find yourself the cause of two men falling to the ground, blood pooling underneath their lifeless bodies. Your team doesn't give you time to second guess, to mourn, before they’re encouraging you to follow them up the stairs.

“Ale’s up here, let’s go!” Rodolfo urges, his voice bordering on a kind of desperation reminiscent of a boy enlisting for the first time.

Like expected, Alejandro’s cell is down the hall, sat to the far right. Two Shadows guard the steel door, but Soap and Rodolfo are quick to light them up, successfully clearing the entire two floors. You’re ashamed of how relieved you feel, being gifted the small mercies of not having to kill your previous subordinates, unless necessary.

You feel, more than see, Ghost’s heavy gaze on you. When you look back up from the gun in your hands, however, he’s turned completely away – and if you were a less accurate person, you’d have thought you were imagining things.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.” Stopping at the steel door, Rodolfo adjusts his grip on the gun, before giving you an encouraging jerk of his head. “Open it up, me and Soap will cover you.”

Another small mercy, you think, as Ghost reaches into his backpack and pulls out a set of bolt cutters, regarding you stiffly. “When I pop this lock, you push in,” he directs you curtly, and you bite back a retort. You knew the process like the back of your hand – you had no need for an explanation.

The ‘especially from him’ goes unsaid.

With precise, practised movements, Ghost positions the bolt cutters, and pushes open the door.

As soon as you take one step into the cell, a large hand wraps around the back of your neck, slamming your face into the concrete wall, a blinding pain shooting through your retinas. Letting out a small yelp, your chest rattles as your hands wildly raise in an imitation of surrender.

“Alejandro! Let go of ‘er! It’s us!” Soap calls out, and you swallow unhealthy amounts of air. That hit had taken more out of you than you’d expected – and your harsh breaths were making that incredibly apparent.

The grip on the scruff of your neck slackens when Rodolfo shoots off in quickfire Spanish, “Coronel, relájate, cabron, somos nosotros.”

Your cheek aches and your head pounds as the hand removes itself entirely, allowing for you to take in lungfuls of oxygen.

“Soap, Ghost!” Alejandro bursts out, and as you rise to your feet unsteadily, you watch as he thumps both of them on the back of their shoulders, before turning to Rodolfo with an expression that could only be described as longing. “...Rudy.”

“Didn’t think we’d leave ya, did ye?” Soap chuckles, oblivious to the thread of tension between the two men. 

Whatever silent conversation had occured between the two enforcers is quickly cut as Alejandro accepts the shake of Soap’s hand, a feral grin wide on his features. “What took you so long, pendejos?”

“A traitor with an attitude is what,” Ghost inputs, and really, how much self control can a Lieutenant lack? Wiping at your cheek, you let your hand fall once more to your side as you meet Alejandro’s inquisitive gaze head-on.

“I’m Graves’ previous colonel,” you extend your hand, “And I’m your best bet at getting your base back.”

You expect suspicion, uproar, maybe – or at least questioning, similar to that of Rodolfo’s.

Instead, all you’re met with is Alejandro’s manic smile sharpening, and a slap on the back of your own. Ruffling your hair, he uses his free hand to accept the gun Rodolfo’s extending towards him, shooting you a knowing glance.

“Sounds good, hermana. Welcome to how real men fight.”

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[redisaid]

In Dreams 1 of ???

It's never just coffee

Not me starting another Sylvaina project in the cursed year of 2025.

Feel free to guess at what's actually going on here.

NSFW

4024 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Mm, in dreams, I have lain in sin, just to be the cracked and cared for.

“You’re here again?”

The question--almost an accusation, really--caused Jaina’s eyes to focus again, drawing away from the blur of cold darkness and warm lamplight outside the window and toward the familiar voice that spoke it.

Vereesa was here. Of course she was.

“I wanted coffee,” Jaina protested, shaking her nearly empty to-go cup at her friend. The one she’d never actually gone anywhere with, as she was still very much sitting in the same cafe it had come from.'

The very window she’d been looking out of was emblazoned with the same logo as the cup, a cute cartoonish hawkstrider, running away from the words Windrunner Cafe. Running, perhaps, as Jaina should have.

Vereesa was standing by the door, shaking the rain off of her umbrella, the words of her own last name shadowed onto her by the streetlights outside like an unwanted tattoo. She set down her umbrella near Jaina’s vigil, still dripping onto the wooden floor. Her eyes darted, specifically to the counter, then avoiding the woman who stood behind it.

And as for Sylvanas, she was kind enough to all involved to pretend she didn’t see her sister enter her place of business, though Jaina knew that she certainly had noticed.

“It’s never just coffee,” Vereesa muttered as she took a seat on the leather sofa next to Jaina.

Denying that was futile. Vereesa was right. Jaina wasn’t here for coffee. She ignored the comment.

Instead she asked, “Do you still like a macchiato? I was going to get a refill.”

“I don’t want anything,” Vereesa sighed. She seemed to sink deeply into the leather like it was the first time she’d been able to sit down all day. Yet Jaina could sense she was still deeply uncomfortable--her posture stiff and rigid to the bone, unable to relax.

She didn’t blame her. Vereesa almost never spoke to her sister in her own coffee shop when she visited. She always seemed deeply disappointed to find Jaina there, and that seemed to be the sole purpose of those visits--being disappointed. But Jaina was an adult. She could make her own decisions about whether she wanted to frequent her ex’s cafe, even if her best friend and the sister of said ex wasn’t thrilled about it.

Vereesa sat upright from the leather sinkhole she was falling into and blinked against the warm light of the cafe. “I just want you to think hard about all of this, Jaina,” she told her. “Does it seem right to you?”

“Right is a complicated term,” Jaina replied. “Something I think we can both understand.”

“Look around you,” Vereesa implored, sitting up straighter and looking around the cafe herself.

Jaina followed suit. It was no different than it always was. The atmosphere had always been calm and inviting. White walls were covered with murals and hanging art to the point where one hardly knew they were white anymore. Wooden floors were covered with plush rugs by the lounge seating, their finish polished to a dull shine by the tables and the counter. Soft leather couches dominated one side of the cafe, accompanied by patterned fabric armchairs, while the other half was rife with tall bar tables that couples lingered around on late evening coffee dates. And of course the warm smell of that coffee, the richness of it that made the air seem heavy, but in a pleasant way. Like a thick blanket protecting soft skin from the cold.

And Sylvanas, patiently waiting, ignoring them on purpose. She was busy making a drink for a weary-looking student in Kirin Tor purple and gold. The same colors that Jaina had worn when she’d wandered in here the first time, still a student herself.

“I don’t see anything different,” Jaina told her. She no longer wore purple and gold on the daily. Today, it was a sweater the color of cream, much the same as most of her hair. Only a small streak of gold remained to that too.

“That’s the problem,” Vereesa said. She folded in on herself, hunching forward, elbows on her knees. “It’s always the same with you.”

Jaina could only guess at what she really meant, but she didn’t have to guess much. Vereesa likely knew she wasn’t here because she wanted coffee. Well, Sylvanas did still make it like no one else in Dalaran, but Jaina could be honest with herself. That wasn’t the reason. Not this late at night, anyway.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” Jaina told her. “And I don’t think you want me to.”

“I don’t get it,” was all Vereesa had to say to that. She ducked her head down and rubbed at her neck. “You have so much else going on. You’re so smart. This isn’t you.”

Smart didn’t mean Jaina avoided her ex. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t constantly drawn to the coffee scent of her--how it lingered in her platinum blonde hair, or the taste of it on her wicked tongue. They did not work. That had been obvious from the start, but they tried to defy it for years. Too long. Enough that it hurt them both and everyone around them, including Vereesa.

Still, Jaina came here now and then. For coffee, but not for coffee.

“What if it is me?” was a question for herself as much as it was for Vereesa.

Vereesa looked up again, this time pointedly at the counter, as if daring her sister to look back to answer for that. But Sylvanas was busy. She was always busy when Vereesa was here. She was counting change, or grinding beans, or washing dishes, or dealing with a delivery. Always something.

“I have to go. I don’t know how to fix this, how to fix you. I don’t know how I can help anymore,” Vereesa said.

She stood quickly, purposefully, and with such disruption to the slow, quiet richness of the cafe that Jaina didn’t feel she could even catch her. And why should she try? Just to be chastised?

Either way, it wasn’t going to stop the inevitable pull of what brought her here. She and Sylvanas had a gravity to them. They were two objects, orbiting one another slowly until those orbits would eventually decay into one another. They would always crash into each other, part ways just as violently, only to return to those inescapable ellipticals again.

Jaina would have moved on if she could have. She was sure Sylvanas felt the same. If anyone else could make her coffee like this. If anyone else could pull her in so deeply.

But no one else could.

While lost in those thoughts, she missed Vereesa leaving. The only evidence of her ever being there at all was a still dripping umbrella, abandoned and forgotten. Jaina picked it up, leaning it against the low table in front of the couch. Maybe she’d come back for it. Maybe not. What did it matter?

It was getting late anyway.

Jaina didn’t get her refill. Sylvanas was still busy, or pretending to be. She was a good actor, so it was hard to tell. But act or not, she’d keep it up until closing time. That, at least, they could be responsible about. That, at least, Jaina could rely on her for.

People began to slowly filter out of the shop. Those lingering coffee dates lingered on a while longer, one couple even staying a few minutes past nine. They seemed to forget the world around them existed, or that it had rules they needed to follow, places they could and should not be.

Jaina understood what it was like to forget such things, or at least to want to. She waited, reading a book on portal theory she’d brought along, swishing the last bit of coffee in her cup around, and pretending that she was one to judge.

Last to leave, as always, even later than the couple, was that odd regular. The elven woman with her gaudy, jeweled fish purse. She’d always stare Jaina down, as if knowing she was waiting for her, and then smile. It was a polite smile, but odd. Unnerving. Strange.

Strange as the fact that she’d always order a pastry of some kind and leave it untouched. No coffee either.

Today, it was a slice of almond cake, still pristine on the little white dish it had been served to her on. The silver fork was untouched, balanced across the top of the plate from rim to rim, just as Sylvanas would have placed it.

Jaina made herself useful and picked up the uneaten cake, bringing it to the counter.

“She never even touches it,” she noted as she placed it down in front of Sylvanas.

The signal was given. The act was dropped. Sylvanas seemed to come into herself, taking shape behind the elf in the apron and button up shirt beneath it, her sleeves rolled her elbows. A life sparked in her now that she and Jaina were alone. It started, as it had the first time, with a smirk.

Followed by, “She never does.”

Sylvanas’ voice was distinctly more accented than her sister’s. Elven and haughty sounding, her actions were anything but that.

Sylvanas took the plate from Jaina, discarding the cake in a garbage bin, then tossing the dish and fork into a soapy sink.

“So, here we are again,” Sylvanas noted as she came back over to the counter, leaning on the padding of gathered sleeves at her elbows, chin coming to rest in one hand.

Still with that smirk.

“I can go,” Jaina offered. “If you’d rather we not be here again.”

“That’s up to you,” Sylvanas told her. She fished into the pocket of her apron and handed Jaina a set of keys.

A carved wooden hawkstrider matching the shop’s logo dangled from the end of the keychain. It was always Jaina’s choice: lock up for her, with herself inside, or leave.

Jaina took the keys. She locked the front door, not even fumbling to catch the tricky deadbolt. They were old friends. She knew what to do.

She never just left.

Jaina handed the keys back to Sylvanas, who had finally come out from the protection the counter offered her against the world to turn off the lights.

Now it was only them, decisions made.

The last of the lights flicked off. “I guess I’ll finish cleaning tomorrow,” Sylvanas announced.

“I guess you will.”

It was like a dance. An old routine of steps their bodies knew so well that no one had to say anything. No hands were offered to guide. No excuses were made.

Jaina just followed Sylvanas to the back room. Amidst walls lined with shelves, boxes of napkins and wooden stirrers on the floor, spare aprons hung on hooks, there was room enough for a couch and a desk. The couch used to be out front, before a customer had ripped a hole in one of the cushions somehow. It had been hastily patched, then moved here years ago.

But now it served to catch them when they fell.

Jaina’s lips were on Sylvanas already, drinking in the coffee scent that clung to her skin, like she was the frothed cream that hid decadence and the promises of future energy below. Jaina--ever the caffeine addict--was here for her fix. And what a fix it was.

Strong arms held her to an apron that hadn’t yet had the opportunity to come off, but those same arms still somehow had the time to brace their inevitable fall into the couch. Warmth radiated from her, indulgent and calming. Pale blonde eyelashes tickled against Jaina’s skin as Sylvanas returned her kiss, then swiftly moved for her neck.

She knew what to do. Jaina didn’t have to tell her. She didn’t have to guide. She didn’t have to do anything but feel.

Maybe that was the appeal of it. Maybe that was what kept her coming back. Not the coffee. Not the tinge of shame that blossomed in her belly, but spread into a deep warmth and was so soon forgotten.

No, it was nice to be fucked by someone who knew how to fuck her as easily as if it were breathing.

Teeth grazed her skin, elven fangs only hinting at what they were capable of. For Jaina, the reminder was enough, and Sylvanas knew that well. She didn’t need to be bitten, only to know that she could be.

Communicating that to anyone else in this world seemed so exhausting, so wholly unnecessary. Why would she bother, when she could get it with the best cup of coffee in town?

Sylvanas knew her body like she knew her favorite drink. Hot hands were the espresso, warming and exciting each bit of skin they explored, like liquid as they lifted clothing up and out of the way. Steamed milk followed with gentle kisses along her jawline, over her clavicles and along the tops of her breasts, just brushing the lace of Jaina’s bra. The two mixed as clasps were freed from their hold on one another, and tongue and teeth and hands alike were free to ripple a pattern in the mug of Jaina’s chest. Swirls of pleasure and relief filled Jaina equally, as Sylvanas poured the flat white of her into the dusty couch in the back office.

“What do you want?” was whispered against her ear, with the length of an elven ear in turn pressing itself to Jaina’s cheek.

When Sylvanas asked this question, it wasn’t a draining experience. Jaina knew her words would be heeded, swiftly and expertly. With anyone else, the explanation was lengthy and didn’t yield the results she wanted, or that she desperately needed.

“Your mouth,” was all she had to say.

The couch was hardly enough space for this. The office wasn’t either. They needed a royal suite. A penthouse. A bed whose soft expanse was beyond ridiculous.

But a couch in the back room was all they were getting. And Sylvanas knew how to make do.

In short order, Jaina’s sweater and the soft camisole she’d worn beneath were on the floor. Her bra joined the pile. She could only assume they were there, because her eyes were screwed shut now, not daring to interrupt feeling with sight. Sylvanas was pulling down her leggings and her panties with them, wasting no time.

How many times had they fucked on this couch? Jaina didn’t know. Perhaps she didn’t want to. It happened before they broke up, and many more times after. It all blurred together, honestly. Time and space and who and when and where and why. What did it matter?

Jaina knew what she wanted. She knew where she could feel alive again. It didn’t matter if she could be proud about it. It didn’t matter that it was all very messy. Life was messy. People were too.

Sylvanas even, with her stuttering breaths hot and wet against Jaina’s bare thigh, wasn’t perfect. If she was, Jaina would have married her. If she was, they wouldn’t be fucking in the back office of a coffee shop, hiding from the world.

Sylvanas’ tongue was messy too, but in all the right ways. The first brush of it made Jaina gasp. She always forgot how good this felt, the electric wave of energy that shot up her spine. And then there was the low groan that would inevitably follow when Sylvanas chuckled softly at her own prowess. The vibrations of that laugh reverberated through Jaina’s core like she was a hollow thing, an instrument ready to be strummed.

And Sylvanas could play her like no one else.

Shoulders still rough with apron straps braced themselves against the back of her thighs. Hands equal parts rough with dishwater and shiny smooth from steam burns found Jaina’s, lacing fingers between her own. They urged her away from tugging at patched leather, and placed their combined might upon bare thighs. Sylvanas stroked across them for both of them, establishing a rhythm she matched with lips and tongue.

Jaina was already drowning in her. The bold intensity of coffee, the soft silk of cream. The knowledge that she would be overwhelmed soon, all doubts banished into nothingness, swirling into liquid dark.

It didn’t take long. It wasn’t too short. It was just enough. Jaina was bucking against her, thighs squeezing ears perked high in arousal. Hands held her hands, pulling their bodies taut together where they connected, unwilling to let even an ounce of precious friction escape in this crucial moment.

It was almost too much, too good, too hot. Sylvanas threatened to burn her each time, scalding, but she never did. She let Jaina go, hands and mouth and skin alike. She let her breathe shallow, shuddering breaths in the inches between them.

Sylvanas knelt up, and wiped smirking lips on the back of her hand.

It felt like a lifetime ago, and Jaina couldn’t exactly recall when, but it was that smirk that had gotten her attention the first time. The light in those soft grey eyes. The quirking lip, playful, inviting, challenging. Too challenging sometimes when it wasn’t silenced like this.

Sylvanas was better this way, drinking Jaina in like she was something to savor, too decadent to swallow quickly. A white chocolate peppermint mocha. A perfectly foamy cappuccino.

But the one thing Jaina could do without was her ruining it, and that was always a service Sylvanas was willing to provide.

“You needed that, huh?” she asked, still smirking, her knees tangled with Jaina’s stripped off leggings.

“Shut up,” Jaina breathed, shooting to her own knees in a way that was probably not wise for the shakiness of them. Still, she managed. “It’s your turn.”

She covered Sylvanas’ lips with her own, pressing her back onto the other end of the couch. She covered the stained canvas of her apron with her bare flesh, still hot and flushed and tingling. Jaina wouldn’t abide by that for long, and found the ties of the cursed thing while her tongue kept Sylvanas’ from ruining this any further. She flung it to the side, not caring if it landed with the other aprons, on the desk, or tangled itself in the shelves.

Jaina skipped the button up entirely, only ghosting her hands across the pane of it. There would be time to strip Sylvanas bare later, and she didn’t need her to gloat over the flat and muscled plane of her abs right now. She needed her to come, and for it to be because Jaina made her.

She pulled the shirt loose from where it was tucked into tight trousers in one motion, and in the next, plunged her hand under the waistband.

Sylvanas was wet and hot and ready. She always liked to get Jaina off first, and that had been just fine. It was a treat to find just how much she’d enjoyed the act later on, the wet warmth of her an extra shot of espresso at the end of a long day.

Jaina sunk two fingers into it, finding little resistance and only a moan of encouragement coming from Sylvanas. A nip against her lip, a groan, a shudder, and finally an arching up and into her until Jaina added the friction of her thumb against where it was being asked for, but not yet begged for.

She rocked deep within Sylvanas, relishing in the fact that she could do exactly what Sylvanas did for her, to her. She could give her what she wanted without being asked. She could hold her steady just before the peak, as she liked. She could silence any more words that could possibly stand between them by turning them to keens and moans, breaths sucked in and held to heighten the feeling.

Sylvanas found her own whirlpool, gripping at Jaina’s bare back, holding her close as the deep dark of her held Jaina’s fingers within, neither letting go for several long moments. Her body was taut, letting out only a single shaking breath and a curse muffled into Jaina’s neck.

It was over too soon and yet it took too long. Jaina wanted to fuck her forever, but she couldn’t stand her. She loved her, but she wanted to love anything else.

It all felt like a dream, hazy and coffee-stained. It didn’t make sense, but then again, neither did she.

Neither did Sylvans, who only pushed Jaina off her to strip off her own shirt. She reached back for her again just as quickly, drawing skin to skin. She held her as they both liked to be held after sex, as they both knew the other did.

Sylvanas traced patterns on Jaina’s shoulders. She brushed white hair and its streak of gold from pale skin. She kissed a freckle or two. She lingered.

Jaina wanted her not to say anything. It was always too complicated when either of them said anything. But she knew that she would eventually open her mouth.

And Jaina was too tired now, too languid and swimming in silky blonde hair that smelled of sex and sweat and shampoo and coffee.

“I don’t understand it,” was what Sylvanas finally muttered to ruin things this time.

“What’s there to understand?” Jaina asked her.

It was starting to get cold as the flush of sex left her skin. Hot shame might have flooded her instead, long ago. Regret as a cold pit in her stomach was only a memory. No, this had been going on too long for either of those to come for her now.

But Sylvanas’ hand was still warm as it brushed across her back, nails softly scratching along with it.

“Why me?” she asked.

“There’s no one else. You know that,” Jaina told her. “I try and try, and no one else works. No one else understands what I need.”

“I don’t work,” Sylvanas told her. “You don’t even realize how much I don’t work.”

“I know you don’t. I don’t care.”

“So why me?”

They both knew the answer. Well, Jaina was sure she did, but, “you fuck me like no one else ever can and will,” would sound crass, too pointed and correct to be uttered.

“I like your coffee too much,” was what she answered instead.

Sylvanas laughed at that. Jaina always loved that laugh. Too bad she heard it more often than not when Sylvanas was laughing at her own terrible jokes. Her self-confidence had been sexy once. Now she found it grating.

Still, it was nice to have it rumble through her, and for the smirk that followed to press a kiss to her cheek.

Even if Sylvanas told her, “You don’t like my coffee. You don’t even like me. You must fucking hate me. That’s why I don’t get it.”

“So stop trying,” Jaina recommended. She rallied herself, sliding a hand between them to find Sylvanas’ breasts, nipples stiff from the cold of the office, or maybe from a desire for round two.

Well, Jaina could provide either a distraction or what was wanted but not yet asked for. Anything to stop her talking.

“I can’t stop trying,” Sylvanas told her.

She seemed to be trying to sit up and pull Jaina along with her.

Jaina resisted, pressing herself and Sylvanas beneath her into the couch, thumb and fingers pinching away the cold and the thought of anything else. Nails demanding attention to the right things--to what should and should not be.

But Sylvanas was strong. She was determined. She was going to ruin it anyway. She always did.

She sat up, her hands on Jaina’s waist guiding her up, demanding her to follow suit. Grey eyes peered into hers.

For a second, Jaina could swear they flashed red.

“We need you, Jaina. As much as I enjoy these visions of yours, and don’t understand them at all, we still need you. You need to wake up,” Sylvanas pleaded.

Ruined again, the vision swirled into nothing--an ink-dark and swallowing void.

[thevalkyriesshadow]

@aldbooks and @freyjas-musings

I finally finished that fic inspired by y'all

enjoy 😘

Touch

Summary: Azriel takes a bath in a moonlit pool under a gently cascading waterfall. He comes here for the quiet, healing solitude, but tonight, he gets more than he expected.

Read it under the cut or on AO3 💙

The cold waters of the moonlit waterfall cascade over my face, cold rivulets running through my hair. It washes away the dirt and grime of another day. Cleanses me physically and mentally. 

Now that the snows have melted, the sun shines just a bit brighter for a bit longer, and the soil slowly warms – I can come out here without freezing my ass completely off.

My body still reacts. My shoulders tense for a moment, I shiver, just the slightest. The water bites as it tumbles onto my skin, flowing over the smooth rocks. But as time passes I adjust to it, soaking in the natural healing properties.

This is my time to reflect. To unwind.

My marred hands scrub at my skin. Gentle at first, then harder. A stubborn blood stain on my wrist has me rubbing the spot until it's raw and the bite of the pain is almost as refreshing as the water.

There's a snap of a twig and a gasp. I turn on the spot and there, standing amongst the tall grass and the hanging willows is Gwyn.

Her eyes widened, the shining teal of them glittering in the moonlight. Her copper hair shimmers under the gentle ray of light.

She hugs her towel closer to her body, which I'm now just realizing is clad in only a thin, light blue nightgown. The bottom hem barely reaches mid thigh. Her freckled shoulders are on full display.

I've never seen Gwyn like this, casual and exposed.  

I shouldn't be looking. I should tear my eyes from hers, but…

A tinge of red blooms on her face. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes dip down to – 

Gods above.

The water reaches my upper thighs and I'm standing stark naked in it. My half-hard cock waving about just above the water's surface.

I lowered myself slowly, just enough to hide my private bits.

Gwyn watches the movement then takes a step back.

We speak at the same time.

“I'll just –”

“You can stay –” 

She smiles and I clear my throat. When she doesn't speak or move I say, “You can stay, I'll leave.”

“Oh, no, please you were here first,” she says as she takes another step back and I have this urge to ask her to stay with me.

I run my hands through my hair and she watches the movement carefully, following with her wide eyes.

Gwyn always watched me, her eyes lingering as I trained the other priestesses. I didn’t mind of course. I liked her smiles as she watched my shadows move around me. I liked the quips and jokes she made. The way she would tease and banter with me. For almost two years it was just constant watching and teasing. 

She was curious, and so was I. So why not ask her to join?

“You know,” I start. Wading closer to her, stepping out from under the torrent of water. “You could join me….if you'd like?”

Her eyes widened even more, “Join you?” 

“If you want.”

This was silly. She'd never –

Gwyn dropped her towel and fingered the straps of her nightgown. 

Oh shit. She was really going to join me.

My lips pulled into a small smirk and I turned around to give her a moment to get into the water. 

The leaves rustled. The water splashed. 

I glanced back over my wings in time to see her swallowed up by the inky black waters. The moon's reflection shimmered where she disappeared. 

I waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Was she okay? My shadows hover above the water. Waiting for her...

I took a step closer to where I’d seen her disappear beneath the water.

“Whatchya looking at, Shadowsinger?” 

I started and she giggled. She’d snuck up on me and I was only now realizing how close she was to me. Leaning over my wings to spook me. I tried not to get her caught up in them as I faced her, but her hair got caught on a talon…

“Oh shit, sorry. Don’t move.” I unhooked the copper strands from the talon, letting them fall from my fingers before giving her a nod and good gods above…

There was goddess beauty and then there was Gwyneth Berdara beauty. 

Truly. 

She looked like a statue of old come to life. So perfect. Carved from ethereal beauty itself. Every freckle stood out against her alabaster skin. Her lithe form looked so natural and comfortable in the water. Almost flowing along with the current, like she was made from water herself. The water had made her long hair stick to her skin. Some of it cascaded over her breasts, covering most of the supple mounds.

And that’s just from ogling her in my peripherals. 

I kept my gaze on her teal eyes that sparkled with curiosity and awe. As much as I wanted to take in every curve and plane of her warrior-honed body, I wanted to keep this as cordial as possible. 

Just two friends bathing under a waterfall in a moonlit pool.

I swallowed, “That was impressive.”

She kept her gaze on mine, her chin rising slightly. Always goading me. “Half-nymph, remember? In fact I could probably still be under the water right now and still not feel the need to come up for another five minutes or so.”

I wanted to run my thumb across her chin, count all those freckles…

Warmth spread across my chest, that spark danced in my chest. 

I couldn’t speak. Everything I wanted to say in response to her posturing was lost on my tongue. All I could do was admire her.

A blush bloomed on her cheeks, down her neck, across her chest the longer I just stood staring at her. My eyes were drawn to her lips as they quirked, holding back a smile. “Did I break the infamous Shadowsinger?”

I blinked. Gods I had just been staring at her. I shot my shadows a look. Why didn’t they snap me out of it? 

As if mocking me they started twirling around Gwyn. They slithered over her shoulders, around her arms. They played in her hair that was dripping from the trickle of the waterfall she stood under.

“Sorry…uh, I was just thinking.”

“About?” She blinked, her smile finally spreading. Meeting her eyes with that glorious spark of joy.

I was thinking about her, but I couldn’t say that . 

“How your ability to hold your breath like that would be very useful against underwater foes. We should start training for underwater combat.” Oh my gods that sounded so much smoother in my head, but instead I just rambled.

Gwyn laughed, the sound playing around the small alcove they stood in. “ That’s what you were thinking about? Truly?”

I nodded.

She narrowed her eyes at me, “Sounds like you’re just trying to fit in another private lesson with me.”

My shadows danced around my wings. I’d love to have another moment of the day where it was just her and I.

“Sounds like you’re trying to avoid it. What’s wrong? Don’t think you can handle underwater combat, Priestess ?”

She crossed her arms, and gods dammit I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting down to note the movement. Her arms covered her nipples, but her breasts pressed together - water pooled in the pocket they made as they pushed against her forearms.

I pulled my gaze back up. Heat sizzled in those pretty teal eyes, a fiery crackle that sent a pang of need right to my cock.

“I can handle underwater combat just fine. In fact, I’ll probably be better at it than you,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she took a step back and another. “Wanna find out?” Her eyebrows wiggled and she took another step back – towards a drop she wasn’t aware of.

I shot out and grabbed her around the waist as her foot met the hidden drop in the dark waters of the pool. I tugged her into my chest. Gwyn’s eyes widened as I pulled her back, a shocking gasp escaping those perfect lips..

Her hands splayed against my chest, fingertips digging into my skin. Once she was righted I pulled my arms back, wholly aware of how close I was holding her. The skin that touched. 

Gwyn didn’t pull away. Didn’t put space between us as the steady beating of my heart – that I could’ve worn rippled through the waters around us – pulsed excitedly. Another pulse echoed in the water, as if in answering. As if I could feel her heartbeat too.

The air was palpable with tension.

The waterfall tumbled around us, its roar blocking out any other sound, her palms still resting flat on my chest. Goosebumps skittered across my skin as she let out a breath. Her chest heaved and we were so close I could just feel her hair and breasts brush against me.

Our gazes met, a question burning there. 

I didn’t care what the question was. My answer was yes.

I dropped my chin in a nod, “Yes,” I whispered, giving her permission to do whatever it is she was asking to do.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. Then her left hand started sliding down my torso, brushing past my ribcage. My stomach clenched as her fingertips danced lower, pressing into my hip and stopping there. Her thumb brushed the muscular vee, electricity sparking with every pass.

Her right hand that had been resting against my chest, moved. Her fingers traced the pattern of my tattoos, following them completely. Across my pectorals, over my shoulders and collar bone then down my sternum. 

I let out a breath at the sensation and Gwyn smiled, but didn’t say anything as she continued her exploration.

She spent a lot of time tracing the grooves between the muscles of my stomach. Over and over, my muscles spasming with each pass. I was beginning to think she enjoyed watching me squirm and honestly, I was very into it.

If she explored any lower, she’d see just how much I was enjoying it.

Oh shit. You’re hard as a rock . And she’s about to unknowingly discover this. Her fingers dipped into the pool, but before she could find my throbbing cock, I grabbed her wrist. “Wait,” I said. “I’m -- uh -- .” I cleared my throat "--hard--"

She giggled, “I wondered.”

I gaped at her. Always surprising me this one. I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped my lips, the rumble of it settling low in my chest. That spark expanded, vibrating ferociously. 

As much as I wanted those beautifully long, freckled fingers around my cock. I wanted more of that delicious touch. The way she caressed every inch of me with precision. I wanted to feel that everywhere. I wanted her to be comfortable with every part of me. Not just with the way we talk and banter. Not just with the way we spar and fight side by side. I wanted her to know that she could come to me and feel safe. Home.

I guided her hand to my neck. “I want you to touch the rest of me first. Please.”

The stunningly gorgeous and incredibly adorable Priestess in front of me smirked, in the most devilish way. Heat bloomed from the base of my spine, and at the same time in my chest – that spark spread. It followed her touch everywhere she went. Moving through my veins, muscles, organs…everything down to my very soul moved with her touch. Like two voices falling into harmony with one another. 

Gwyn watched the goosebumps form across my skin everywhere her fingers touch. Along the sinewy muscle of my neck, across the dips of my shoulders, the planes of my back, along my hips…everything was on fire stoked by her touch, kindled by her curiosity. 

I balled my hands into fists, the moment too much yet not enough. Her hands were around mine in an instant, raising them up between us. Her eyes flicked between the scarred knuckles and my burning eyes. My breathing was shallow, anticipating her next move. Would she touch them? Would she drop them to the side and forget about them? 

“I’d like to touch your hands, Azriel. Is that okay?”

My chest cracked wide open. An all consuming light pouring out. “Yes,” I breathe.

She let go of my left hand, but held onto my right wrist. Holding gently, turning it in her hand. I unfurled my fingers and her touch found my skin instantly. She smoothed her hand over mine, opening until my palm was flat. Then she traced my scars. 

With painstakingly slow precision. As if she were memorizing every puckered line. 

When she finished her slow exploration of both hands, she pressed her palms to mine, chuckled to herself, then laced our fingers together.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

She shrugged, “Just thinking about how you think I’m the one who needs underwater training, when you haven’t even proven to me that you’re a worthy teacher of such combat.”

I squeeze her fingers, “Are you going to teach me , Priestess?”

Gwyn narrowed those sparkling ocean eyes, the light in my chest pulsing at her gaze, “I should. It makes the most sense.”

Our gazes locked for a long moment. Studying, exploring. Then without warning, Gwyn hooked a foot around the back of my knee and yanked me down, her grip on my hands forcing me under the water. I took one last gulp before she plunged me under. She had a quick foot on my chest in an instant. I’d be dead in minutes, especially with her weight above me like this.

Thankfully she didn’t want to kill me. Just show me up. Though my chest was maybe starting to burn. Just a tinge. And of course my fucked up ass was thrilled by it.

Her foot lifted off my chest and she was tugging me out of the water. I spluttered as I met fresh air, blinking my eyes furiously up at her. 

Her smile was radiant as she chuckled, “Alright there, Shadowsinger?”

I wiped my face and lounged back in the water, floating just beneath the surface. It wasn’t deep. Maybe about four or five feet, but it was plenty of room for my wings to just graze the floor of the pool.

“You tell me. You’re the one training to be a healer.” Another thing I was so proud of her for pursuing. “My knee kind of hurts after you expertly hooked it around my leg to disarm me. I think you should check it out.” I raised my foot above the water, my chest filling with joy at her bright smile. Her head fell back as she let out a barking laugh. It pulled her hair back, exposing her breasts fully and by the gods old and young –

They were so fucking perfect. Supple mounds that glowed in the moonlight. Her dusky nipples peaked against the cool spring air. 

Fuck. My chest was pounding with emotions. With an intense feeling that I couldn’t place. It grew and grew with her smiles. Her laughter. The way we talked. Her body. Her Mother blessed existence.

Gwyn dove into the water, her chest gliding along the surface as she executed a perfect breaststroke until she was wading next to me. She was so at ease. So calm as she took my leg in her hand, examining it with an exaggerated studying gaze.

Then she looked at me with those wide, stunning eyes – the teal of them swimming with mirth as she said, “I’m happy to report that your leg will be just fine, Shadowsinger. Not a scratch on it.” She lowered my leg back into the pool, her breathy laughter tittering away. My shadows were having the time of their lives. Dashing in and out of her movements. Dancing with every sound that fell from her lips.

We waded further behind the waterfall where it was quieter. I could hear her breaths, the tinkling of the water as she moved about. I watched her twirl and wash at her skin, humming a gentle tune.

I must’ve looked ridiculous. Floating in the water staring at her with awe. But…how could I not? Just look at her. 

I recalled the first day of training. How she kept her distance, but stared at me from across the training ring.

And now?

Now she was shamelessly standing five feet away from me in the waist deep water. Washing her hair back under the waterfall. Breasts peaked up to the sky.

I wondered if she would let me touch her? If I could explore her body too…

I joined her under the waterfall. Rinsing my hair under the waters. She smiled and her gaze landed on my wings as I shook them against the water free falling behind me.

“So…did something happen to your shower back at The House that you had to come all the way out here?” She asks. Her head tilts as her eyes gleam with amusement. Her perfect, pink lips curl on one side.

I huff a laugh, “Did something happen to yours?”

Her grin widens, “No. I was feeling… adventurous.” She tugs at her hair and it takes all my willpower not to glance down at her exposed breasts. 

By The Mother she was being bold tonight.

“Is that so?” I ask, taking a step towards her. The moonlight makes her skin glow, her freckles like molten stars in the darkness.

Fuck. Gwyn is… beautiful.  

She nods and gives a cheery hum in confirmation. “Checking off another thing on my must-do list.”

I raise a brow, “Must-do list?”

“Yeah – it’s a list of things I must do now that I’m –” She pauses, searching for the right word.

“A Valkyrie?”

She purses her lips, “Hm, no –”

“A Carynthian –”

“No –”

“Older?” She had a birthday at the beginning of the year. One where I watched her get drunk off faerie wine and giggle uncontrollably all night.

She gave me a small push, her fingers digging into the muscled skin on my chest. “No! Would you let me finish!” I chuckled and swept my arms out, giving her the floor. My shadows swirled excitedly around her, settling on her shoulders.

She watched them and gave them one of those breathy giggles that made my lips form a dim witted smile before she looked back at me. They sparkled as they met mine, a certain gleam of trustworthiness in them. “It’s a list of things I want to do now that I’m not living in The Library anymore.”

“Ah – “

There’s a moment of pause between us. Not weird or awkward, just a moment where we’re both considering what that means. I know she worked hard to overcome many obstacles. I was proud of her for it. For facing the mountain -- the physical, emotional, and spiritual ones. For facing her fears and worries and doubts.

I supported her then and I’d support her now. 

“So number one on your list was bathe in a waterfall?”

She shrugs, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The item was more about swimming naked in a body of water, but this counts…right?” She glances around the dark pool then looks back to me.

“Sure. I mean, just do a lap to the edge of the pool and back and voila, item crossed off. Officially.”

Gwyn gives me a smirk. A smirk I know all too well. It’s one of those shit eating grins she gives before she says –

“I bet I can beat you.”

I return the sly smile. “Name your price, Berdara.”

She crosses her arms and raises her chin at me. “If I win, you have to help me cross off another item on my list.”

“And that would be…?”

“A secret," the words are final. "Your terms?”

I narrow my eyes at her and say, “Fine. If I win – you have to help me cross off one of my own personal list items.”

“ You have a list?”

“Absolutely I do.”

She regards me with curiosity then holds out a hand, “Deal.” We shake, my shadows shiver with excitement, and then we’re getting in position and my heart pounds in my chest. I have one item on my list that this exact moment in time sets everything up perfectly for. Though, with the way she held her breath underwater, I don’t think I’ll win, but…

“On my mark,” Gwyn says. I ready myself, listening to her countdown “….three…two…one… go!”

I dive into the water, her splash echoing mine. I’m vaguely aware of her presence in the water next to me, but I’m focused on my destination and the end goal to pay attention to where in the water she is.

I touch the dirt slope on the opposite of the pool and turn around in the water. My wings definitely make traveling in water difficult, but I pull them in closer and push harder.

When I resurface on the other side, I’m met by muscle carved thighs and a soaked Gwyn, smiling devilishly down at me.

“Looks like I won, Shadowsinger. Guess the item on your list is going to have to wait.”

I smooth my hair out of my face and wipe the water from my face. “As if there were any chance in hell I’d win against a water-nymph.” She grins broadly. “Alright then, Berdara. What item do you need help with?”

She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, blushing suddenly. Her boasting demeanor turned shy. Gwyn takes another step closer to me and she takes one of my hands in hers. Her thumb brushes against mine, sending shivers up my arm.

“You can absolutely say no, but…” She glances down at our joined hands, then looks up. Her gaze falls to my lips. “Can I kiss you?”

Words escape me as I process her words. Gwyneth Berdara wants to kiss me?

“Does your list item specifically say ‘Kiss the spay master of the Night Court’?” I almost don’t believe her request.

She blushes deeper, “If you must know it says kiss the Shadowsinger, but –”

“Yes,” My answer leaves my lips before I can stop it. Gwyn sucks a breath in, her eyes widening as if she doesn’t believe my answer. But then she’s raising up on her toes. Her grip on my hand tightens and she’s inching closer and closer –

She lets out a high-pitched squeak as her foot slips on the mossy stones beneath us and she falls into me, our mouths crashing together.

It’s messy and a little painful as her nose clashes with mine, and she maybe scrambles trying to salvage the moment. And since I was asked to help her check off another item, it’s exactly what I do.

My hands go to her waist and I pull her against me. Steadying her. For a moment our mouths only hover a hair's breadth away. Our smiles and breathy laughs are smothered a moment later as she finds her balance and presses her lips to mine.

Gwyn is tentative and stiff. Like she’s unsure how far to take it. So I let her know by softening my lips, parting them so my breath skitters over her mouth. Her body softens in my hands, her lips following.

Then her mouth is moving against mine and gods.

I don’t know if she’s ever kissed anyone before. By the way she presses and adjusts her lips against mine, I don’t think she has, but I don’t fucking care. 

Because every moment of it. From the way her lips explored mine. Kissing my top lip. Then my bottom. The way she tilts her head one way then the other. Every moment has my pulse racing. My body trembling.

I’m only vaguely aware of the curves of her body against the planes of mine. The way her hands have found their way around my neck and are nervously tangling themselves in my hair. Every nerve in my body is flooded with the feeling of her lips on mine. 

I move with her. My mouth opening and closing with hers. I let her control every movement. The speed. The pressure – and when her tongue darts out curiously, I let her in. 

She’s gentle and unsure but I don’t care. 

Gwyn could kiss me with the same clumsy inexperience every time and I’d welcome it. I let myself hope that maybe this wouldn’t be my first kiss with her. Maybe she’d want to do this with me all the time. Maybe this could be the flood gates that open to a whole new possibility. For both of us.

Something in my chest pulses at the idea just as the warmth of her mouth leaves mine and I let out a shaky breath.

Gwyn’s face and neck are flushed, her eyes darting between mine. Then she smiles and giggles, “Oh gods that was awful wasn’t it?” Her nose scrunches, her freckles crinkling with the movement.

I’m still trying to catch my breath and then she sends me that smile with her addictive laughter and I can’t help myself. She gasps as I lean in and our lips brush as I whisper, “By how much I want to do it again, I’d say it was far from awful.” Messy and unpractised? Sure. Awful? Never.

“Do you want to know what my item was that I wanted to enlist in your help with?”

Her nails scratch my scalp as her hips press into mine and if she’s aware of my hard cock pressing against her thigh she doesn’t say anything. “Yes,” she breathes.

I swallow the nerves that are suddenly fluttering around in my stomach, rising to my chest where they flit around that spark that grows brighter. “It was to kiss someone under a waterfall.”

She smiles against my lips and says, “No it was not.”  

I can’t stop the smile that blooms across my mouth, “Really.”

She hums then says, “Well…that kiss was for my list so…”

“But I didn’t win.”

“I mean if you don’t want to then fine,” she shoots back playfully.

My heart is pounding and all I can hear is the roar of my blood in my ears. “Gwyn? Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” She says it without hesitation and this time I take over.

It’s soft and gentle, exploring her like she explored me. Her lips are so fucking soft and full. I can’t get enough. I deepen the kiss and she moans , her lips parting. I run my tongue along the seam of her lips and through the kiss she hums enthusiastically, opening wider for me and I plunge in. Showing her exactly what to do with your tongue inside someone’s mouth.

I keep my hands firmly on her hips despite the way they itch to feel her all over. What would her kisses be like when I have my hands twisted in her hair? Or when I’m groping her ass and thighs? What about when my fingers are caressing the freckles scattered across her back? Will she shiver and moan uncontrollably? Will she whine or hum?

I’m lost in her instantly. My first taste of Gwyneth Berdara and I’m a fucking goner. I’m ready to kneel for this woman until the end of time. Until our existences cease to end and we’re nothing but stardust floating through endless time and space together.

When we separate, it’s to the sounds of both of us panting, our shaking breaths mixing together in the small space between our hovering mouths.

“Does that satisfy your must-do item?” I ask her.

She answers breathlessly, “Yes. And yours?” I nod. Unable to speak. “Good,” her voice has a silky tone to it, huskier. She grins wildly and asks, “Wanna do it again?”

I chuckle. The boldness of this female…

“Absolutely I do.”

Her body curls into mine, my arms wrap around her, hugging her tightly to me as our lips meet for a third time.

I wondered if Gwyn would want to add waterfall showers to our midnight rendezvous...

I store that question away for later and focus solely on the moment, committing every touch, taste, and sound of kissing Gwyneth Berdara to memory.

[myreia]

Heavensent

Rating: General Pairings: Wolmeric Characters: Aymeric, Aureia (WoL) Word Count: 2,659 Summary: A chance meeting on the battlements opens the door to something that will change both Aureia and Aymeric’s lives. Prompt: i. first meeting | introducing family & friends Notes: Set during the ARR patch quest "Coming to Terms." Read on AO3

The stars shine bright, sparkling like diamonds in a velvet sea of blue and black.

Aureia cranes her neck, unbound hair tickling her shoulders. In a rare event, the clouds around Camp Dragonhead have cleared and the snow has ceased to fall, gifting them a stunning view of the heavens. Of course she can see them almost any night she pleases, but it’s different up here in Coerthas. Ul’dah and Limsa Lominsa are too crowded and generate too much light, masking the stars in a haze. Gridania has too many trees. Even in the deserts of Thanalan, everything feels too distant, too faint.

Up here, there are no distractions.

Up here, the world comes to a standstill.

It puts her mind at ease.

“And here I thought the battlements would be empty at this bell of night.”

She glances over her shoulder, jolted from her reverie. The speaker stands at the end of the narrow walkway, propping the door to the turret tower open with his shoulder. Candlelight seeps in from the landing beyond, sweeping out from behind him and across the stonework in a wash of yellow and orange. Though his face is cast in shadow, she can make out enough of him to note his powerful Elezen build and amiable, if formal, posture. His armour—some confusing combination of robes and plates and chainmail—glints, the blues creeping towards black and the golds fading to brown.

These are not House Fortemps colours. So, then…?

“Ser Aymeric, I take it?” Aureia says. “I thought you were not to arrive until morning.”

Aymeric steps into the light. His dark hair falls neatly across his forehead, contrasting sharply with his pale skin and bright blue eyes. His cheeks flush pink from the cold, only heightening his serene beauty. He has exactly the kind of face Thancred would balk at and call too pretty for his own good. No wonder Haurchefant referred to him as Ishgard’s most eligible bachelor after one too many glasses of wine.

“Considering the importance of our meeting tomorrow, I felt it best not to risk a delay due to poor weather,” he replies, letting the door close behind him. He strolls easily across the battlements and joins her, resting his hands on the parapet. He stares out into the wilderness below, where the trees and hills vanish into the dark. “‘Tis a short journey from the heart of Ishgard, but nevertheless, but Coerthas is as changeable as the sea. I would hate to disappoint young lord Alphinaud by not showing up after such an impassioned invitation.”

She catches his eye. “You may have to break his heart anyway.”

“How so?”

“Alphinaud loves an introduction. If he finds out we already know each other, it will take all the wind out of his sails.”

He doesn’t answer. Her gut twists, heart pounding in her chest, certain that he misunderstood her tone and her intention. They’re strangers, what do they know of each other anyway? To him, she’s the Warrior of Light. A hero to some, sure, but not a leader. Not a politician. Not like he is. To her, he is a knight, a commander, and perhaps the most important person in Ishgard save Archbishop Thordan himself.

What must he think of her, disparaging one of her own allies? Gods, do they even have a sense of humour in Ishgard? Is Haurchefant an anomaly?

He laughs, a good-natured smile brightening his face, and he glances down at her. “Naturally,” he says. “Alphinaud Leveilleur is a ship of his own making and his sails must be protected at all costs lest he capsize. Perhaps we can feign being strangers on the morrow, give him his moment to shine.”

“Are you proposing we lie to our friends, my lord?”

“Not at all. I’m proposing we hide a truth to boost their confidence. Of course, I would not dare to do so without your support, so shall we consider ourselves partners-in-crime in this little endeavour?”

She snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, holding back another laugh.

Aymeric chuckles, eyes sparkling with delight. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Malathar,” he says, offering her a short bow. “I have heard much about you.”

Aureia raises an eyebrow. “You have, have you?”  

“Indeed. Lord Haurchefant speaks highly of you, but even without his vocal support, the news of the decisive blow you struck the Garleans would have reached across the border. I daresay some among my country is rather enchanted with you, though tales of intrepid folk heroes will always have the capacity to stir the hearts of the lowborn. The Holy See and the High Houses may show more caution, but their attentions are seldom given the allowance to look beyond our borders.”   

“I’m aware.” She looks away and crosses her arms, rising up on tiptoe to rest against the parapet. Camp Dragonhead was built for Elezen proportions, and everything is just a little too tall for her. “I’ve been to your Steps of Faith and looked upon your city. I’ve stood outside your Gates of Judgement and was turned away. I knew your country was cold, but I didn’t think they would be blind, too.”

He whistles, long and low. “A harsh assessment.”

“I have harsh eyes.”

“Are you certain of that? I rather think you have kind ones.” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “You may know the cost of war intimately, Mistress Malathar, but even the blind can see you have a purpose worth fighting for.”

“I…” She flushes. Gods, he is smoother than she expected. How does he seem to know the right thing to say at the right time? Is he flirting with her, or he is simply being pleasant for the sake of their alliance? “Thank you.”

Aymeric smiles, his dark hair falling across his cheek. “May I ask you a personal question?”  

“What would you like to know?”

“What brought you up here tonight? I’m certain there are kinder places to take a stroll in this fort. Some may even be closer to the ground.”

She snorts with laughter and turns to face him, leaning casually against the parapet. No matter where she positions herself, she can never quite see his face. Damn giant of a man. “Perhaps,” she replies. “The journey from Mor Dhona is long, and Haurchefant is always keen for me to rest and take in the comforts of his hearth, as he puts it.” No point in mentioning that he was the one who suggested she take a walk this evening and take in the stars. “I think he worries about my well-being. But I like the cold, and I like to be up high where no one else is. A quiet place to quiet my mind.”

“Ah, I see. Quite the view there is from here. Very dark. I see a tree. And a slope. Is that perhaps a rock over there?”

“Very funny. But you’re missing the best part.”

“Which is?”

In answer, she presses her palms into the parapet and hoists herself up. He lets out a yelp of concern, his eyes wide with shock, as she scrambles up the stonework as she twists around, swaying precariously on the ledge. Acting on instinct, he reaches out and grabs her by the shoulder, supporting her as she plops herself down. She grins and sweeps a lock of hair behind her ear, kicking her legs back and forth like an excited schoolgirl, and meets his gaze.

Finally, they can see each other eye-to-eye.  

“Look up,” she murmurs, raising her arm.

He presses his lips together, breathing hard, his grip firm around her arm—as if he’s terrified she will fall if he lets go. Slowly, he tears his gaze away from hers and cranes his neck, following her pointing finger upward into the sea of stars.

“Have you ever wondered what’s out there?” Aureia asks. “Beyond the stars? Worlds so far away, they are free from all the troubles that plague us here.”

“I can’t say that I have,” Aymeric replies softly. His grip on her hasn’t relaxed, as if he is afraid she will fall if he lets go. “I prefer to consider matters a little closer to home. But it would be a lie to say that I don’t find the vastness of their multitudes enchanting. There is much beauty to be found in the stars, just as there is wisdom and knowledge.”

“Oh?”

He leans closer, his breath whispering across her cheek. “Are you familiar with the constellations?”

“Not really.” Outside of the realm of art and novels, the stars are unimportant in Garlemald, just lights in the sky that could sometimes be used to triangulate one’s position. Her brother once said that there was a good chance most of them are dead—ghost lights, he called them. So far away it would take a thousand lifetimes to know whether they were living or dead. “I just think they’re pretty.”

“Then let me teach you.” He cradles her back and takes her hand, his long fingers threading gently between hers as he maps out the sky. “That there, shaped like a tree? That is the Bole. Scripture says that it is the gate to the first of our heavens, which houses the World Tree. Beyond it is the Balance, representing the heaven of fire, where equilibrium is maintained.”

A breeze blows by, ruffling her hair. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving them standing in the still serenity of a snowclad night. She exhales a breath, shoving down her desire to make a sarcastic comment about the religious overtones of Eorzean astrology. Though she has little desire to wrestle with it herself, it is important to Eorzeans. She chose Nymeia as her patron god on a whim when pressed. She should take any opportunity she has to rectify that, even if she has her doubts about the Twelve’s divinity.

“If we follow the line, we arrive at—”

“A tower?”

“The Spire. It is a tower, yes, representing the third heaven, a realm of destruction and creation. Its twin is in the opposing quadrant—the Arrow, representing the heaven of wind. Once loosened, the arrow may fly far and true, striking the Ewer, where its mighty rivers flow through the fifth heaven. Lastly, there is the Spear, of the sixth and final heaven, where the Fury resides within her realm of ice.”

The Fury. Halone. Patron of Ishgard.

Aymeric stiffens, as if voicing his goddess’ name has drawn her gaze upon him. “Those are the six,” he says, letting the moment pass. His breath rises in the cold air, higher and higher until it vanishes into the darkness. “The most important of the constellations, the ones from which all manner of magicks may be drawn. Perhaps you know something of this already? I’ve heard you are a talented mage—”

Her heart twinges. Though she has made progress over the past few months, black magic still eludes her. Casting spells should come easily and naturally, and there’s a barrier in her mind blocking her at every turn. X’hrun Tia’s red magic has proven promising in whittling it down—even though his idea of mentorship makes her teeth ache and her head hurt—but she has a long way to go before her magic will be ready for combat. For now, it is easier and faster to punch her problems than it is to cast a single spell, as Thancred keeps reminding her.

At least Hamon would be proud of her.

“—what do you know of the art of our astrologians?”

“Not much. I thought astrologians were healers?”

“They are, but that is simply one aspect of their gifts.” He pauses, his gaze wandering across the sky. Something has drawn her attention, but there are too many stars to figure out what. “With their understanding of the constellations, they can dip into the celestial currents like drawing water from a stream, and perhaps even chart fate itself.”

“Fate? I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No? Their readings have steered Ishgard away from disaster more times than I can count.”

“You could also call that luck. Or putting two and two together from objective observation.”

“A skeptic, I see.”

She shrugs. “There is powerful aether to be found in the celestial currents, I don’t deny that. They could supply a very powerful mage. But predict fate? No one can. No one should.”

“Many find comfort in knowing what lies ahead.”

“And what if you don’t like what lies ahead? Do you do everything in your power to avert it, only to have it happen anyway? Or do you stand back and accept it, because it was always destined to happen?”

Aymeric stiffens. Slowly, he releases her hand and disentangles his fingers from hers. “I am going to impart something to you, Aureia,” he says quietly. “Something that should be saved for our briefing tomorrow morn, but it is the true reason behind my journey here. Believe what you will about fate—it is not in my interests to attempt to change your mind—but our astrologians have observed alarming changes in the heavens. The dragon star waxes unnaturally bright, and that in tandem with an increase in Dravanian activity points towards the resurrection of Midgardsormr.”

She blinks. The giant dragon carcass in Mor Dhona? “But… how…?”

“I do not know, nor do I want to know. I fear there is much we do not understand about Dravanians, either through our own failings or secrets that our forefathers sought to hide from us. Regardless, we cannot allow it to waken. Unfortunately, the Holy See will not see fit to send our knights to Mor Dhona while Dravanian forces hound us day and night.”

“Your people need our help.”

“And yours need ours.” He meets her eyes and takes a step back. A cool breeze washes over her in the wake of his presence, as if his proximity was keeping her warm. Suddenly, she feels quite foolish sitting here atop the parapet. “An alliance between Ishgard and the Eorzean city-states is not a possibility the Holy See will allow. But I believe we can begin to take the steps necessary to forge a lasting bond, even if it must be done in secrecy. The Archbishop sees much, but he does not see all. Change is coming for us, Ishgardian, Eorzean, and Dravanian alike. I am certain of it.”

She nods. “That’s something we can agreed on.”

Aymeric smiles. Bowing slightly, he extends a hand and gestures for her to take it. She grips it and he sweeps her off the parapet. For a brief moment she is weightless, her hair flying about her as she sails through the air and into his arms. The next, she is back on solid ground, her boots connecting with the stone walkway as he gently sets her down. She swallows hard, uncertain whether to laugh or not, and draws back.

“Well, then,” she says awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I should say goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mistress Malathar.”

Turning her back on him, she walks stiffly to the end of the battlements and vanishes through the door, the memory of his hand on her shoulder and his fingers guiding hers across the heavens bringing a flush to her cheeks. Round and round she goes, her thoughts tumbling over each other as she descends the turret’s circular staircase. It was nothing. A kind gesture from a future ally. She doesn’t know him and he doesn’t know her, he has no reason to find her so…

Never mind.

Besides, she doesn’t have time for such distractions.

Grumbling to herself and cursing Haurchefant for meddling in her private affairs, she storms through the door at the base of the turret and stalks back to her bedroom in a huff, keen to put Aymeric de Borel out of her mind.

[cobaltjpeg]

Are You Positive?

welcome to hell

ao3 link

He makes his way down the uneven trail to catch up, landing his way at his own side and dragging his eyes to where the flashlight beam focuses. It’s pointed up, its circle of light framing the subject like a portrait, nailed into the flaky bark of a nearby tree. In his periphery he can see the pale ghosts of other iterations, scattered in a radius all around them, all pinned to the trees like- Like a child’s art on the refrigerator, celebrated for all to see. Sock stares at the doodle in red crayon, maybe a mouse or maybe a dog, the connected shapes that make its body oblong and a little bit wavy. He feels something sink inside of him.

warnings: violence, mentions of animal violence & murder & suicide

the nights are lovely, dark and deep but i'll appear when you're asleep you'll wake up with a sudden hurt with mouth and nose all full of dirt

- the woods, san fermin

The blood is sticky underneath his shoes. It had made way for their soles as it flowed, the bastardized parting of a red sea, and it’s been a long time since Sock moved his limbs. It’s not the subject material that’s a shock. Maybe he would have been cool and clearheaded if he had been knowing and conscious. His mother’s fingers used to clutch an ankle, but they’ve since slipped weakly onto the hardwood, palm up and fingertips curled like the legs of a dead spider. His father’s are red from fighting back.

If he’s going to kill a person, at least let him remember it. Come on.

He tries to be that lighthearted about it, and the chuckle comes out, but it’s offkey somehow.

“Perk up, buddy, what’s wrong?” says the Sock on the kitchen table.

Well, that’s not supposed to be there.

“Uhhh,” says the real Sock. “This isn’t real, is it?”

His reflection wipes a fleck of blood off his cheek, and the result is a larger smear that peters out near the corner of his mouth. He’s only seen himself in mirrors and the reflections of puddles that’ll give you dysentery if you drink them. It’s weird to see himself this way, somehow more pathetic, just a kid grinning sideways, crooked down to the teeth. The stains on his sweater, the rust on his jeans, they don’t make that go away. Is that what he looks like right now? Rather, what he looked like. This is both today and several days ago, and the person in front of him is both protagonist and antagonist, a flurry of contradictions for the inside of the boy’s too-fast head. The point is that he doesn’t recognize himself.

“Coulda at least remembered the good parts. I mean, it was basically not worth it.”

“That’s what I was just thinking,” he says, and finally he unsticks his shoes from their rooted spot in the congealing mess. Sock steps over it and when he makes his way onto the clean floorboards, the tracks solidify themselves over the wood grain. It’s ruining the shine that still catches in the dim lamplight from the living room, the kitchen half bathed in warmth and half in shadow, mixing into greys that fall across the bodies on the floor and on the imposter in front of him. The floor still smells like cleaner from the last time Mom mopped.

“That it wasn’t worth it?”

“Yeah?”

“Ssshhhhshshsh! That’ll get you in trouble.”

Sock’s arms cross over his chest. His other self leans back on his palms.

“That’s not what I meant. What I meant to say is-”

A gasp rips out of the kid’s lungs, stolen from his diaphragm like a hand had reached down his throat and yanked it out. He’s been suckerpunched in the chest.

He’s in a grave, looking up.

Somewhere in between his ribs, it feels cold. He’s holding something tight in both his hands, though the muscles are just starting to lose their grip.

Sock stares up at the boy who means to bury him, and when he smiles back down, the crinkle of his eyes looks more like a cringe, like he wants to close them but he’s fighting against it. The stars cluster together and lean in to get one last peek of what’s about to happen, and it’s something familiar, the memory of looking up from this angle and realizing that the smattering of twinkles in the sky looked more beautiful tonight than it ever had before.

“Can we just be honest with each other? What’s the point in lying? It’s just the two of us here, and you might as well come clean, or it’s gonna be a lot harder down the road when you finally realize you can’t do it. When you get fired. What happens then, do ‘ya know? ‘Cause what I think is you’re gonna die, and you’re not gonna wake up ever again. And I don’t wanna die, Sock.”

This again. Something must sit on his torso that he can’t see, because breathing is such a labor. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, because he’s never had any trouble in the past, Hell, his clothes are still stained and he holds the knife that - ah, that’s what’s in his hands.

The pain clutches the knife and twists it. The pain grabs Sock himself and twists him like a dish towel till he stops running red and he feels like he’s going to tear in two, the fault line running straight through his center. Past it, there’s still this thread of incredulousness, because the proof of who he is has spanned over years of hunting tiny animals and driving sharp things into the soft shells of their bodies, chasing away their warmth and performing autopsies on the leftovers. His palms have been red since they were tiny, fitting against his own with soft spindly fingers that only reach so far. There is no scrubbing them clean, his mother’s already tried it countless times, taking the brush to the evidence under his nails and to the crevices while she fought back her tears. She washed them between hers like he was a toddler again, a tactile example of how to be a human being. Throughout year eight, year ten, twelve and fifteen, she still held them between hers under the white light and the cold bathroom faucet, and all the while she believed that someday he could do it himself. The point is not that he never could.

It’s that he never would. He writhes weakly among the dirt and the crawling beetles that he would have once pulled apart, grits his teeth and feels the cold sweat take over his skin, and wonders: Now, when his eyes open from being wrenched shut, will the night look beautiful again? Has he inched close enough to the end to miss it before it's gone?

Is this what Jonathan will feel, what he might look for or think about? Does Jonathan remember when his mother washed his hands while he stood on some tiny stool, too small to reach the sink otherwise?

When he opens his eyes, Sock 2.0 is blocking the view.

“I don’t wa-” He wheezes, catching his breath, trying again. “I don’t wanna die either.”

“We’re the same person, dude.”

“I’m good at killing things,” the kid’s words all slur together, “doesn’t matter if they’re people I like. I just gotta get back into it. Just got used to…not doing it.”

“Dude-”

Other Sock’s sigh is long and dramatic before he continues. “I’m not telling you to do it, I’m telling you you’re not going to. Hey man, I know you. Remember what I just said? We gotta figure out a new plan.”

Sock lays silently. He just wishes he’d move out of the way. The second Sock continues.

“I can help you out of here. It won’t hurt anymore, but not until you’re willing to listen to me.”

Sock likes those lizards that he can hold up by their tail and grab by their body before it comes off, a neat little defense mechanism. He’s partial to the baby bunnies that the neighborhood cats catch from their nests and pack, wet black eyes blinking, across yards and concrete. He’s partial to the neighborhood cats. He loves lost puppies with their clumsy steps and the way they wrestle with your shoelace until you trip and roll around in the grass, tail wagging like a helicopter rotor while you fend off their soft mouths. Misses the dogs that are a bit too scruffy and walk across the road with too much confidence, ‘cause they’ve done it before so many times that they almost forget the danger. He used to covet them for the way they yipped and bowed their bodies as soon as they realized you wouldn’t kick them, how they followed quick at your heels. How they forgot about the danger.

It doesn't matter if he likes any of them, and it never did.

But there were times where he hesitated; he can't say that there weren't. Sock takes a heavy, thick breath.

His fingers crawl up to the knife and use the last of their strength, tendons flexing around the handle, to pull the blade free. As soon as it budges, the pain begins to unravel as though it were radiating from the metal itself, and when he slides it all the way free the wound closes, leaving nothing but the fleeting remainder of the feeling.

The other kid leans down and grips Sock’s clammy hand, dragging him up through the grave till he clambers his way to the top.

“Can I wake up now?”

“Nah, I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

“Hey! I think I’m ready for that, and I’m also me, so I know what I’m talking about!” A frustrated, growling sound of agony crawls up out of his throat, running his fingers through his hair before he shoves his hat back down. “Besides, I’d really rather you not keep telling me how I’m not gonna do my own job - that I do well.”

His double stands still while the wind nudges the flaps of his hat against his shoulder, saying nothing.

“I’m not gonna argue about it,” he says eventually.

“Oh, but apparently we have to, since you won’t-”

The woods near Sock’s house were never this close, but they stand tall and dark and looming above the two teenagers. He hadn’t noticed the flashlight in the other boy’s hand before, or maybe it was never there, but regardless his other hand is clamped down on Sock’s wrist and the switch flips on, the beam shooting off into the gloom while he leads him through the treeline. He tries to dig his heels into the earth just to be difficult, but his other self is nothing if not determined, and he drags him squabbling into the darkness, tripping over wet piles of fallen leaves gathered on the floor till he straightens up his gait. Now walking obediently, he still stops to traipse carefully through tangled weeds or free his shirt from a stickerbush, but he doesn’t trail too far behind his double. The other Sock walks confidently down the path, but he can’t help but notice that his fist is still clenched at his side and his smile has run away from his face, going missing somewhere.

Sock feels a tug at his ankle, almost tripping for the tenth time since just entering this place, and lets out another far-from-fearsome growl when he whips around to disentangle his leg from another thorny vine.

It takes him a minute, but when he turns back, the other kid is farther up the path, rooted to the spot. He makes his way down the uneven trail to catch up, landing his way at his own side and dragging his eyes to where the flashlight beam focuses. It’s pointed up, its circle of light framing the subject like a portrait, nailed into the flaky bark of a nearby tree. In his periphery he can see the pale ghosts of other iterations, scattered in a radius all around them, all pinned to the trees like- Like a child’s art on the refrigerator, celebrated for all to see.

Sock stares at the doodle in red crayon, maybe a mouse or maybe a dog, the connected shapes that make its body oblong and a little bit wavy. He feels something sink inside of him.

A long, sticklike lizard in green. A rabbit in a field of maybe daffodils or sunflowers or dandelions, the sun peeking out from the corner. A dog, another dog, and a dog after that. Planes and trains and cars. A bit more robust, a doodle of an orange cat, but above its body reads stiff letters he’d had to have help spelling out:

T A N G E R I N E

He knows that one. Doesn’t remember the doodle, but he can recall the way her fur felt through his fingers, how the pattern on her side was one huge swirl that reminded him of a lollipop. Her thick body would find itself sprawled out on his driveway every sunny day, the nextdoor neighbor’s but he didn’t mind sharing, and every sunny day Sock would find himself kneeling beside her, fingers walking down her soft purring form. She had one extra toe on her front left foot. He loved her. She was the first animal he had ever hurt, twisting her ankle just a little too much in his upset hand when he didn’t want her to run away from him, and he hadn’t understood that he could do that - that he could make a lasting impact because her bones were tiny in comparison, that her tiny networks of flesh and nerves and tendons could ever have to reconnect because of something he had done himself. And so easily.

When his mother had explained that he hurt her, he didn’t get it. Sock just knew that Tangerine now kept her distance, dipping out of the way when his hands got too close to her legs, to anything he could take hold of and pull, far after her leg began to pad on the ground again like nothing ever happened. A reminder that it did happen, which Sock would have forgotten entirely otherwise, but every time her paw twitched out of his way it was revisited. She was being so silly and selfish, worried about something that happened days and days and days ago.

When Sock broke his ankle falling out of a tree he’d been too bold not to climb, the first reason he cried was not necessarily because of the pain. It was because, looking up at the blue sky from the bottom, his first thought was that this was how he hurt her. His first thought was that he understood.

A shock of pain spasms through his chest, and Sock grasps at the spot, crumpling in on himself. It releases its hold on him soon, but the echo of its ache still radiates through his body like a ghost still haunting a house.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t hurt anymore!”

He picks himself back up, throwing his scathing, horrified look at his other version. The flashlight beam is fixed above him, still staring at Tangerine, and he can swear he hears a sniffle before it falls away.

“From the knife, yeah.”

This time Sock is the one to grab his doppelganger's wrist and drag him off into the darkness, determined to find another place. He passes by a glimpse of a tree with fridge magnets somehow sticking, spelling out S O C K in blue and pink and orange and green. When he passes the picture of himself between his two parents, he walks faster.

"You listen to me, okay?" He throws the other kid up against one of the thick, crooked trunks, and his back lands against it with a thump. Sock's finger juts hard into his sternum. "I get that you're self-doubt or whatever, and you're trying to get me to feel it, but I'm sick of this! We are a murderer, we kill people, that's something we like to do! How do you not see that?"

His doppelganger's head lolls back against the tree trunk, and when his unfocused eyes eventually find him, his smile is weak and weary.

"You're right. You win there, we kill people."

"So, what, you still think I'm a good person?"

"Just tell me you don't wanna do it."

"I wanna do it right now!"

"That's aallll you gotta do," Other Sock continues.

Sock reels back and punches him with his scrawny fist. Then he snatches the flashlight and marches off into the forest.

There's a traintrack that snakes in a squiggly line across the trail ahead, a Christmas present from when he was seven. He steps over the chugging train when it heads his way. It feels like his insides are being torn to rags, his stomach turning like it's in a dryer cycle, then pulled apart like little sausage links. He passes by a treehouse and makes sure not to look at the old friend in the window. Over and over, reminders of things he'd buried, dug up the same way that he'd clawed his way out of the grave. Incessant despite the fact that their fate had already been reached, the drawings thrown away and the cat six feet under.

When the trail turns into dusty asphalt driveway marked with a collage of sidewalk chalk, Sock sighs and pauses, his legs tired, his heart aching. He sits down next to a sketchy rainbow, neon still standing out inside the gloom. Sock pulls his knees in, closing his eyes for a long time, hoping that if he just sits here long enough he'll wake up.

He knows his double is standing there before he opens them. He looks at the outstretched hand, then at the smiling kid who offers it, the rim around his eye turning marbled purple.

He takes it.

"I'm not doubt, you know. I mean, I guess I am, but that's not the main thing."

The moonlit lawn is lined by flower beds riddled with miniature statues of gnomes. They water the flowers, push tiny wheelbarrows, sit on mushrooms and play between the petunias. He remembers every one his father had ever placed in their cart, asking his opinion each time, adhering strictly to Sock's final verdict. His eyes cut away, and when his doppelganger opens the door, they find that spot between the kitchen and the living room instead. So close to the doorway. Feet away. Their bodies are gone as though nothing had ever happened, and before he walks in, one half of himself wishes his parents might be in their usual places, happy to see him. The other thinks that might be his worst nightmare.

"I'm your conscience."

His conscience. The house is so silent except for the sound of both their voices as the two of them enter, Sock making sure to step over the spot his parents had lain as though his foot still might connect with a body. In the dim outstretch of the living room lamplight, he can't see the mess, but can still feel it sticking to his shoes again.

"You're not listening, I don't care what you are. I don't even believe you."

"Fine. Then kill me."

"What?"

Hands on his hips, Sock whips his head to stare at his double like he's insane. At this point, his patience is a thread that's wearing thin, so maybe this is the best way to end it. Maybe it'll be stress relief - but he wants it, and he's waiting on it, and something about that is offputting to him.

"Come on, prove your point, Sock. Kill another person. Get out of the dream!" The other kid pushes him, hard, and his spine thumps against the back of the living room chair. He catches himself from spilling over, but he still inches backward from the double's spoiled smile, from his grit teeth leaking anger and disgust and tiredness all over him. "Kill me."

Sock can feel his face taking on the same expression as the double. He wants to run. He wants to be away from himself.

The second Sock makes a strangled sound, because he thwacks him in the shin with the edge of his shoe hard enough for him to shudder and bend. He shoves him, unstable, onto the floor and stands over the kid's windless form, scooping himself up from the floor like a bug trying to get off of its back. So many atrocities in this cold house caused by him of all things, a wiry boy with messy hair and a high-pitched laugh. Sock's not the typical type you see on the news, the mugshot of a disturbed kid staring back at you with hollow eyes. He guesses he's got the smile down, but not the lack of warmth and life, like a reanimated corpse that forgot it was ever a human. Funny that he thinks he's better than them. But he's always been a person, even if he has the animal sense of prey. Looking down at the boy in front of him, it's just weird that he seems almost normal. Is it just this dream version? Is there something Sock can't see about himself, this iteration inside of this body and not his reflection staring back? Perhaps there's something about himself that the dream won't let him see, or that his mind blocks out even in real life.

He doesn't know. He doesn't think that he'll ever figure it out. The kid wearing his face is using it to laugh.

"You coulda stabbed me," he says, and Sock can hear his grin without looking down, but he watches it grow in bubbling anger anyways. "But you didn't."

At some point Sock's own breathing has become shallow and ragged while the other boy's stutters out between chokes of laughter.

"Won't you ever shut the Hell up?"

His voice peaks high and worn, his fist shakes as it clenches tight, and his punch lands right across his doppelganger's nose. The other Sock's head bows to the side, a couple drops of blood spattering on the waxed floor.

"Why won't you just quit it? It's not gonna happen, you're the wrong one, this is so fucking stupid! You want someone to think you can be a good person, but it's not gonna be me, and I don't even think it's you. Even if I didn't kill Jonathan. I'm sorry dude, but this isn't helping anything, so why don't you wake up?"

He just gives him that smile, streaked with red.

Sock punches it off of him one more time with a grunt of pure desperation before he turns and rushes away, his breath catching in his closing throat, covering his mouth with a hand when it fails to keep down a sob. His body doubles over like it racks him with physical pain instead of the wave of psychological sensation. Shame. His body stumbles against the upholstery of the couch, letting the knife slip out of his grip, and when it does, the residue of rust begins to soak into the cream threads that his parents tried hard to keep clean. There is the fleeting thought that they'd be mad at him, or at least it would make them sad enough to pause and hang their heads before they tried to carefully scrub it back to its normal color. They never really got mad.

They never even got mad.

Shame.

He can hear the second Sock pick himself up from the floor. There is the soft sound of his footsteps tapping on the wood and his clothes rustling, and when he gets close enough, Sock's unfocused vision is fixed between the dark spots soaking his front, at how there's a new addition now from his dribbling nose.

"You have two options here. Kill me or tell me you can't."

Sock's hand isn't stained when he looks down and reaches again for the knife, but it doesn't have to be, the rust sunk deep into his bones. He grabs it and pushes himself off the side of the couch before he can tell himself not to. Grabs the second Sock by the collar of his shirt and drags him so that he can press him against the living room wall and hold the blade poised at the exact trajectory to sink straight into his heart. His twin squeezes his eyes shut, and he sees the tiny tear that spills its way down his cheek.

He knows the exact pain that he's about to experience. The harsh impact of the steel feeling more like he'd been hit by something solid and thick than a thin, sharp piece of metal. Every centimeter of the torn flesh aching and burning and screaming and begging, but too late to undo the wound. This Sock doesn't have stars to look for, only the popcorn ceiling.

Only some dreaming boy who has no business with a knife.

Had his father begged in his mind for the roof of the house to blow away, letting the constellations wink their condolences down to him before he left? Had his mother wished to hold his hands between hers one last time so she could wash the blood off, give him one last chance?

Is that what he wants, one last time? One last hope?

Wide-eyed in horror at a revelation that to anyone else would be a relief, Sock lets the knife drop out of his uncurling fingers. Both hands reach out to grip the other boy - himself - and he makes impressions in his shoulderblades when his voice breaks in panic. Fingers raise up to grip his own, but he barely notices through the wrenching in his chest, just the same as if he'd driven the blade.

"I don't wanna do it!"

"Don't wanna do what?"

Beyond his watery eyes, Jonathan holds him at an arm's length in confusion. The indigo shadows of the bedroom are quiet and still. Sock had curled at the very edge of the bed, as per his permission, as long as he didn't try any funny stuff and kept his back turned. Now he clings to him. In his mind, the dream is still falling away, but there's no rust on his clothes and his parents are far off in their cold graves, walled off from the moonlight that barely peeks through the curtains. Jonathan's lava lamp glows a thin ghostly green.

"Oh," says his small voice, barely a yelp in the darkness. "I didn't - It was just a dream."

"Are you...okay?" The other boy squints through his blond bangs, messy from sleep. "Can you stop grabbing me, though? It really hurts."

Sock's hands zip back to fold across his chest, clutching at his shirt and staring unfocused at a space near Jonathan's collarbone. He tries to keep quiet, he really does. But the result isn't exactly ideal - it's a heaving series of sobs that feature his choking throat and his broken voice, clutching tighter and tighter at the spot beneath his shirt that doesn't beat anymore, a hollow figment of a heart. Why does it still work if it isn't real, just enough to feel? Sock sniffles and flinches with each involuntary, annoying rack of his body while his hands slide across his face, hiding it from Jonathan so he can't see the wet running down the pores, can't see the ugly cringe of his features and the way the tears make his eyes puffy and red. He insists that this is his own private breakdown, closing the doors inches from the teenager's face without even moving from his grasp. When Jonathan tightens against his shoulders again, a couple brief squeezes to remind him that he's there, it pulls Sock's senses forward just enough to cause a pause in the hiccups.

"Yeah, I'm really awesome," come the muffled squeaks through the barrier of his hands.

"Alright, that was a stupid question, but - uhhh, I don't know how to fix you? Just breathe? Please just breathe."

Sock lets in a struggling, rasping breath that leaves the other boy cringing. But, hey, it does make him feel better if only slightly.

"Okay, now just...look at me?" When two of Sock's fingers part, his wild eye stares back at Jonathan's uncertainty. "What was your dream about?"

The million dollar question. Sock clamps his mouth shut because lying to him just feels wrong, but there is no way he can possibly tell him the full truth and nothing but. To say it out loud, not in a dream, is a mistake and he knows it. Yeah, sure, this all isn't going to end with life draining out in a quiet bathroom on some cold midnight, but he's still got to keep up the act, has to keep it together except in discussions with his subconscious and well-timed whispers while the man downstairs turns his head, occupied by his other lost souls. How closely does the Devil listen?

To say any piece of the truth, actually, makes his insides shrivel.

"It was before I died," he says, peeling his fingers away from his face after they wipe most of the moisture away. "I wanted-"

Sock pauses for a long time, his arms going limply in front of him, rumpling the duvet between the two boys. Slowly, indecisively, Jonathan's hands loosen from their grip on him, and one floats to rub just barely against his back. Sock's eyes flick to the other boy immediately, but his own are focused on some wrinkle of his shirt and steadfastly refusing to break contact with it. It doesn't matter - it's more than he'd ever expected, and it's definitely more than he'll ever deserve. Another tear wets the pillow, biting the inside of his lip hard so that it doesn't wobble embarrassingly.

"I wanted to change something, but it was way too late," he whispers into the night, solidifying it as truth.

"Do you wanna tell me what it was?" Jonathan's voice is a mumble, his eyes a quick glance in his direction.

"Myself?"

They stare at each other.

"Yourself."

Sock doesn't dare to elaborate. He thinks of soft paws and sidewalk chalk and garden gnomes. After a moment, the other boy gains confidence in the rhythm of circles he rubs into his back, and the warmth brings a hum to his spine, something that begins to dim the harshness of regret in his eyes.

"You're annoying, but I have to admit, I really don't know what I'd change. I think I'd even miss the part that makes you weird. And that's, like, a huge secret, so don't tell anybody." The blond boy grins at him, and it's a bit tired, but it's genuine. "I dunno what you did, but whatever you were freaking out about in there, it can't be too bad. Besides, I'm pretty sure you have all the time in eternity to move past it?"

Sock's mouth can't help but turn into a wobbly grin, disbelieving and genuine, overjoyed. He stares across the warm bedsheets like he hangs the stars, clutching the compliment to his chest like it's a lifeline, and it radiates something into his core that he hasn't felt in forever. His only reply is a shaky laugh, uneven notes singing from his tight voicebox while he shifts to make himself more comfortable against the pillows.

"Especially since you have a lot of free time in your work schedule. Since you, you know, don't do shit ever?" He flicks the kid on the nose.

Face scrunching, Sock presses himself back, swatting away Jonathan's invading hand.

"Dude, just you wait. I'm just getting starte- Jonathan! Hey, quit it!"

Hope.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 3

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K

warnings: period-typical conservative values... bechdel test failure 💔

author's note: i am a liar. this isn't the end. the finale will be the next one... im sorry 😭

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The small candle flickers in the corner of the room, casting faint, dancing shadows across the stone walls. The soft snores of the other maids fill the space around you, their breathing steady, their bodies resting in untroubled sleep. But you are awake. Kneeling at the edge of your thin, rough bed, the worn fabric of your nightdress brushing against your knees, you clasp your hands tightly together in silent prayer.

The small idol of Ethelion rests before you—a crude wooden carving of your making, stained with the blood you shed clumsily cutting into your flesh over and over in the process, no taller than your hand. It’s a far cry from the towering statues of Him that once surrounded you, carved from marble and adorned in gold. Those statues commanded awe, reverence. This one, however, looks small and sad, like the devotion of the people who crafted it was just enough to create something that could barely hold the likeness of a god.

Your hands are trembling, the beads of your prayer bracelet rattling softly with the movement. You take a shaky breath, glancing around the room as if to make sure no one has stirred. The air is stifling, the thick warmth of the shared space pressing down on you like a weight. The scent of sweat and old straw clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of the single candle burning beside you.

How different this is from the temples you once knelt in. The hallowed halls of Ethelion, with their lofty ceilings and polished floors, where incense filled the air and your prayers echoed off the sacred stones. There, the light streamed through stained glass in brilliant colors, casting a holy glow over everything it touched. Here, the room is dim, cramped, and suffocating. The candle’s flicker feels more like a reminder of how small the world has become around you.

You bow your head, trying to steady your breath, the whisper of your prayer barely audible over the steady rise and fall of the other girls' breathing. “Ethelion, guide me,” you murmur, though the words feel strained, thin. “Forgive my wandering heart.”

The idol doesn’t respond, of course. It’s nothing more than carved wood, far removed from the grand images of your god that once surrounded you. Still, you pray. It’s all you know. All you should do. Must do.

The sound of a creaking bedframe startles you, and your heart lurches. You glance over your shoulder to see one of the maids, Sarah, shifting in her sleep. Her face is calm, untroubled by the worries that gnaw at your mind. You envy her.

Biting your lip, you turn back to the idol, lowering your head once more. But the words are harder to find now. Your thoughts are too loud, too tangled, too restless.

How long has it been since you truly felt His presence? Pouring into your veins like sunlight every single time you reached out to Him?

You were supposed to be His chosen one. The vessel through which His light would shine. But that light has dimmed, and you don’t know if it’s because He has abandoned you, or if you have failed Him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe you were never worthy to begin with.

Your fingers curl around the prayer beads, the cool touch of them grounding you, but they feel foreign now. When you were the Saintess, they were a symbol of your connection to Ethelion, a reminder of your place in the world. Now, they’re just relics of a past life—one that feels more distant with each passing day.

“Why did you leave me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, a breathless whisper that hangs in the air, fragile and desperate.

You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the bitterness that rises in your chest. You’re not supposed to question Him. You’re supposed to trust, to believe without doubt, without hesitation. That was your purpose, the sole reason for your existence.

Your hands drop into your lap, the weight of your own thoughts too heavy to hold up anymore.

Is this what your life has become? Praying to a god who's turned away from you, living in the shadows of who you once were? You glance at the idol again, the dim candlelight making it seem even more pathetic, more distant.

There’s no divine presence here. Just you, alone, in the dark.

The flicker of the candle casts long shadows across the small room, its light barely reaching the corners. You can hear the rustle of straw from the other beds as the girls shift in their sleep, unaware of your turmoil. This space is so different from the serene, almost divine solitude of the temple. Here, you’re surrounded by people—by warmth, by the soft murmur of life. But you’ve never felt more isolated.

Being the Saintess had its burdens, but at least you knew where you belonged. You knew your purpose. Now, you’re adrift, clinging to a god who might not even remember you. Who might have never cared to begin with.

But oh, how you love Him. How you ache for Him. Even in this moment, when grief threatens to choke you, the longing in your heart burns brighter. It stings your eyes, your throat. How desperately you want to belong again, to feel His light filling you.

It's you. You're the problem. Not Him.

You close your eyes, pressing your palms together so tightly they ache. If you just pray hard enough—if you just focus—you’ll feel Him again. You’ll find that connection, that sense of peace that once filled your every breath.

Leon's wrong.

You've grown accustomed to hard work, to physical exertion. It's far better than the hollow nothingness that's left in the aftermath of losing the divinity you'd been given. Yes, the job is strenuous. Exhausting. But it keeps you from falling back into the endless spiral of self-doubt. You're not miserable here. You're... content. As content as a person in your situation can be. And that's not nothing.

Besides, it's the best thing that could have happened to you. Compared to the streets, compared to the empty abbey in which you dwelled alone, this is a blessing. You cannot deny that. To be able to bathe and dress and eat is such an immense gift. Ethelion hasn't left your side, not for one second.

...went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know.

You press your forehead to the cool stone wall beside your bed, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You thought you could find solace in prayer, in the familiar rhythms of devotion. But no matter how many words you whisper, no matter how tightly you press your hands together, his words keep tearing at the fragile seams of your heart.

The memories rise unbidden. Days spent fasting until your vision blurred, your body trembling under the weight of divine obligation. Nights spent kneeling on cold marble floors, your prayers stretching into the early hours, the ache in your legs a reminder that your suffering was part of the duty. Every blessing you gave, every drop of blood shed from the blade into the mouths of those in need, every prayer you offered, was a part of the divine plan. You had accepted it. You had embraced it. You believed in it.

Leon's whisper sneaks up into your mind, like a snake coiling around your thoughts, And it still wasn't enough.

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away, but they cling to you like thorns. There had been a time when you thought you were content, when you believed your life had purpose. Even after losing your title, even when you were stripped of the robes, the veil, and everything that once defined you, you told yourself you were free.

I can still be of use, you had thought. I can find a way to live the way I used to. Perhaps Ethelion had granted you mercy. Gifted you with a path to follow that didn't lead to complete disgrace, to ruin.

Your eyes sting, but no tears come. You've cried too much already. Instead, you pull the thin blanket around your shoulders, huddling closer to the wall and shutting your eyes tight, clutching the idol tight. It's as close as you'll get to feeling the divine now, a piece of wood cut to look like your God, reduced to a mere object to be held.

You miss the simplicity of being used. The serenity. The fulfillment. You miss knowing that your suffering meant something, that your blood, your body, your soul, served a higher purpose, and that's all you had ever desired. And now, all that seems to be left of you is this empty husk, chasing fragments of memories like fireflies on an endless summer evening.

You glance at the other maids, their forms barely visible under their threadbare blankets, their breaths even and untroubled. They sleep so soundly, unaware of the turmoil that grips you.

You envy them. You envy the clarity of their lives, the ease with which they move through their days. For them, there is no loss of grand purpose, no heavy weight of fallen grace. They scrub floors, they mend clothes, they serve meals—and they rest. They don’t carry the burden of a god’s silence.

You thought you were free when you came here. You thought you had left the life you had in the temple behind. But Leon saw through you, saw the truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself. You haven’t left. Not truly. You’ve simply traded one form of servitude for another. For the sake of feeling whole again.

You wonder if he can see through you. If he can pick apart all the pieces you are trying to hold together. If he can see the cracks in the image you try so hard to project, the invisible scars that have been healed by Ethelion's hand ritual after ritual. But then, he doesn’t even know who you are, not really. Not like he thinks he does.

You don't know who you are, either. You've only been the Saintess, always guided by someone else, fulfilling duties for Ethelion. When the grace flowed through your veins, you were confident, firm. Calm. Resolute in the knowledge that you were the only one who could do what you did. Your mind clear as crystal. Then you lost everything. Or at least, everyone who recognized you. Your place in the world.

That's who Leon knows. He doesn't know anything of you, or the mortal who lived within you. No. He just sees you as the Saintess. Nothing more.

That's why marriage is the only way he can continue his duty as an Oathbreaker. He sees you as holy and elevated above others. And he needs to reconcile himself with what he thinks he failed to do, what he thinks he must fulfill for you, to atone for his sins. You understand. You were made to understand.

When you look at him, you can't help but see an echo of your former self, a kindred spirit bound by duty to your cause. He yearns to honor his promises, to fulfill his responsibilities, just as you once did.

Leon's a good man, with a noble heart. And his devotion is true. But it isn't because he loves you. It's because he pities you.

And you hate it. You hate it because you know you don't deserve this. This kindness. This sympathy. You're nothing but a shadow of what you used to be. A remnant of a time gone by. Your wings have been clipped. Your fate sealed. Yet here he stands, offering to take your broken, battered self in, to care for you, to cherish you, when that loyalty should belong to the new saintess. To the woman who will be able to keep his oaths intact and secure his salvation, who can guarantee his place in Ethelion's heaven.

His presence lingers like smoke from a burning log, impossible to dispel, choking the very breath from your lungs. You don't turn your head, but you know he's there, hovering at the door to the kitchen. A hush falls over the room as the servants freeze, caught between their tasks and this new development.

It isn't appropriate for a noble to be here, wandering the manor's halls uninvited, and yet... Leon seems unperturbed by the breach of social conduct, gazing about as though he were surveying his own grounds.

Finally, the silence is broken by a shuffle of footsteps, and the head maid comes forward, hands clasped together in respectful greeting. She keeps her eyes lowered, avoiding direct contact, but she inclines her head deferentially.

"Sir, how may we be of assistance?"

Leon glances over the room again, as though considering each of you in turn, and heaves a sigh. "I want to speak with her." He gestures toward you without looking at you specifically, focused on the head maid.

Your hands tighten around the cloth you're holding, wrinkling the fabric. He's talking about you, you know it. But your mind still drifts back to the previous night, to the tender expression in his eyes as he offered you everything on a platter, a feast spread out before a starving beggar. Your chest constricts painfully, and you suck in a deep breath, doing your best to calm your racing thoughts.

"Ah..." The head maid hesitates, clearly caught off-guard. "Of course, sir. If I may inquire about the reason?"

"Please don't concern yourself with it."

"Surely there must be some misunderstanding here?" The head maid counters gently, frowning slightly. "If she has done something wrong..."

"...no, that is not the case." Leon interrupts before she finishes speaking, his tone clipped.

He stares directly at you now, a piercing gaze that makes you feel like you're a mouse beneath the paw of a cat, unable to break free. The entire kitchen seems to tense, everyone aware of how out of place and inappropriate this encounter is, waiting for your response.

A shudder runs down your spine, and you fight to suppress the impulse to curl in on yourself protectively, to make yourself as small and invisible as possible. Heat floods into your face, creeping up along the line of your neck to settle under the collar of your simple cotton dress. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive, pinching your skin uncomfortably, making sweat prickle along your hairline. Your palms are damp, but you don't dare wipe them on your skirt. It's improper to fidget. To let weakness show.

To be seen.

"I apologize," Leon continues after a moment's pause, seeming to recover his composure somewhat, "but there's something private that I'd like to discuss with her. And, uh...alone, please."

Another shiver wracks your frame. Goosebumps erupt over the back of your exposed arms, trailing up the length of your bare forearms. Your stomach roils nervously as all eyes swivel toward you, boring into the back of your skull, drilling holes straight through you. The room feels stifling. Overly hot and overwhelming, as though you're drowning in the heavy air. The taste of ash coats your tongue, and you struggle to swallow around the lump lodged in your throat. You wish you could disappear right now. Melting away and leaving nothing but a faint outline of yourself would be better than enduring the scrutiny of this moment.

The head maid takes a step back, and then another, backing up until she's standing near her colleagues, all of whom stare expectantly at you, waiting, and you can't jog quickly enough towards the door to escape the sudden oppressive atmosphere.

You hear him, quick steps matching yours as you push forward, and he places himself next to you, keeping the pace with effortless strides. The contrast between your hurried walk and his composed saunter is striking; the way his height and his strength tower over your frame, swallowing you whole with an instinctive reflex. But, unlike most men, he doesn't impose it upon you—at least, not intentionally.

"Saintess—"

The old name snaps you out of your momentary daze, and you halt in your steps, stopping to glare at him. "It's Saintess no longer."

For once, he falters, blinking. You imagine he wasn't expecting you to cut him off with such brusqueness, but hearing it used gives you an unpleasant jolt. You'd been called the same title for so long that your name was nothing more than a memory, a fading dream of what you once were. It's difficult to think of yourself as anything other than Saintess—it's hard to believe in what else you could have been in that past, without being granted such sacred gifts.

But now? Now it's something tainted with bitterness. Of what could have been, if your gifts hadn't faded like the last golden rays of sun melting into the ocean.

"Sorry. Forgive me," he murmurs quietly, looking oddly apologetic. And perhaps it's this display of genuine contrition that softens your resolve.

"Why did you seek me? Is this about what happened yesterday?"

It's subtle, but you catch a glimpse of shock in his eyes, the hint of widening in them. He clears his throat and says, "Yes. About that. I had some things I needed to clarify. Some questions."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that drags on, until it's filled with a sort of anticipation, a curious hope. You know the kind—the one that builds up within, swelling, threatening to burst out of confines. You know it well, because that feeling used to drive your prayers, your words murmured in fervent whispers, rising to a crescendo before crashing down, like a wave cresting into foamy seafoam before its ebb. But this is different. What compels him is entirely different.

"Questions? Such as?" You tilt your head curiously, trying to mask the wavering nerves. You're not used to having conversations like this, and even though his company should bring a sense of peace, it only makes your pulse flutter in nervous agitation. It's so strange to be the sole focus of someone else, and while the attention would have been coveted by your old self, now it feels uncomfortable, itchy, like something is crawling over your skin.

He glances around. The hallways are empty and quiet, but you're both alone in public, and he won't voice his thoughts unless you prompt him to. Your mind wanders to how easily he slipped into the background of the manor, hidden among the rows of people going about their day, so natural in the way he navigated the spaces around you.

So unlike how he acts around you.

Then, as if picking up on your mental whirling, he asks, "Are you happy here? Are you comfortable? I don't mean to pry, I'm just concerned that I..." He seems to fumble for words, like a child who lost his footing, then recovers, adding with haste, "I’m sorry my offer made you feel like I was degrading your position. That wasn’t the case at all."

A sigh escapes your lips. The apology brings no sense of relief or ease to your tension-ladened shoulders; rather, it leaves you feeling guilty. The shame of burdening him eats away at your gut, gnawing like a parasite growing into something vile inside you. His words from the day before replay in your ears—of the indignance at the thought of you serving, of you working as a servant.

Is this what this is? Him pitying your plight? Feeling as though it is his responsibility to 'right' your situation? It's a noble notion, but it isn't his to handle.

"You didn't offend me," you admit slowly. A part of you is afraid to meet his gaze, scared to see the pity in it. You have no doubt he means well—you could almost feel the sincerity emanating from his body, the kind that radiates from people who sincerely want the best for others, not out of an ulterior motive. You had encountered this type often, though it was in a more ceremonious setting. "Your intentions were noble."

"I'm glad." He offers a smile. A genuine, relieved one. Something blooms within you at the sight of it.

"...how is it that you’re permitted to stroll the halls as you wish?" You ask, raising your brows. It doesn't pass your notice, the way people would jump to action as soon as Leon walked in.

"Well, the Redfields are all familiar with me. I'm a guest. And not a particularly troublesome one."

"Indeed."

"So..."

His voice trails off, leaving the end of that statement hanging there, unsaid but nonetheless understood. A silence falls between you again. You can't say much about the other occupants, but even you are uneasy around Leon when he has that serious, unreadable expression.

And that's how he usually looks. With a little sadness, a touch of longing in his gaze. Maybe regret. But mostly, he wears this pensive look, as if he's lost in thought, deep in concentration, mulling over the words in his head.

Right now, his face is blank. Completely void of emotion. Just that somber stare, contemplating the situation in front of him. His expression would be unassuming and neutral if not for those troubled eyes, constantly flickering back and forth. It's frustratingly annoying, like he's weighing the options and can't decide which side he wants to go with.

Yet, you're fascinated at the same time. How his lashes flutter delicately, the creases forming between his brows as he ponders. All these little details, all of these signs, he is putting on display. Intentionally or otherwise. He used to be an open book, now it is closed, guarded and locked with no keys. You crave to peer at whatever lies within, but you've already seen glimpses. Fragments, snippets. Moments. Enough to stir your interest, though.

So when you hear him clear his throat, you find yourself glancing back up. Caught staring.

"If I may be so bold..." he begins, his tone betraying nothing. "Why stay here?"

You're taken aback by his frank question. So much for subtly.

"I don't understand..."

"I've learned that retired saintesses choose to become nuns at convents and dedicate their lives to prayer and acts of charity. Which is what I assumed you would have chosen." He crosses his arms, and you note that he has a very strong, muscled physique when the movement makes his arm and chest pop. It's distracting through his clothes, and it's making you very conscious of yourself and the differences between you both, even physically. "But here you are, doing labor that is deemed... less desirable. And I'm confused. Why is that?"

You shrug, averting your gaze. It's a difficult answer to provide, especially when you haven't given yourself the chance to contemplate it yet. But... maybe it's because he asked. It doesn't seem fair to brush him off, not when he's opened himself up so genuinely to you.

"Perhaps I am tired of prayers." That seems to startle Leon, so you continue with renewed bravery. "Is it that bad to want to experience the world, to understand humanity, instead of seclude myself away from it? And I can only do that by walking in their shoes."

The silence stretches out again, but the atmosphere doesn't feel stifling anymore. Instead, you find yourself breathing easier, leaning into the softness of it.

"Come," Leon says suddenly. He holds out his arm and gestures toward the end of the hallway. "Let me walk you to a place better suited for this conversation."

The thought of taking him up on it—of stepping away with him—doesn't horrify you like it would have yesterday. He's somehow more open now, his defenses slightly lower, his words more fluid, more casual. Relaxed. Like you're two old friends meeting for a pleasant stroll, reminiscing on times past. Or maybe just acquaintances getting to know each other better. Either way, it feels nice, and the thought warms your heart.

Something about this feels right. Natural. Almost as though it was meant to be.

And so, you loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you out of the narrow passageway and out into the sunshine. The bright morning light blinds you briefly, and you blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh contrast between indoors and outdoors.

Leon guides you towards a row of large stone benches facing the pond at the center of the garden, shielded from view of anyone walking nearby, providing the illusion of privacy. He motions for you to take a seat, and you do, scooting closer towards him as he settles beside you.

There is an indescribable tranquility about the scene before you: the sun shining down on the glistening water, the breeze rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees, the chirping of birds echoing around you. The warmth seeping through the fabric of your clothing envelops you, and you breathe deeply, relishing the fresh air. You've always been captivated by nature; there's an undeniable beauty in simplicity, in things unhindered by manmade restrictions. There's purity and innocence in it too, and you bask in the peacefulness of it all.

And with Leon beside you now, it... almost feels right. As though everything has clicked into place. As though it's meant to be like this. A shared moment. Between equals. Between people who matter to each other. You savor the feeling of normalcy in your veins, warming your cheeks, your stomach fluttering with nerves but also comfort.

This moment—this fleeting moment in time—is perfect.

There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. That much is certain.

"How are you finding life outside of the temple?" The question breaks through your haze of contentment, causing you to jerk up and turn your head in surprise.

Leon sits perfectly still beside you, watching you intently, and that pocket of small silence is striking enough for you to be confronted with how a splash of dark ink he is in the midst of the popping colors of the garden.

A long, midnight-black coat sweeps past his knees in a fluid motion, its tailored cut accentuating the figure with sharp, clean lines, the surface gleaming faintly in the light, as if woven with threads of shadow, and its cuffs and lapels are embroidered with fine golden patterns. Beneath the coat, a double-breasted vest, also black but subtly different in texture, wraps snugly around his strong torso. The vest is fastened with polished brass buttons that gleam with a soft, antique sheen, each button precisely aligned. A chain, slender and golden, drapes elegantly from the vest’s pocket, suggesting the presence of a pocket watch. At his throat, an indigo cravat is tied with meticulous care, its silky fabric mirroring the coat’s inner lining, and at its center is a dark jewel gleaming with understated brilliance. The trousers, pressed to perfection, follow the form of his legs with a tailored precision, and gloved hands, encased in supple black leather, complete the ensemble. The suit fits perfectly, and it looks impressive enough for your first guess to be that it is tailor-made. The overall effect is that of a man who commands power, presence, and authority, and the sharpness of his gaze emphasizes this impression even further.

A man dressed to impress, no doubt. For what occasion, you dare not ask. A court function, perhaps? You cannot help but wonder just how many layers there are in the clothing he wears beneath that coat—and how many hands were required to help him into such an elaborate outfit.

It's such a far cry from the white robes he wore as a paladin, with their simpler forms and design, yet it's equally elegant, in its own way.

"...is there something wrong?" Leon asks, catching you staring. He tilts his head to the side, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. "Was that the wrong question—"

"No. It's—fine. There's nothing wrong," you interject hastily, averting your eyes from his intense stare. Ogling him like that, out in the open, what is wrong with you! It's so unbecoming, so improper! "Life's... Life has been different. An adjustment, to say the least. I didn't know how to put it for a moment there, but... yes. It's been rather, uh..."

You trail off, your mind drawing a blank, unsure what word you're searching for. The sensation is awkward and unfamiliar, and you worry he might think poorly of your lack of eloquence, but he waits patiently, letting you stumble through it on your own.

Finally, you find your voice again, saying, "I enjoy it. Here, I mean. I came here hoping to gain some experience, learn the ways of humility. It's satisfying to be useful."

His expression grows contemplative, his eyes dark and unfathomable, but he doesn't speak. This close, you can smell the faint scent of perfume on his collar, the sweet aroma mingling with the crisp freshness of soap and dewy linen, mixed with something that's distinctly him, something you can't quite identify but makes your insides twist all the same.

"And before you say anything," you add, feeling a sudden rush of courage, "I know now, yes. That it's just a different path of servitude. But the difference is that I chose this. I could have become a nun as you said. I don't know, I... I guess I just needed some semblance of control. In the absence of Him, I could choose for myself for once."

"I suppose I can understand the feeling." He nods thoughtfully. His voice is gentle, understanding. And you find yourself wishing that he wouldn't act like this towards you—a woman who's just a mere maid. A nobody. "I've had to make that choice in His absence as well. Not exactly similar circumstances, but there are parallels to be drawn."

The admission stuns you momentarily, your lips parting in surprise, but your shock soon morphs into curiosity, and you lean closer, eager to hear more of him. "You're faring way better than me, I'd say, Sir Leon."

He laughs. It's low, rich, and smooth, like silk against your skin, and you nearly shiver. "You don't need to address me like that. Just 'Leon' is fine. My... former role isn't relevant to where I am now."

There's a touch of self-conscious humor to that remark. You've never heard him sound so playful, almost cocky—and certainly not with you—but it's refreshing. Almost comforting. "Of course." You shift in your seat, turning toward him so that your knee brushes against his. It's a small gesture, but it makes his whole leg jerk for some reason. "...may I ask, how are you adjusting?"

"Better, lately." A wistful smile plays about his lips, as if he's reflecting on fond memories. "The years haven't been easy... But they were necessary. They were worth it."

"To get where you are now?" you complete for him, your expression matching his, a mirror. "Why did you choose this new path, if I may inquire?"

For an instant, he freezes, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but he recovers quickly, his face remaining placid save for a brief flash of emotion that passes too quickly for you to decipher it. His gaze turns inward, focused on some point in space beyond you, and he lets out a breath. "That's a... heavy topic. One which I'm not sure we should discuss in public."

"Oh... My apologies," you blurt out, instantly regretting having been so direct. Of course it would be an inappropriate subject of conversation. What were you thinking? A former member of the Church blatantly questioning him about his oathbreaking, of all topics. You drop your gaze in shame. "I'm sorry, I overstepped. We can talk about something else if you wish. Something less personal. Anything. You can—if you want—ask me questions in return."

"Oh, no, please don't apologize," he interjects quickly, gently. His eyes meet yours once more, and although they're still guarded, there's also tenderness and reassurance behind them. "I don't mind sharing this story with you. There just needs to be another time and place for it. Is that alright?"

"...yes, yes, absolutely!" You nod vigorously, surprised at yourself for accepting his offer so eagerly, yet strangely excited about it nonetheless. You never would have expected a former paladin to invite you to talk to him, to spend time together... Though in truth, you hardly know anything about this man before you, other than his past deeds. The thought causes butterflies to flutter in your belly.

Leon chuckles softly at your reaction. "Wonderful."

Then his expression becomes serious again as he surveys your surroundings, pausing for several beats before speaking. When he does, his voice is calm, measured, and careful. "Back to you, then... You've mentioned you chose to do this of your own accord... Do you enjoy doing domestic tasks? Having your own space, your own things?"

"Most of those, I mean, uh... I don't have my own space, but I appreciate the accommodations here, so, yes." You give him a little smile. "Sharing a room doesn't allow for much ownership. About the work... I do enjoy it most days. Sometimes I grow tired but I keep at it. And the staff has taught me a lot, so I don't feel too clumsy. You should have seen me try my first laundry session—"

A cough cuts in, and you stiffen.

Turning around, you catch a group of maids hiding behind the hedge, peeking from their shelter with reddened faces. You wonder if they have been listening in on the two of you. Embarrassing. "...We should return to the main building. Before the gossips begin."

He hesitates briefly before nodding. You notice the tip of his ears redden before he pulls away, leaving your side colder than before, and offers you his arm once more. You loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you back onto the cobbled path back towards the house.

His pace is leisurely as he leads you toward the manor proper, guiding you along with ease. Every so often, his gaze darts around, seemingly keeping an eye out for someone approaching. Perhaps he wishes to avoid being seen with you, you think wryly, trying to suppress the hurt that thought gives you. It's not his fault. You both must maintain a certain image. It's only natural for him to not want to be associated with the likes of a servant girl. Still, as you make your way through the hallways, you can't stop yourself from noticing the odd looks you garner from the servants who pass by the two of you, and you wonder why, as he's just escorting you.

You're quick to learn, however, that you were too caught up in the appropriateness of a paladin escorting the saintess that you forgot to consider how it would translate to a noble in a maid's company, no matter her status. It takes a pointedly raised eyebrow from a knight you recognize to bring you to your senses, to realize what might be running through the minds of the household members you walk by.

A noble does not take a maid by the elbow. That's apparently reserved for a lady. And even among that select circle of women, it's for a more private audience.

The gossip has already started, in earnest.

It's not Lord Chris that calls on you later that week after the gossip reaches an all time high, but Dame Jill and Lady Claire, sisters in all but blood.

When you answer their summons, they greet you warmly and immediately whisk you away, leading you through the twisting corridors of the castle until you arrive in the courtyard, where an elaborate picnic is spread out before you. It seems as though they had it all planned out: the plump cushions, the fancy drinks and dishes, the lavish decorations. You relax that this isn't about the etiquette fiasco with Leon for a second, and figure they'll ask you to serve them instead. That you can handle—just don't spill wine on their dresses, and be prepared to pour a refill as they ask.

However, they don't ask you to stand to the side, but join them instead, sitting atop the cushions like equals. It's strange at first, not knowing where to settle down, but after some adjusting and squirming, you find yourself settled comfortably within reach, nibbling on fruit from the extravagant buffet laid out before you while sipping cool chilled juice served in elegant crystal goblets.

It's surreal. Strange and unusual, but not in an uncomfortable way. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that this is some kind of trap, that they must want something from you. You know their intentions are genuine, but your expectations were always that of service. Obedience. Not in the favor of others.

Maybe they sense that, because the topic shifts suddenly and unexpectedly.

"We wanted to have a little girl talk with you," Lady Claire says, picking up a grape from her plate and popping it into her mouth with surprising finesse. She licks the excess juice from her fingertips, her green eyes fixed firmly upon you. "You know, harmless stuff. About the terrifying creature lurking in the horizon and getting closer every day, that you call the what am I doing with my life meltdown. It's a common occurrence around a certain age. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

Although it's phrased like a question, there's an unmistakable ring of amusement in her tone. Amusement at your expense, but it doesn't feel mocking or mean-spirited in nature, only teasing. You're relieved this isn't about Leon, but horrified all the same that all of your anxieties can be summed up with that one sentence.

"I... I've heard of it," you mumble sheepishly.

"Oh Claire," Dame Jill admonishes loudly, throwing a warning glance at her friend, which Lady Claire promptly ignores. "This isn't the time to be making light of it."

"Still, though. The poor girl clearly needs some perspective and advice." The auburn-haired lady shrugs and moves on, not missing a beat, completely nonchalant. "So. Someone from your past appears, and now you find yourself plagued with existential doubts and insecurities. I know this would happen eventually. That's why I told you to aim higher in life before you started out here, but you went and got stubborn anyway. And now look at you."

She smiles as she says this, reaching out to pat your shoulder reassuringly. There's no malice in her voice, not even a hint of mockery; she's genuinely concerned about your welfare and her tone reflects that.

But that doesn't prevent you from flinching away instinctively, cringing internally at the mention of your inflexibility, and at the reminder that you do need guidance in life, especially right now.

And even if they don't know all the details, the Redfield family members are excellent at reading you like a book—already, they've hit pretty much every point with pinpoint accuracy, cutting to the core of your problems with frightening precision, and leaving you feeling raw and exposed underneath their keen scrutiny. It's unnerving how easily these two women managed to discern so much information just by observing your behavior and gauging your reactions, and it leaves you feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Your eyes flick nervously towards Dame Jill. She hasn't spoken much throughout the entire exchange, simply watching you quietly with a thoughtful expression on her face, but she must notice your unease, because she speaks up at last, breaking her silence.

"You can relax. We're not here to pry into your affairs. And while you should listen to Claire's words—she does have her moments where she actually makes sense—"

"Why would you say it like that—"

"We can also offer you practical advice and assistance. The world can be tough. Especially if you're a woman."

The fact that there was such care despite your comparatively low social standing warms your heart. Like they're really relatives of yours who weren’t frequent donors to your temple and got special visits to you for blessing and healing purposes. If you hadn't gotten to know them better after becoming a maid, you could have mistaken them as real sisters.

The words themselves give you pause, though. You're grateful, yet puzzled too by this unexpected kindness from these two high-born ladies, so foreign to you.

"I do love the little life I've built for myself. Even if it's mundane." You reply slowly, unsure how else to express this unfamiliar emotion bubbling within you. "It may be menial work, but it gives purpose. A sense of accomplishment."

"And what about when you want something more for yourself?" Dame Jill presses, leaning in closer. Her gaze is piercing, almost accusatory, but her tone remains calm, steady, never wavering in its intensity. She wants answers—from you.

But you don't have any.

"I don't know what I want in the first place," you finally confess, turning to look out over the gardens, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. "I'm just trying to survive in this world. Everything's new to me—having autonomy, being able to decide for myself... I never dared imagine much beyond fulfilling His will, or whatever duties were assigned to me as Saintess. All of this... Sometimes I find myself entertaining the possibilities of certain things now, things I didn't know I could until very recently. And I don't know if I should."

The out of guilt part, you leave out of it. That’s a box of worms you aren’t willing to dump on these poor women.

Lady Claire pipes up immediately, excitement written across her face: "Then go chase them! Go and enjoy life and love and all that fun stuff!"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over you at the mention of 'love', and you can't help but feel mortified, suddenly realizing that what you meant probably sounded quite different from her interpretation of it.

Thankfully, the young noblewoman doesn't seem aware of your slip-up, continuing enthusiastically with a dreamy expression: "Trust me, you definitely want to start living for yourself before it becomes too late, otherwise you'll end up like some of the old prune lords you see around court."

You try to contain your laughter at the sight of such pure enthusiasm, but fail miserably, letting it burst out. They both join you shortly thereafter, filling the air with melodious peals of laughter as the sun shines brightly overhead. After all that time spent being trapped inside walls all your life, to laugh so freely feels like nothing short of heavenly bliss. And it feels good. Laughter—joyful, unrestrained laughter—is something that's far rarer these days than you would ever admit aloud.

"I wasn't going to talk about this just yet but..." Dame Jill clears her throat, regaining control of herself. She straightens her dress carefully before looking back up at you with a serious expression on her beautiful features. "Leon's offer could very well be the answer you're looking for."

"I..." you start defensively, but Dame Jill raises her hand and silences you before you can finish forming the rest of your protest.

"Hear me out. I'm going to lay it out for you from a strategic and realistic angle. The simple truth of the matter is that you have limited options, given your background and current position in society. You don't have access to power, resources, or wealth. This is the reason why former saintesses stay in the convent—it's safer and easier, compared to facing the real world head on with no experience."

It makes perfect logical sense. Dame Jill is laying out the facts plainly, and even though you may not fully understand all of the nuances involved with regards to the issue of marriage in noble society, you're smart enough to comprehend what she's telling you. Your heart leaps into your throat at the thought of marriage, of Leon... and then promptly drops into your stomach once more.

"In our world, it's unlikely anyone else will ever ask for your hand unless you actively seek a match for yourself, which is why people generally arrange marriages instead. It's a miserable affair for women, because they don't really have a say in who gets picked, or what kind of person that suitor ends up being. But you... I say you've been blessed. To have found someone willing and able to provide for you financially and personally—that's rare as hen's teeth among the nobility. Leon, for all intents and purposes, is a wealthy man, one that isn't difficult to get along with."

That's true, you acknowledge silently, recalling the countless stories you've heard about the brutality of many men, especially high-born ones. If the rumors are to be believed, some wives barely avoided being locked in their rooms by the husbands they never saw, as they were forced to do as told without complaint.

But so were you made to do the same as the Saintess, in a way. You shudder just thinking of it.

Dame Jill pauses for a moment to collect her thoughts before continuing, taking in you shrinking into yourself. "What I'm trying to say is... perhaps this could work? Leon's social standing is strong. He carries great weight within Ethelia due to his achievements and is en route to become one of the wealthiest in the kingdom with all the favors he has. And from the way he ignores us when he comes to our house as a guest to tail after you tells me he wouldn't take your independence away in marriage. You'll be able to do whatever you want—visit wherever you please, hire any staff you desire, live wherever you fancy, and be with whomsoever you like. As long as you remain discreet about certain affairs, of course."

The last subtle suggestion about taking a separate lover after marriage is received with a loud snort of displeasure from Lady Claire, but the comment has served to jar you back into awareness.

"Which is to say, you'd be happy with him. From my perspective, that's the best deal any woman can ask for. In fact, it's quite literally out of a fairy tale, to be honest. An agreeable man who cares and will give you whatever you wish for. Wealthy. Great status. Do you not want that?"

Of course you would want that! That much you cannot deny. A happy, comfortable life with stability and freedom is exactly what you dreamt of during your worst hours in the convent. And Leon would be a decent husband. Kind, dutiful... handsome, honorable... you know those aspects already.

"But... At least I have my own freedoms as a commoner who has a job, no matter how small. I'd feel too bad to be financially dependent on him..."

"I went through the exact same thing, so let me tell you," Dame Jill states in a firm voice, raising her chin proudly as she does so, "Even with a dowry, I still depended entirely on my husband's good graces at first. But I managed to gain privileges and my own investments through him, and paid him back with my own income later. The system isn't perfect but it works. You have the luxury of starting on a higher foot than I did, and will undoubtedly earn better terms in marriage because of it. You should take advantage of that. If you use your cards right, you'll become independent from Leon soon enough."

You can see that argument. And you trust Dame Jill knows what she's talking about—she and her betrothed have lived together happily, and she doesn't hold his title and still retains her own surname. That must have taken incredible maneuvering on her part to achieve. She's the living monument of her argument, evidence of it working out if a woman decides to pursue her interests under the rules set forth by noblemen by using those against them. And you suppose that if it worked for her, then perhaps...

And yet, you're still hesitant, unconvinced. "How would you suggest I do that?"

"You can become a patron for artisans and tradesmen, or fund shops with your inheritance." She shrugs lightly. "Invest in enterprises and industries related to Leon's territories—there's so much potential, considering all he controls. Or join a guild to start up a company of your own. I've helped build my family's fortune through my own contributions and activities."

Oh… That would be…

Your mind is spinning at all the possibilities opened up to you by the prospect of marriage—a whirlwind of ideas and options.

Suddenly, your future is filled with exciting prospects and opportunities, whereas before, it had only seemed bleak and dull. A chance to improve upon your life, rather than settle for what you had before. It sounds tempting. So tempting that you're almost inclined to leap at the opportunity and accept it right away because of the sole hope of somehow working your way up to something that belongs to you and yours alone, free of outside influence. Something personal.

You'd be a fool not to consider it—but the idea is just too overwhelming to contemplate fully in a single day. You need time to process everything, to come to terms with how drastically different life would be if you agreed to the proposal. You need to take things slow. Start with the basics first—the practicalities of getting used to spending time around Leon and making sure he truly is what Dame Jill says.

"It's... I don’t know," you murmur softly, looking down at your hands resting atop your lap. They're clasped tightly, holding onto something invisible. Your heart. Perhaps... your hopes and dreams as well... "I wouldn't even know where to begin with any of this. All of these opportunities... What if I ruin everything? I’m not qualified like you ladies."

"All valid concerns. That's why we're here with you today and all the tomorrows to come."

A gentle squeeze to your shoulder from Lady Claire brings your attention back to them, and when you meet their gaze, you find no judgment there. No mocking. Just kindness. Understanding. Love, even.

It makes your chest ache painfully to be on the receiving end of a helping hand when you were the one extending it to others before, and you force yourself to push back the tears that threaten to form at the corner of your eyes.

You can't afford to cry now, not in front of the two people who've given you their support and guidance, who've listened without question as you poured out your fears and frustrations without judging you for expressing your emotions, who've treated you with respect and dignity despite your humble roots.

They've made sure to explain things to you in a way that makes sense—something that you appreciate immensely, since you've had no experience with financial matters outside the scope of charitable donations in service of the temple—and haven't belittled you or looked down on you for your lack of knowledge regarding these topics. You wouldn't have considered this marriage without them in the first place, wouldn't have even known what you could do with said marriage to help build up your own capital. How lucky you are to have met such wonderful women, who are guiding you towards discovering your own agency! You owe them far more than mere thanks.

And Leon... Leon certainly isn't a bad choice of husband at all.

After the day’s work has slowed to its natural ebb, the warmth of the hearth fills the maids’ quarters with a cozy, amber glow, it smells of fresh-baked bread, slightly burnt at the edges, and the faint, lingering scent of rosewater from one of the girls' perfumes. You sit cross-legged on your shared bed, your hands busy with a piece of mending, though your attention is far from the needle and thread.

The other maids bustle around, tidying up their own small spaces, chattering softly about the day’s events. One by one, they settle into the room, their eyes flicking in your direction, and you can feel the weight of their curiosity mounting like the slow build of a storm.

Finally, Maria, one of the bolder girls with sharp green eyes and a wit to match, plops down beside you with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, out with it then!” she teases, nudging your arm. “We’ve all been wondering—what's going on between you and him that both ladies called you out to talk today?”

Your heart skips a beat, though you try to keep your face neutral. “Him?”

Maria rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play coy with us, girl! We’ve seen the way Lord Leon looks at you whenever he visits. Always trailing after you like a lovesick puppy, isn’t he?”

The room erupts in giggles, and the other girls gather closer, abandoning their pretense of work to join the conversation.

“He’s always hanging around,” adds Lila, her voice low and conspiratorial. “And didn’t you two have some private chat the other day?”

“That’s right!” Maria jumps in, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I heard he came looking for you in the kitchen. Just you. Alone. If that doesn’t mean something, I don’t know what does!”

You try to wave them off, but the girls lean in even closer, their faces alight with the thrill of gossip.

“Come on,” Lila presses, basically dripping with eager curiosity. “Spill it! What’s it like, having a nobleman so interested in you?”

Your pulse quickens, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. The thought of sharing anything about Leon’s marriage proposal feels too intimate, too unreal. How could they possibly understand?

Still, the girls’ eyes are bright with expectation, so you decide to tread carefully. “It’s... nothing like that,” you say softly, hoping to dissuade their excitement. “He’s just being kind.”

Maria snorts, clearly not convinced. “Kind? Please. Nobles don’t come slinking around after maids out of kindness.” She pauses, then leans in even closer, words dropping to a whisper. “If you bat your eyelashes at him the way he likes it, you could end up with a lot more than just kindness.”

You blink furiously, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Lila grins wickedly. “You know what she means. A mistress! Why else would he be following you around like that? It’s the perfect setup! You’d have all the perks of being with a noble without any of the chains. Gold, dresses, fancy gifts—he’d be wrapped around your finger!”

Your stomach twists at the suggestion, a rush of discomfort bubbling beneath the surface. “A... mistress?”

The word feels foreign on your tongue, sour and wrong.

“Stop playing coy,” Maria says, grinning like a fox. “He’s clearly interested in you. And you’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. Do you know how rare it is for a man of his standing to even look at someone like us?”

The other girls murmur their agreement, nodding enthusiastically.

“And think about it,” Lila adds, her tone soft but coaxing, “you wouldn’t have to lift a finger again. No more scrubbing floors, no more serving the ladies of the house. You’d be living the high life, tucked away in some lovely estate with all the luxury you could ever want. All you’d have to do is keep him happy.” Her gaze flickers up and down your form, appraising, before she smirks. "And I bet he won't be too disappointed with that either."

A sudden surge of anger rises in your chest, hot and fierce. It’s as though they’ve reduced Leon’s sincerity to a mere transaction, something cheap and temporary.

You glance around at the eager faces, each girl picturing the life they’ve described, a life of ease and opulence. But all you can think of is Leon—his genuine concern, his careful words, his sincerity when he’d offered you a life beyond this one.

A life as his equal.

You lower your head, focusing on the piece of fabric in your lap, but your voice comes out firmer than expected. “I’m not interested in becoming anyone’s mistress.”

Maria frowns, tilting her head. “Why not? It’s not like he’d marry you, you know.”

Lila nods, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes drift lazily around the cramped room as she speaks. "Let's be real here, honey—we all want to find a good man and live happily ever after, but that's not how the world works. If we're clever enough, we can get the right one to take us to the side and let us play the lady, maybe give us an allowance, but we'll never get to wear their name or inherit any property. Might as well enjoy the benefits of being the other woman. Life's easier that way."

A quiet realization settles over you like a comforting blanket in the midst of the winter of these girls' harsh reality and what they have to live with—Leon’s offer, regardless of whether you want to take him up on it, was a lot more honoring than you'd initially thought, more than it should be, when everyone else sees it as an empty promise, a tease of something better they could never achieve.

Because Leon hadn’t offered you a life in the shadows. He hadn’t looked at you as though you were something to be possessed, something to be kept hidden. He’d offered you a future—a real future, as his equal. And it’s only now, in the face of the maids’ casual suggestion, that you realize just how sincere his proposal had been.

He wasn’t offering you luxury in exchange for secrecy. He wasn’t trying to keep you as some hidden treasure. He was offering you something far more precious than wealth or status—he was offering you respect.

He’d offered you something real.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and the tension in your chest eases ever so slightly. The girls continue to chatter, oblivious to the shift in your thoughts, still wrapped up in their fantasy of you as a nobleman’s mistress.

But you know better now. You know what Leon’s intentions truly are.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand what you want too.

The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden light, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths that wove through the hedges and flower beds. The air carries the crisp, earthy scent of autumn, mingled with the faint fragrance of fading blooms. A gentle rustling of leaves fills the space, stirred by a cool breeze, while distant bird calls echoed from the trees, the atmosphere holding a kind of serene stillness, as if the garden itself was waiting.

In spite of the nerves coiled tightly in your chest, it reminds you of the temple's private prayer garden—your one refuge from the weight of expectations. Here, just like there, you feel a semblance of peace. This space, however, has become something different: a sanctuary from more personal burdens, from the eyes that constantly watched, speculated, and judged your every interaction with Leon.

As you walk, your fingers skimmed the soft petals of the flowers lining the path, a tactile comfort that grounds you as your thoughts swirled. The garden is quiet, save for the faint gurgling of the fountain ahead, where a lone figure sat. Leon.

He's hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs as he watches the water trickle steadily into the basin below, completely unaware of your presence. His fair hair hangs loose around his face, partially obscuring his features, and he wears simple, unadorned clothing, a far cry from the formal attire you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during his visits to the manor. His coat is tossed haphazardly over one armrest, vest half-undone, sleeves rolled up messily at the elbow. Even the collar of his shirt hangs open loosely, giving a glimpse of pale skin beneath. The relaxed position belies a sense of agitation and frustration, a sort of restless energy that your offer of wanting to meet him today has caused, no doubt.

This informal state of undress is a refreshing change from his usual perfectionist approach to fashion and is unexpectedly... intimate. That, combined with the way he's dressed himself down, almost in defiance, to meet you in private gives you pause.

You have no idea if he's trying to look as approachable and nonthreatening as possible or is truly so caught up in turmoil about your answer that he's forgotten how appearances make him come across, but you're struck by how attractive he looks at the moment. It's... refreshing to see him like this. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Leon shifts his attention to where you've paused behind him, spotting you standing in the distance. His posture abruptly straightens before he rises to his feet, greeting you formally, clear and resonant, "Saintess."

"It's not—" you begin, instinctively recoiling at the title and reminder of all the demands that came with it, but stop yourself short. No sense in correcting him anymore. Not when you're so close to figuring out where to go next with him. Not when he looks like he's prepared for the worst. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

He doesn't move.

There's an awkward silence. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you step forward. Your steps get swallowed by the silent garden, into the chatter of the surrounding foliage and ornamental ponds.

Now that you've closed the distance and you're standing only an arm's length apart, Leon stands impossibly tall and imposing in front of you. A shadow draped over you both by the canopy of the willow tree you've met underneath, sheltering you from the rest of the world. His blue eyes are dark like the sky in the moment before dusk, expression severe as you look up to face him properly, trying not to lose courage.

You lead with, "Have you noticed there's not one single lily blooming in the entire estate gardens?"

In the context of your talk, it comes off as an obvious subject change, and Leon picks up on it immediately, quirking up a brow quizzically, then casts a sweeping glance over the greenery instead, as if searching for any hint of the flowers you named. "Now that you mention it..."

"It stood out to me immediately," you confide. "I'm rather fond of lilies, you see. They're my favorite flower."

It sounds a little silly once you've spoken aloud, but a fond, "Ah," escapes his throat. Leon's features soften as he looks upon you again, listening carefully, intent to keep talking if you wish to speak more. There's a ghost of a smile on his mouth, tugging at his lips, like he wants to say something, but holds it in check.

"You'd think I would be able to convince Piers to plant some for me, but he said, first of all it's not your garden to change. Second of all, if you want lilies that much, how about you make your own garden and grow them yourself. Apparently, I was 'obsessed' with them enough to warrant such advice. I didn't have the first idea about caring for flowers, though. It was a bit more challenging than I anticipated, learning how to take care of plants—not too much, not too little sunlight, not too little water, not too many pests... I realized how fortunate I was to have florists or the servants take care of things while I was the saintess. So much to learn!"

Leon makes a noncommittal hum at the back of his throat, looking off to the side pensively, brows coming together as he runs the tip of his tongue against the edge of his lower teeth, deep in thought. You look away when you catch yourself following the motion, staring openly at the soft angle of his jawline. Instead, your gaze flicks to the rows of vibrant roses nearby.

"My gardening efforts... were mediocre at best," you laugh sheepishly.

You recall the sad, shriveling collection of greens you had managed to get from the earth. Dried out and blackened with spots when you should have known better after reading so many books on the topic of cultivating the land and keeping the flora alive and thriving, how the soil felt on your fingertips and hands as you tended to the various kinds of crops. But then you had finally grown some tender stalks and baby blooms, the barest beginnings of buds bursting forth, growing lush and strong—only to promptly die under your care. It wasn't intentional—in fact, you had done everything right, followed all the instructions to the letter—but it was still disappointing nonetheless, to watch as all your hard work withered and faded away before your very eyes.

"Years have passed, and I'm still not particularly great at it. For all the miracles I performed in Ethelion's name, I never did figure out what I did wrong to make my own garden turn out that way." You trail your fingertips lightly over the delicate petals of a rosebush, remembering how the dewdrops had clung to them like gems, sparkling in the sunlight. "Even today, I still haven't quite gotten the hang of it and just help Piers around. Growing my own lilies is out of the question like this. I still want it, that's the whole point of why I started this journey in the first place. But I guess fear of being confronted with the fact that these hands that once brought back many from death's doorstep can't even grow a weed correctly stops me from ever attempting. It's like a lesson in humility."

The wind ruffles Leon's golden hair as he stares off into the distance, thinking intently. He rests his weight on one leg, cocking it out to the side as he props an elbow on his thigh, settling his chin against an upturned palm. Those sharp eyes sweep across the manicured lawns of the estate, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he mulls over your words.

"You're not just talking about lilies, are you?" Leon says quietly, his tone cautious, but thoughtful. You shake your head, chewing on your lip to prevent any further emotional outbursts from betraying your composure.

You let your eyes slide shut and allow yourself a small moment of respite, inhaling deeply through your nose, tasting the fresh fall air as it fills your lungs. "I thought... A new pair of hands helping me out with the lilies would add insult to injury. Humiliating." Your fingers clench involuntarily around a rose stem, and you jerk your hand away sharply before it can snap the fragile thing in half. "After years of relying on Ethelion to supply me with lilies whenever I wanted, I thought this was the only way for me to pride myself on something for a change. Failure upon failure eventually made me realize that perhaps I'm too proud to admit that I don't have things figured out just yet—and am also ashamed to ask for assistance from others, even those that are willing to help me out when I need it. Perhaps that was another reason why I didn't even want to entertain your offer, Leon. Because it felt like giving up."

Opening your eyes again, you see him watching you intently, blue irises focused entirely on yours, attentive to every word that leaves your lips. The sight of it causes warmth to spread throughout your body, causing you to falter for a second, unsure of where to proceed next. You bite down hard on your lip, then, "And... And if... If I couldn't accomplish even something small like this, then what kind of saintess was I? What good would a failed servant of God be as a wife?"

"Goodness knows, you can be a fool, you know that?" Leon snaps without hesitation, brusque and direct. Startled by his reaction, you whip around to face him in surprise—to see his features drawn tight in displeasure. He's frowning down at you, brow creasing, nostrils flared slightly, a muscle twitching in his jawline. "Of course you wouldn't succeed immediately. You were practically a bumbling toddler released into the wild! Trying to expect such growth in a handful of years is plain lunacy. Especially with the insistence to do it without any assistance."

"I—"

"And the worst part? You don't even acknowledge how you've made strides with your limitations!"

You quiet down with the shock of blatantly being scolded by someone as kind and softspoken as Leon—or for the first time in your life, for the matter.

"Let me put it like this," he says, having simmered down. "If you want to grow lilies, you need to let go of this obsession to be some almighty perfect being that must know everything there is to know in the world about lilies before setting out to grow your garden."

You wring your hands together in front of you anxiously, still taken aback by his sudden tirade, and unsure of how else to respond to it. Part of you is annoyed that he took to calling you a fool, albeit accurately so, but the greater portion of yourself is beginning to feel guilty about dismissing Leon's assistance due to your pride. You stay silent and let him finish.

"Marrying me wouldn't make you a failure. As a matter of fact, accepting my aid for the sake of getting to try your hand at creating your own garden doesn't have anything to do with that either." His gaze grows gentler as he fixes you with a firm, meaningful stare. "Even if no lilies grow today or in the next month, all the seeds you're scattering around shall come to fruition soon enough if you keep at it. If there are an extra couple of hands helping out with the watering and weeding, then surely your efforts will be twice as efficient. The goal is ultimately what matters—making your dream become a reality and not be stifled by arbitrary rules that have never existed until now."

Leon's words hit home for you in ways that you didn't expect them to; how did he manage to come to terms with the issues you struggled with so easily?

"Did I do good?" he asks all of a sudden, shattering the moment, a shy grin appearing on his face that transforms his appearance almost instantly. He suddenly seems younger, less experienced, more like the paladin you knew him as years ago. A sweet, sincere boy, struggling between uncertainty and eagerness to do right by you. "Allegories are not my strong suit... Or is it called a metaphor?"

You chuckle weakly, "Yes, you certainly succeeded. More than you know, actually."

Those blue eyes light up in response, his mouth breaking into a broad grin that brightens his entire face and takes your breath away. Your heart does an odd skip in your chest, but before you have a chance to analyze the strange sensation, Leon leans forward eagerly. "Does this mean you'll accept?"

Taking in his expression—eyes wide and hopeful, a slight flush coloring his cheeks—you can't help but smile back with a brief nod.

"Yes?" he insists excitedly, his voice rising in pitch slightly. It's clear he isn't convinced of your answer just yet and wants some sort of verbal affirmation.

"I'd be happy to," you reply before the nervous stutter can give rise to doubts again in his mind about you. At that very instant, a flock of doves rises from the trees above and soars off into the sky, disappearing into the clouds, leaving behind only a trail of white feathers. "If you'll still have--"

"Yes!" He steps towards you quickly and envelops you in a tight embrace without warning. His arms encircle you completely, his warmth radiating through the fabric of your dress. You yelp, startled, but he only pulls you tighter against him and spins you around in the air. You cling to him helplessly, your body pressed firmly against his, and try not to think about how solid he feels underneath your fingertips.

The sudden intimacy sends a thrill through your veins, heat pooling low in your belly and spreading throughout your limbs. Then you hear him exhale loudly in your ear in relief. His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine, goosebumps raising along the bare nape of your neck and along your arms underneath the sleeves. All the pent-up anxiety leaves his body at once and you find yourself relaxing in response. For a split-second you forget where you are or who you're with—only that you want to feel more of him against you...

The lightness in Leon's eyes is a rare sight, one you haven't seen since you first crossed paths again. His entire face is illuminated by his beaming grin, so bright it almost makes you forget the chill in the air. You’d said yes, and in that moment, it was as though the world outside the garden ceased to exist. It’s just the two of you, suspended in time—Leon’s arms still wrapped around you, his breath warm on your cheek.

“You won't regret this,” Leon says as he pulls away slightly, his smile never fading.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say anything more. There’s something about the way he says those words, with such sincerity and confidence, that makes your heart swell. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to feel hopeful—hopeful that perhaps this arrangement could bring you both the happiness you’ve been missing.

He holds out his arm to you, a gesture you’ve come to associate with his chivalrous nature, and you take it without hesitation. The warmth of his touch still lingers as he leads you out of the garden, your heart racing, thoughts pleasantly buzzing.

A few days later, you find yourself in a carriage, trundling down the road towards Leon’s estate. The entire journey has been spent in comfortable silence, save for the occasional exchange of smiles or soft remarks about the passing scenery. You lean your head against the window, gazing out at the world beyond as it goes by in a blur of color and motion. In the distance, you spy the familiar sight of the grand cathedral, towering high above all else, its spires reaching upwards into the azure sky. Memories flash before your eyelids: of visiting the structure during the early hours of dawn, as the first rays of light filtered through its stained glass windows—of wandering within its labyrinthine passages and praying quietly in secluded corners—of the comforting scent of incense as it drifted through your robes like smoke through the rafters.

But the pull isn't as strong, or tempting as it once was, a whisper of something ancient that lives inside your ribcage.

You haven’t spoken much about the wedding yet—it hasn't even been half a week since you accepted Leon's offer—but you've already settled on doing a smaller ceremony, consisting only of the Redfields and close associates. Your side of the guest list is virtually non-existent, so you suppose the wedding preparations are going to move pretty fast considering there are not a lot of moving pieces to juggle.

When the manor finally comes into view, you’re momentarily breathless. It’s grander than you imagined, despite being in the borders of the capital and within the vicinity of other lavish estates—a grand sandstone building topped with elaborate gables, a slate tile roof, and ornate wooden trellises encasing balconies decorated with intricately carved fretwork. The lush grounds surrounding the manor appear immaculately groomed, topiary hedges and carefully pruned boxwoods lining the entrance drive, leading up to an imposing iron gate with ornate scrollwork patterns.

You have no idea how his estate in the margravate will compare to this summer home for the social season...

The carriage turns into an ornate stone drive, traveling the length of the courtyard, halting at last beside the entrance. Everything is eerily quiet for a moment, save for the crunching sound of gravel beneath wheels and hooves echoing through the open space. A young footman immediately opens the door and steps aside, and Leon descends gracefully before turning to help you climb down yourself.

You smooth out your skirts once you're on terra firma again, grateful for the moment to compose yourself after such an imposing sight. He offers his arm to you once more, and you wrap your fingers delicately around the crook of his elbow. With his free hand, he gently guides you forward, each step seeming to take longer than the last, until you're crossing through an arched entryway and stepping into an airy atrium.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, drinking in every detail, your nerves returning. The entrance hall is beautifully furnished, but distinctly masculine, with heavy mahogany furniture and a plush Aubusson rug sprawled out across the marble floor. An impressive chandelier hangs overhead, glittering with dozens of flickering candles. Everywhere you look, you're greeted by rich materials and exquisite craftsmanship—carved woodwork framing elegant oil paintings depicting scenes from history, damask wallpaper adorning the walls, polished silver sconces mounted on pillars flanking the staircase bannister...

All the finery makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're struck by the realization of just how different your current situation is compared to yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath, your grip on Leon's arm tightening as he leads you past a row of elaborately dressed footmen, their hands folded neatly behind their backs and heads bowed politely in greeting. Each of them regards you curiously, observing you with expressions devoid of emotion, as though studying some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. Up ahead, an elderly butler awaits you by the bottommost step, his stoic features arranged into a thin mask of courtesy. When Leon comes closer, however, the man's impassive facade melts into one of genuine respect, his graying eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition.

"Welcome, Your Excellency," he greets with a slight bow. "We've been expecting your return. We've also prepared lodgings for the honored bride-to-be."

Your cheeks grow warm at the use of the title, and you shift nervously from side to side as Leon thanks the old man.

"Can you send Dame Hunnigan for us, please?"

"I believe she is waiting for your arrival," the butler says, dry and monotone. "Will you require any refreshments in the parlor, sir?"

"No, leave us," Leon nods, dismissing the retainer. He then glances down at you and chuckles lightly, leaning over to mutter, "You look like a frightened mouse about to hop out of her clothes."

You press your lips tightly together, avoiding meeting his amused gaze and fixating on the floor instead, mentally berating yourself for acting so ridiculous, but then Leon continues speaking as you ascend the stairs. "Forgive me if I seem smug. That was simply endearing."

His words draw a surprised laugh out of you, the unexpected tease easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "I appreciate you taking the opportunity to poke fun at my expense."

"Always happy to serve," he teases right back without missing a beat, his grin flashing wickedly at you. There's no bite to his teasing, however, merely playfulness.

As you reach the top landing, a young woman approaches you from down the hallway with a calm and composed demeanor, lacking the urgency of the servants below. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she’s dressed in a simple but elegant gown, showing her higher position. She stops before you with a nod of greeting, her gaze respectful but sharp as it flickers between you and Leon.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she says smoothly, steady and professional. “And welcome to you, my lady.”

Leon’s smile remains as he gestures toward her. ���This is Dame Ingrid Hunnigan, my house steward. If you require anything at all, do let her know and she will assist you as best she can. Isn’t that so, Hunnigan?"

Her posture is as perfect as a soldier's, and her demeanor is polite and collected, and yet you detect the subtle traces of power beneath. "If it is in my power, then most definitely," she answers dutifully, bowing to you with a flourish. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all, milady. The servants have been instructed to tend to all your needs accordingly."

Something about the way she holds herself—the confident set of her shoulders, the steely determination in her brown gaze—reminds you of Piers. You get the sense that she is fiercely intelligent, but also skilled in diplomacy and management, the kind of person that knows just what to do in every situation.

You return the greeting with a polite nod, feeling a little self-conscious under her watchful gaze. There’s something about the way she carries herself that suggests she knows everything happening within these walls, down to the smallest detail. She’s not just an aide—she’s someone who ensures the manor runs like clockwork.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, feeling an odd sense of relief knowing that there will be someone to help you navigate this unfamiliar place.

“The pleasure is mine,” Hunnigan replies, her lips curving into a small smile. “I must say, we’ve all been looking forward to your arrival. It’s clear how much Lord Leon cares for you."

Her words, though spoken with the utmost professionalism, catch you off guard. You glance at Leon, who shifts slightly, his smile fading into something more reserved, almost embarrassed. There’s a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, uh... yes,” he stammers, holding his right shoulder and rolling it around like it's sore and he's trying to stretch it. “I—well, of course, I—”

Hunnigan doesn’t miss a beat. “The staff is already preparing for the wedding, and I’ve made arrangements for you to meet with the dressmaker later this week. If there’s anything else you need, my lady, don’t hesitate to ask.”

For a split second you remember all your previous hesitations, but you push the thought aside almost as quickly.

Leon clears his throat, straightening himself and gesturing down the corridor. "Come, it would be rude not to show you to your rooms."

You allow him to lead the way, following a short distance behind him and Hunnigan as they weave through the corridors. It occurs to you that you've never seen the inside of another nobleman's home, aside from a tour of the palace in the royal capital—even though it shouldn't come as a surprise, given that it's been a while since you stepped foot in the temple. But even in those moments, you were sheltered from much of the actual activity that occurred daily, having private quarters away from the others, except for when you traveled with the Bishop. And even then... it wasn't like you ever came across homes or mansions this beautiful. This was something truly grand—so much space and fine furniture to fill it, the kind that probably had names for. The kind that held history within its walls and decor. The kind of residence that spoke of generations of wealth, privilege, and status.

Though, you can't seem to focus on much, Dame Hunnigan's words about how much Leon cares for you and his weird reaction to it replaying in your head over and over again, like the echo of a bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Did he really talk about you like that to his staff? And why would he...? You mean, of course he should care for you; he asked you to marry him! Still, it stirs up some conflicted feelings within you.

This marriage isn't about love, but there is love in it. Even though that might never go anywhere romantic or sexual. A connection between two people... is still love, regardless of the specifics. You know that's what you've been taught throughout your entire life—that such an agreement is built upon respect, admiration, compassion.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

"Right here," Leon says, coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors as he pushes them open, revealing a vast room decorated in shades of blue and cream. The sun pours in from large windows framed by thick velvet curtains, flooding the space with light and illuminating the plush carpets covering the hardwood floors, creating a soothing ambience.

The centerpiece is undoubtedly the four-poster bed against the wall, complete with drapery falling around the sides and pillows piled atop a silk duvet. Against the adjacent wall stands a small table next to an armchair by a fireplace, a vase filled with freshly picked lilies placed atop the mantel. Off in the corner is another door which presumably leads into the baths. There are several tall bookshelves stuffed with tomes in various languages, spanning from historical texts to philosophy to poetry, and a large oak desk sits adjacent to them. A vanity full of cosmetics is situated nearby, along with a large wardrobe standing in front of a screen decorated with intricate embroidery.

You almost blurt out something about this room being made for half a dozen people rather than one before catching yourself.

"It's connected to my room through that door, so feel free to knock," Leon adds casually, seemingly unaware of how such a statement causes your brain to short circuit for a brief moment.

"Oh," you manage to say as you peer at the imposing piece of furniture near the vanity and swallow thickly. Married couples are often required to share a sleeping chamber, and this arrangement was done for your comfort, no doubt. But it's still intimate to think about how he'll be right next door, accessible to you at all times.

"Is that acceptable?" Leon asks, dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow.

You flush, realizing you hadn't responded, and hastily nod your head, causing him to chuckle lightly as he heads back towards the exit, but doesn't leave, talking to Dame Hunnigan about something in a low tone before he shuts the doors and leaves both of you alone in this new space together.

He lingers there for a moment. You can't see his face as he says, "I wanted to... I wanted to apologize for what Hunnigan said back there. About how much I apparently talk about you whenever I'm back home. I assure you, she's prone to exaggerations sometimes, and there's always gossip running around between the maids in these sorts of places."

"Oh, that." You didn't think Leon would make such a big deal out of it—there are certainly far worse things in the world to worry about—but he seems quite bothered by it. Maybe it's a breach of his privacy? He's clearly not very comfortable with Hunnigan telling you about such matters. "I guess everyone can be chatty," you try to soothe his embarrassment. "She was probably just trying to be hospitable, in her own way."

"Yes... Well... I do care about you, of course. Just, er, well..." Leon trails off awkwardly, suddenly fumbling over his words as he tries to get them out, a light dusting of pink coloring the tips of his ears. "Not that way. Obviously. Which she's insinuating. That would be inappropriate. For us. To... To act in such ways outside of our marital responsibilities. Or inside. Which we don't have to. So, I... I want to make sure that... You know. I have invited you here under honorable intentions only. I hope that this does not put you in any uncomfortable situation. Because I wouldn’t dare feel about you in such a manner."

Despite your better judgment, his sudden rambling and odd choice of phrasing tugs at your heart strings a bit, somewhat in disappointment. Not that you would ever expect such things—you aren't expecting romance or love in this union, and that's not the purpose of this arrangement in the slightest—but there is some sense of rejection upon hearing that the man before you has no desire to pursue anything romantic. In all fairness, you may never have thought about it either if you had remained within the temple, as you dedicated your entire existence to worshiping Ethelion. Until now, at least.

"I know," you reassure him gently with a tentative smile, an inexplicable pit deep in your stomach. "There's no need to be flustered. I'm well aware of what this is, and I appreciate your honesty."

"Good," he sighs in relief, visibly relaxing as the tension leaves his frame. Finally turning around, he flashes a charming smile in response, bright blue irises glinting beneath his lashes in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. "Would you like to sit with me for tea?"

[avonne-writes]

Hello! For the Situations ask game, could I request 59 - forced to lie about something for Buck and Bucky please?

I would prefer it to be gen but if you don't fancy that then don't worry :)

Thank you for the prompt! 💖 I kept it gen. 😊 It might not be what you expected, but I hope you still like it!

Edit: uploaded to AO3 too

59. Lying curse/forced to lie about something

Gale pads across the space between two barracks on light, quick feet. He's on the prowl, his senses alert and mind happy and clear. Sweet summer smells tickle his nose and make his lips twitch. The waning moon shines bright tonight, casting long shadows over the grass that brushes his slender legs in the most pleasing way. He marvels at his own dark silhouette, stopping to admire it fully.

That's his mistake. He rarely allows himself a moment of vanity, but, apparently, one moment is enough to earn its due punishment - he’s noticed.

"Hey." The slightly slurred, cajoling voice sounds familiar. The hair stands up on the back of Gale's neck at the prospect of being caught in the state he's in by none other than his best friend. He’s frozen in place, staring with wide blue eyes as Bucky walks closer with slow steps, his arms outstretched in a way that's supposed to look welcoming.

"Hi there, beautiful." Bucky coos. "Where did you come from, huh?"

"From the pub, where you left me." Gale hisses, because he’s still a little pissed about that. He isn’t too fond of wrangling drunk, rowdy soldiers while Bucky is outside, chasing skirt in an alleyway. So, Gale came back to base, then snuck out to do some chasing of his own.

Bucky, of course, doesn’t understand.

"It’s okay. Don’t be scared." A few feet away from Gale, he crouches, almost falling over in his drunken state. With his sharp sight, Gale can see the cheerful twinkle in his eyes. "Come here. Kitty, kitty, kitty."

"I ought'a scratch you." Gale growls, irritated that his midnight fun has been interrupted. He can hear all the fucking whiny mice scurrying around the base. He could have had a veritable feast!

"I know, I know." Bucky soothes him quietly, inching closer. "I promise I'm very respectful. No tail pulling, no tummy touching. Just wanna pet you, princess."

"Jesus, John." Gale drawls. He could bolt, make a run for it. Wouldn’t be much of an effort, but then, he’d leave Bucky dejected. He doesn’t have the heart to do it, not after the last missions they had. So many lives lost, so little comfort to be had. He, too, only has the cradle of the moonlight and his best friend.

The friend whose face splits into his disarming, squinty-eyed smile as his palm comes into contact with Gale's back. "Good girl."

"I'm not a goddamn girl." Gale protests in a long meow as he’s picked up, his fluffy tail lashing back and forth. Nevertheless, Bucky's hold feels comfortable, clearly familiar with the feline form as he tucks Gale to his chest. The solid warmth of his body feels like a balm to a wound on Gale’s soul that he didn’t even realize he had. Oh, how he missed to be cared for.

"There." Bucky murmurs, holding him with one arm and using his other hand to stroke Gale's cream-coloured fur gently. Over his head, down his back and side, then scratching gently behind his ear. "What a pretty kitty."

Gale can’t help it, he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. It has been so long since he felt physical affection beyond a pat on the back or a careless arm around his shoulders, and even longer since anyone touched him in this form. He missed it, he realizes. Feeling warm and safe like this again might be even better than catching annoying pests. Within two seconds, he’s purring with the joy of it, boneless in Bucky's hold. His legs dangle over Bucky's arm. He thinks about kneading him, either to satisfy his instinct to reciprocate or to sink his claws into his skin in retaliation for being left in the pub, but it's too much effort.

"Aren't you sweet?" Bucky chuckles and sways in place as if Gale was a baby. Or, perhaps he’s just too drunk to stand upright for more than a minute. He’s silent for a long moment, just thumbing at Gale’s silky shoulder, then opens his mouth again. "Oh, Curt would've loved you."

Gale stops purring and looks up at him. Tears glisten in Bucky's dark eyes. Bucky sniffs, then chuckles wetly and goes back to massaging Gale's ear, to get him to purr again, Gale assumes. Overcome with sadness and sympathy, he obliges. Lets the rhythmic rumbling in his chest comfort them both as they grieve together in silence. In and out goes the air in his lungs in soft purrs. Back and forth swipes Bucky's gentle thumb. All around them, the night is quiet and still warm with summer, but a cold breeze sweeps over the airfield.

"Will you bring me good luck, girl?" Bucky talks to him in drunken whispers. "Gotta go back up there soon. Watch my friends get blown up." He sighs, long and hard. "'m glad I caught you. Miserable fucking night and all."

He sighs and pulls Gale higher to press his face to Gale's fur. "Had to leave the pub to clear my head. Felt fucking awful so I went back for another shot." He exhales in a long blow. "Where the hell did he go?"

Gale's heart clenches, but he refuses to acknowledge it as guilt. How could he have known it wasn’t some pretty girl John went after? John never said a word about feeling unwell.

Gale rubs his head against John's neck in apology, deciding he deserves that kneading after all, but before he could get any further than extending his claws, another man passes by and notices them both.

"Is that a cat?"

Hell no, Gale’s instincts scream, and his claws scratch at Bucky’s uniform, flailing to get away. Bucky yelps and his arms loosen enough for Gale to jump free, landing on his four feet practically running. He flees the scene without looking back, sharp ears flicked back to listen to pursuing footsteps, but all he hears is a disappointed huff.

"Great job, private, you scared her away."

Relieved, Gale runs and runs until he’s almost back where he's supposed to be, behind the Officers' Quarters. There, in the sanctuary of darkness, he concentrates and lets his limbs grow, his fur disappear, claws turn into nails, until he’s back in his human form with the clothes he transformed in when he left on his hunt. He smooths his hands over his uniform, takes a deep breath to control his rapid panting, then walks back inside.

He’s pretending to read in his bed when Bucky enters to stumble over to his own. He's uncharacteristically subdued as he makes quick work of his outer layers, and Gale doesn’t know why, but he feels he needs to snap him out of it.

"Had a good night?" He asks quietly. He hates how easy it is to sound casual and unaffected about it.

"Fantastic." Bucky says, bitter at first before he puts on a smile. "Know that redhead, down the street from the baker?" He clicks his tongue as if to say, what a fine broad. "She likes my singing."

It's a lie, Gale knows, but he can’t tell Bucky that. He can’t reveal himself, nor does he want to draw light to something Bucky wants to hide from him. "I bet."

Bucky snorts, amused. What an ironic turn of phrase. "Hey, Buck."

"Hm."

Bucky pauses, brushing a hand over his discarded uniform. When Gale squints at it, he notices the layer of white fur on it in horror. Oblivious to Gale's pounding heart, Bucky smiles. "Have you seen a white cat around? Big one, long fur."

Yeah, I've looked into a mirror, Gale thinks. He can’t say that though. No one is supposed to know. "No."

Bucky nods, running his hands over his clothes again. "I caught it, but some stupid private scared it away."

Gale swallows. "It will come back eventually."

Bucky lies down in his cot, his back to Gale. "Yeah. Maybe." For a moment, he’s silent, then he adds, "But I might not be here."

Gale has nothing to say. The night feels too fragile to hold the weight of another lie. He can’t promise something he can’t control.

"Good night, Buck." Bucky mumbles after a few minutes.

"Night, John." Gale says. His skin itches.

He wishes he could curl up and purr.

It would make the world feel like a better place.

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