#after drawing the shadow sheet I thought of giving him a jacket to cover his scars and avoid people asking questions | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mightymorphingayagenda · 4 years

Note

cant wait for lethal combination chapter 5! and loved the holiday nessian fic you wrote!

then you shan’t have to wait! and thank you so much, nonnie. the fic they’re talking about and all previous chapters of lethal combo can be found here, x

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

Nesta kept her gaze on the wall of oak opposite her.

“Is this the part where I tell you to get on your knees for me?” She asked.

Humourless.

And she could practically feel the feral rage radiating from him. Bleeding through the grate to her left like he were trying to smoke her out.

“This is the part where you-“

“Shhh.”

A lean shadow, a head of auburn hair, muted in the darkness like the decayed verdure of autumn, barely distinguishable through the latticed window no bigger than her hand.

She’d made Eris wait almost a day.

In Nesta’s experience teenage girls understood psychological warfare better than any CIA types she’d met. And rule one in the handbook was never call him back right away.

Eris might as well have been a cute boy from home room, the advice stood fast.

She’d also chosen the time and place for their meeting, giving no concessions in authority. Picking the church as unlike her he’d inherited both the egregious wealth of his family and their faith. Irish Catholic. Meaning he’d find himself here every Sunday evening regardless, and providing not only the guise of normality, but the cosy anonymity of a confessional.

The only people who did secrecy better than assassins, were the Catholics.

It was perfect really, the perfect plan. Undistracted Nesta had been able to work it out pretty quickly after Cassian had left. Leaving her all those hours between four in the morning and her meeting the following evening with nothing to do but hate him.

Avoiding returning to the bed he’d screwed her in. Glaring at his jacket which still hung beside her front door over a bottle of vodka.

It was a blow to her pride to be sure. The closest thing to rejection she’d ever received from a man. Whatsmore, some gooey part of her she’d pushed down had been upset.

Too worked up to sleep she’d spent hours tucked into her armchair and entertaining plucking his teeth from his mouth like the petals of a rose. He loves me, he loves me not. Because worse than revealing himself to be a complete ass as most men did, Cassian had done so subsequent to fucking her better than she could have dreamed. And she’d had that dream. Multiple times.

Wet dreams that couldn’t hold a candle to the way he’d had her dripping down to her knees, begging for his cock, trembling on legs he’d thrown over his shoulder to lick out her cunt like it was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. The man had spoilt her rotten.

Nesta knew she probably shouldn’t have been thinking about sex in a church. Her mother was likely burning with a fury hotter than the flames that surrounded her down below, but she couldn’t help it. Because while she hated the sinner- ever bronze buffed, tattooed inch of him - god did she love the sin.

“The adult is going to talk,” she said quietly. “If you want to throw a tantrum you can do it on your own time because as of this moment, I’m officially off the clock.”

Eris’ silence said he knew better than to interrupt her. Perhaps he was smarter than she was about to give him credit for.

“In fact I stopped working for you as of the moment you chose to question my methods and profess concerns that I may have jeopardised our venture because I lack the professionalism to keep my legs shut,” she said.

“So if you want Helion Day neutralised, you’re going to have to find someone else to do the job. Though I seriously doubt you’ll be able to.”

Cue phase two of the plan.

Because she may have hated Cassian, but she wanted the monopoly on causing him emotional anguish.

Like hell some other pro was going to put a bullet between Helion’s eyes and devastate his bodyguard. Making that man cry was Nesta’s prerogative.

“I have made it clear to anyone in my field you might attempt to solicit that you are a impertinent, trust fund brat, who insists on micromanaging the work of other’s despite your incompetence in an attempt to feel important beyond the breeding mummy lied and told you made you special.”

“I wasn’t aware you also specialised in character assassination.”

Eris’ voice was charred with a sweetness like wealth; earthy and rich it reminded Nesta of muscovado sugar.

He was right. She was being unprofessional. But she was tired and hungover and out of a gorgeous lay so fuck him.

“My specialities are no longer any of your business, Mr Vanserra,” she replied. “My displeasure however, should be of great concern to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I wouldn’t do you the courtesy of warning you if I intended to kill you.”

Eris said nothing.

“You can consider it incentive if it helps you sleep at night though,” Nesta continued. “To do as you’re told.”

She gave him strict instructions. Wait five minutes then leave. Never contact me. Forget we were ever in correspondence in the first place.

“Murder is cheap, Mr Vanserra. You don’t want to learn the cost of disobeying me. It’s not the kind of thing daddy’s wallet can cover.”

She emerged from the confessional, slim shades obscuring her eyes and the deep bruises beneath. Her heels clipping against the stone floor as she made her way toward the station of votive candles at the back of the church.

Each glowing stick a prayer for a lost loved one. Matches and and a few unlit offerings still available.

She lit herself a cigarette on a flame.

And Nesta couldn’t have missed the fresco above those colossal doors of oak and rustic gold flake even through the plumes of smoke that curled upwards as she stalked lazily down the isle: a depiction of the Heavenly Father himself.

She didn’t bother flicking a glance behind her to the confessional.

Who’s your daddy, now?

She’d collapsed face down into already rumpled sheets.

They’d smelled like sex and heaven and she’d smelt like cigarettes and a church and that was all she knew before the exhaustion caught up with her, the world went black, and she was waking up in exactly the same position . Vex’s fluffy tail swishing against her ear. The tickling sensation plucking her from the bliss of pure nothingness.

Nesta groaned a little as she rolled over and pulled herself to sit up. Pleased to find she’d had the energy to take off her clothes. Unlike her makeup.

“Damn it,” she hissed as she saw the smudged mascara on the pillow.

Not that the sheets didn’t need washing anyway…

“Ugh,” she huffed, dropping flat onto her back again.

She’d been awake less then seven seconds and a man had already ruined her day. Just thinking about him…

“Ugh,” she said again, louder. Like she was angry with the ceiling for not acknowledging her the first time.

Vex meowed, his little head nudging at her bare arm. As though he were trying to coax her bra strap back up to a respectable position on her shoulder.

“Hi, baby,” she grumbled, picking him up for a cuddle. “You hungry?”

He meowed again.

Padding down to the kitchen she’d made them both breakfast (technically lunch, she’d slept in till almost one) and carrying her plate of fruit back upstairs to draw a bubble bath he winded between her ankles, catching her attention as he hissed at something in the living room.

“What?” she inquired, looking down at him before tilting her head to follow his own.

Cassian’s jacket.

Uhg.

Now she was thinking about him again.

Childish, dumb, insecure little prick. How he’d had the fucking nerve to call her a coward was truly a mystery.

He was so crippled by that fear of not being good enough he’d immediately presumed she wanted rid of him. Lashing out defensively- God he was infuriating.

She looked back to Vex who was now staring up at her. “If that thing somehow ends up on the floor,” she said, “you have permission to piss on it”.

He purred.

Vex truly was the only boy worth his salt. Something he proved yet again in hopping atop her bathroom counter and guarding her like a fluffy little gargoyle as she sank into the bath. Opening m the window to let out the smoke of her cigarette so as not to bother him. The sound of rain slipping something comforting through the January chill, twirls of smoke and steam visible in fatigued plumes.

Another lethal habit she’d picked up from Aunt Ripleigh.

The thought gave her an unpleasant feeling in her heart. Like a worm writhing in the rotted meat of an apple.

Ripleigh wasn’t actually her aunt. But Nesta avoided her much like she did the rest of her family and that was what really counted. Besides, spilling blood together arguably made for a closer bond than just sharing it.

Like Nesta said, not really her aunt.

Aunt Ripleigh – initials AR, an homage to the assassin’s preferred weapon the AR-47, American hybrid of the Russian Автома́т Кала́шников, A.K.A the AK-47.

Some mothers left their little girls pearls, or scrapbooks packed with baby pictures and the lingering scent of their perfume. Angelina Archeron had left her’s a Mafia assassin’s cell number.

Of course Nesta hadn’t known that.

Not until she’d found herself with her hands caked in something dark and sticky, her boyfriend’s skin stuffed beneath the lip of her nails and a taste in her mouth like hot rust.

She’d been seventeen the first time she’d killed a man.

Not a man. A boy.

A few months her senior, Thomas been a child just like her.

Her first crush. Her first boyfriend, her first love, and her first.

Nesta had known Thomas was using her for sex. Just as she’d been using him for his money, and wasn’t that what love was? Finding the gratification of your needs in someone else? In Thomas’s case he’d needed to get his dick wet. In Nesta’s…it was more than embarrassing but half the time all she’d needed was a hot meal.

She couldn’t count the number of times she’d called him in the dead of the night to hook up in his Porsche so she could sleep there instead of at home, where the windows screamed freezing air from their shattered mouths and the electricity bill was rarely paid.

But one night Nesta hadn’t felt like earning his kindness. And so he hadn’t offered it.

Instead he’d held her wrists, ripped at her shirt, forced his hands into her jeans. Pushed up against the bonnet of that Porsche by a lake in woods she’d torn through his face, her nails splitting through the waterline beneath his eyes as she’d kicked and screamed, blood pouring, his hand on her neck, throwing her head against the wing mirror. Heat spilling heavy down her jaw and neck from somewhere which had smelt like lose change.

She remembers blood in her eyes and the taste of soft, smooth skin and a kind of rubbery strength between her teeth as she’d bit down hard until something had popped or burst or split with a squirt or a tear. She remembers spitting out whatever of Thomas’s ear she’d torn off between her teeth and something swinging into her lower ribs so hard one broke. She remembers the sounds that had been both of them and then at some point just her.

Her screaming.

Her sticky, disgusting face, stinging with every horribly wet sob and shriek. The shrieks that hadn’t choked to shaky breaths until she’d pulled herself to sit back against the wheel of the car. Clutching at her ribs which had only hurt so much worse when she’d thrown up right next to her boyfriend’s body. What looked like a pint of blood glowing in the dust. His face…his head.

It’d looked like a Halloween prop. Like dark jam. Like a brutalised seventeen year old dead in the dirt.

And sometime after noticing one of his teeth in the dust, Nesta had realised how fucked she was.

It wasn’t much of an achievement when you considered Grafton, Vermont had a population short of seven-hundred: but the Mandrays had been quite possibly the most well connected and well off people in its less than seven-hundred square miles. And despite keeping Nesta’s name out of their sneering mouths through referring to her almost exclusively as “that white-trash bitch”, that population short of seven hundred didn’t give a shit about her.

Didn’t give a shit she’d been top of her class with a place at Georgetown. Because Nesta could never have afforded to accept it.

And it certainly didn’t matter she was a pageant queen when everyone knew the petty cash prizes were the only thing that paid the rent on their shitty one bedroom. Especially with things barely breaking even. In spite of Feyre’s making use of their father’s rifle and sourcing for the butcher any chance she could.

A too skinny child in the woods with a gun and blood in her braids.

Nesta’s efforts to keep food on the table had always seemed to pale in comparison to that. But she’d never felt bad about it. Wouldn’t bother hating herself when everybody else was already doing that for her.

Nesta Archeron was the cheap fuck that nice Mandray boy was messing around with. The gold digger with the dead commie mom and daddy issues.

No one would have ever believed he’d tried to rape her.

And she’d had no money for a decent lawyer- she hadn’t even had anyone to call. Not her dad, not a fourteen-year old Feyre nor Elain, sixteen and the last person she’d ever want wrapped up in something like this.

Nesta had been desperate and vulnerable and jaded for as long as she could remember but she’d never felt as terrified and broken as she had in that moment. Crying alone and hugging herself tightly, she’d just wanted her mom. As cold and neglectful and dead as the woman was.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь”

Her mother’s last words.

Ten numbers.

Nesta had somehow gotten to her feet, only realising Thomas had broken a few of her fingers when she’d tried opening the car door. All but collapsing inside once she’d managed as she’d fumbled for her phone.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь” she’d repeated to herself, voice hoarse and wet and cracking as she’d dialled.

Ten numbers. Ten numbers. Ten numbers.

Like a phone number.

No doubt concussed Nesta had deemed it logical enough. Her mother’s dying breath a kind of atonement for leaving her children with nothing in the whole word but a father that could watch his girls starve and go into the woods with his hunting rifle and whore themselves out like they meant nothing.

A life-line in the deep waters opaque with clouds of blood.

“Здравствуйте.”

Those three syllables had been like a punch to the gut.

Nesta had made a noise that might have sounded like “mom?” or the creaking of a damn as it ached under duress. She’d obviously known it wasn’t her mother, but she hadn’t heard a woman speak Russia since- hadn’t heard Russian at all in years.

“Who is this?”

Trying to pull herself together Nesta had taken a breath that had rattled, dripping wet and slightly wheezing. Everything was going to be okay. She’d been right. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Of all the phone numbers in the world what was the likelihood that the voice on the end of this one spoke her mother’s native tongue?

“I’m- I’m Angelina Archeron daughter. She gave me this number I don’t know what to do I-”

The specifics aren’t as clear after that. Like a jigsaw left out in the rain or soaked in fresh hot blood, the pieces, the details, they’d melted to mush.

A mess she’d held in her hands and wondered what the fuck to do with.

What do you do with a dead body and the knew found knowledge your mother was a boyevik for the Russian Mafia? What do you do with her retirement package which contained nothing but the contact for an assassin working for the New York arm.

Nesta had only known what she wasn’t going to do.

Go down for murder.

Aunt Ripleigh had told her what to do over the phone, instructing her on how to deal with her injuries and Thomas’ pulp of a body. How to explain the state of her face and ribs and fingers and head. What to do with his car and how to speak and sit and and react when then police came asking questions about Thomas’ disappearance. How to get away with it.

Nesta had followed each direction flawlessly. Consoled in finally having a definitive plan. Even a plan that started with “buy meat cleaver, trash bag, battery powered blender and bucket, with cash from dead boyfriend’s wallet.” Even a plan that got progressively worse from that point on.

Filleting chunks of a body that had once been inside her. Hauling a trash bag of boyfriend smoothie to the river with broken fingers. The thick slop sinking almost immediately just as Aunt Ripleigh had said it would. Before she’d told Nesta to burn the bones and roast marshmallows over them.

“If it had not been you it would have been next girl,” Ripleigh had said. “And she might not have had your fight.”

“You mean she might not have been disturbed enough to kill her boyfriend?”

“Killer instincts, Anastasia. Is not disturbed, is talent,” Aunt Ripleigh had said. “Cannot be taught but what can be taught you learn quick. No whining. Like very good puppy with very sharp teeth.”

“Woof,” Nesta had said dryly.

“Stray puppy though, no? Is why you have no manners.”

“You offering to adopt me?”

“I have pet already. And my husband is funnier than you.”

Nesta’s compromised rib had punished her for finding that funny.

“But you ever want job, you call me.”

Needless to say that was not the last time she’d called Aunt Ripleigh.

Three weeks later and four months shy of getting her high school diploma Nesta had turned eighteen and moved to New York in order to “pursue modelling”.

In reality she was doing coffee runs with a dash more arsenic than normal and luring prosecutors to hotel rooms they’d never leave. A personal assistant of sorts to Aunt Ripleigh.

She had kept the mafia, the Bratva, at an arms length whenever she’d been able. Paying off the shitty house she’d left her sisters in with one less mouth to feed and not wanting their address in any files accessible to people with skill sets like her’s.

And while working with Ripleigh had been a mortiferous riot, two gals shattering the glass ceiling in their industry and slitting throats with the shards; Nesta had developed expensive taste from the fringes of high criminal society. She’d cared less about the art of killing than she had about the art she could hang up in a penthouse apartment if she were in private practice. Her lust for comfort winning out after two years or so at which point she’d gone freelance. Assisting in a few heists before getting in with a crowd of Nazi hunters for a bit, all the while keeping in touch with her mentor.

Until Feyre had moved to the city.

Then she’d given up on the more dangerous antics, selling out for safer and even more lucrative bets like CEOs and cutting ties with Aunt Ripleigh. Terrified if not a little paranoid of something happening to her sister. Which had been shit. Because Nesta hadn’t had any other friends. Like, at all.

At eighteen Feyre was still as bitter and proud as she’d been when Nesta had left. As Nesta herself still was.

Elain had tried bridging her sisters’ relationship once she’d moved to New York but she’d had better success career-wise. Working at a florists before eventually graduating to a self employed wedding planner.

Nesta had kept her thoughts on the psychological tells of a girl jilted at the alter becoming a wedding planner to herself. Mostly because Elain was always brining her cake samples she’d stolen and Nesta wasn’t going to sabotage her supply of free cake.

Feyre on the other hand had gone about far less conventional means of making a living. The child was a force to be reckoned with if for nothing but her resourcefulness and almost objectionable will to survive. Fiercely independent and clumsily capable she’d taken a crack at everything while selling her art on the side. It was a piece she’d modelled for that had delivered her to true economic grandeur however.

Well, “modelled” maybe wasn’t the word. Her sister had essentially been used as a human stamp. Her naked body detailed with intricately painted swirls then pressed to canvas.

The work had been showcased somewhere high brow and had caught the eye of one Mr Rhysand Velaris, thirty-one and the sole inheritor of his late father’s worldly possessions. Among which were several millions of dollars.

Half of which now belonged to her sister thanks to a very reckless prenup on his part.

Though Nesta had briefly wondered if he’d spent at least that on the engagement ring. A glittering iceberg that seemed to only glare brighter next to the stark black band tattooed just beneath it, a matching tattoo on Rhysand’s own ring finger. Because of course they’d eloped in Paris and gotten tattoos instead of wedding rings.

If Nesta had been closer to her baby sister she imagined she might have felt betrayed on some level. But as things were, Nesta wasn’t entirely sure she would have received an invite even if they’d had a traditional wedding, planned to perfection by Elain.

It was probably the worst part of her job. The distance she had to put between herself and everyone she had the potential to care about. A distance she could never close even if she decided to retire right this minute because the damage had already been done. Nesta had become a liability to their safety the minute she’d moved here and started in this line of work.

She took another chocolate from the box she’d snatched from downstairs on second thought. Her supply already dwindling thanks to the rather depression freight train of thought she’d embarked on.

That and the fact they were really very good.

Cassian may have been a prick, but she couldn’t deny he had great taste.

In chocolate, and women, she thought smugly. Sinking deeper into the basin.

A heat flushed up her neck that had nothing to do with the bath as she unwillingly remembered how he’d softly coaxed one of these lovely little parcels between her full lips. The drunk hunger in his deep brown eyes and what he’d done next, snapping her lace thong between his teeth-

Her music stopped. Only to be replaced by a buzzing thrum of her phone.

Leaning forward Nesta checked the caller ID before swiping across the screen to accept the call and sinking back to her earlier position.

“I’m not in the mood,” she hummed dismissively, head tipped back against the lip of the tub and eyes closing. She’d known this was coming, better to get it over with.

“When I supply you with handsome, rich, and eligible men, I do not expect you to break them!” Feyre castigated through the phone, and anyone might guess she were the elder sibling.

Feyre indeed thought herself wiser and more worldly than both Nesta and Elain, and getting married hadn’t helped diminish her false sense of maturity. Thrusting her character into some weird sarcastic seriousness that mirrored her husband’s demeanour perfectly. It made Nesta cringe so thoroughly she was mildly concerned about getting wrinkles.

“And I thought we’d grown out of sharing toys, but it seems both our expectations were thwarted.”

“Humans aren’t toys!” Feyre reminded her. Not that Nesta didn’t already know that. No vibrator had never made her cum as hard as Cassian had.

“And if you resented me setting you up with Cassian then why did you fuck him ?” Feyre asked. And she said fuck as though it were synonymous to stab or poison.

“Was it to punish me? Because if so you did a spectacular job. He’s crazier about you than ever and won’t stop moping. The second-hand embarrassment is painful enough without the added agony of how annoying it is.”

If he likes me so much why was he so eager to assume the worst of me? Nesta thought spitefully.

It didn’t matter that she technically was lying to him. He didn’t know that.

“You told me to give him a chance.”

“And you couldn’t have decided you didn’t like him before having sex with him?”

Nesta wasn’t surprised Feyre had taken Cassian’s version of things at face value.

Her husband’s family were unimpeachably wonderful in her eyes. Meanwhile Nesta remained just another reminder of a time Feyre couldn’t have afforded the plane ticket to get to New York, let alone a town house on the upper east side. A cold bitch who hadn’t begged to join the weird cult that was the Velaris family and their innermost circle when Feyre had married Rhysand last year.

“Oh I’d already worked out he was an ass by that point but I thought he could at least make up for putting me through the date. Not much going on in that head but he quite clearly had it all going on-

“Ew ew ew!” Feyre interrupted. “One, I need this conversation to steer clear of anything anatomical, and two, do you have to be so horrible?”

“You’re the one pimping out your friends, I just took you up on the offer.”

“Ever heard of the third date rule?”

“Didn’t you marry Rhysand on the third date?”

Feyre sighed.

“Cassian’s a good guy, Nes. It takes a lot to come out the other side of what he’s been through a good man and he deserves the world so-”

“So why did you send him my way?”

Nesta knew what Feyre thought of her. And if she hadn’t then this conversation would have made it very clear.

“Because Nesta! You’re twenty-four and already a crazy cat lady! I’m sorry I tried to save you from dying alone and having Vex eat your corpse.”

Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Have you ever considered I choose to be alone because I like it?” She asked.

Feyre sighed again, but it was softer this time, sad more than exasperated.

“You’re not alone, Nesta,” she said. “You’re lonely.”

It was annoying enough that she was right, she didn’t have to be so pretentious about it aswell.

“I’m fine,” Nesta said.

“You sound just like Cassian,” Feyre grumbled.

“Well I’ve been smoking.”

“I’ll be sure to put how funny you were on your headstone when those things kill you.”

“I’m racing Rhysand to the grave, he has more cigars than I do shoes.”

“He only smokes them on special occasions.”

“And how do you know this isn’t a celebratory cigarette on account of you calling me?”

“Because instead of saying hi you said I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh so you did hear me?”

“I hear you, Nesta,” Feyre conceded, disappointment weighing on her words. “Loud and clear. Have a good week.”

She hung up.

“You too,” Nesta said into the silence.

When the silence replied she sank beneath the water. As though she hoped it might act as the cushioned walls of a padded cell meant to protect those who posed a danger to themselves.

It didn’t. And that unpleasant ache didn’t go away. It never did.

Worse than the dull pounding in her ears and tightness in her chest as she held her breath.

But it would be nothing compared to the devastation of seeing Feyre or Elain hurt. The tender ache of keeping them at arms length, knowing they were at least there to brush her fingers against, was worth avoiding spending the rest of her life reaching for someone taken from her.

Perhaps that was also why she’d wanted so fiercely to dislike Cassian.

Nesta re-emerged with a gasp, her chest on fire.

What an unpleasant notion, she thought, running her fingers through her wet hair and sinking back as she took a slower breath. That she’d been looking for a reason to dislike him even after overcoming the minor detail she was going to kill his friend and client. An excuse to throw in the towel as soon as she could. Because it was just easier.

Easier than accepting she was fundamentally terrified of keeping him around.

Easier than keeping him around and seeing him get hurt.

Fuck.

Her being mad at him had been a cop out.

Because yes he’d been a petty, insecure idiot; but hadn’t she told him she was going to fuck and chuck him? Hadn’t she been at typically fast to get in a fight with him? Substantiating his insecurities.

Nesta might have been furious at his calling her a coward, but he hadn’t actually been wrong.

She’d let some subliminal fear convince her to sabotage things.

A subliminal and blissfully irrational fear she realised because, Cassian, a monument of pure muscle, could definitely look after himself. He’d been marine corps for Christ’s sake. Not to mention she’d seen him take down Helion enough times in the ring while still working for Eris and the fact the man literally specialised in keeping people safe for a living!

Nesta felt a weird and almost unfamiliar lightness in her shoulders. It felt a little like hope. Which was also terrifying.

But she wasn’t going to the let the fear control her this time.

—

Cassian had ignored her calls.

All three.

Which was fine because she’d been stalking him for the past month. She knew exactly where he’d be that evening and doing things in person meant she could kill him if he kept up the asshole routine.

Nesta’s platform stiletto boots clipped against the laminate flooring as she emerged from the elevator. Stalking lazily through the top floor of the Illyria building.

Even if she killed Cassian he was going to die happy. She looked good enough to eat. Thick hair fastened back into a high ponytail, the details of her face were subject to full attention. Her eyes appearing almost wider and lashes lavished with a black like her jet thigh-highs and tied coat. Plump lips softly lined and shaded, she looked drop dead fucking gorgeous.

Though it was what she was wearing under her fastened coat that was the real killer.

Nesta didn’t uncross her ankles from where they’d flicked over one another as she let herself lean against the doorframe of Cassian’s office.

It was wide open. No privacy needed when everyone else had gone home around four hours ago. The night detail on Helion allowing Cassian time to catch up on work as he had every night and well into the morning for the past month.

“All work and no play?”

Cassian looked up from his desk.

“I can fix that,” she said.

He’d never looked more handsome.

Hair bundled into a dark band, his shirt cuffed at his forearms and a bit of scruff marring his chiselled jaw. A pair of slim reading glasses were pushed up his slightly imperfect nose and it was such a turn on Nesta was glad she was leaning against something.

He looked a little exhausted in a kind of brooding and adorable way.

It gave her this awful pining to massage those sculpted shoulders as he let loose a deep, tired sigh, arms folding across that powerful chest causing his white shirt to hiss as he leaned back into his chair. It was a fucking massive bit of furniture. But then it had to be to accommodate him.

“What are you doing here?”

Rude.

Nesta pushed off the doorframe and into his office.

“You ignored my calls,” she said by way of explanation. Making her way to the bookcase and running her fingers across a row of spines. It was mostly files, but she noticed a few novels as well.

“You kicked me out of your bed at three in the morning.”

She turned to find him watching her.

His words were dismissive and effortlessly confrontational as usual. But there was an edge to his voice. And it wasn’t arousal. Even if his gaze caught on her boots and lingering there for longer than he’d probably care to admit.

Nesta leaned back against the bookshelf, inspecting her manicure with an eye roll.

“You’re still upset about that?”

“Not at all,” he said with a smirk. Reclining back against the chair a little further, hips rolling and arms casually folding. Too casually. The dangerous grace of it speaking to the emotion that no doubt roiled beneath his bronze skin. Belied by that bullshit cockiness which grated her to the bone. “It seems I dodged a bullet.”

“Oh really?”

“The whole hot but mean cliché is one thing, but crazy hookup who stalks me-“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneered.

She’d seen hints of this before. The rugged and crude act meant to cover up the insecurity she’d also been treated to.

“Oh I’m sorry. I forgot you can’t ever admit what it is you want.”

“You don’t have a clue what I want.”

“I have several, Nesta.” He looked her up and down pointedly.

The way he said her name. Even like this it made her weak in the knees while her fingers itched to choke him.

It was all very conflicting.

“Oddly confident in your last performance for someone so insecure,” she quipped lazily.

Cassian rose his brows with a mean a laugh.

“What do I have to be insecure about?” He said. “I didn’t hide behind a half-ass lie to throw someone out of my bed. And I’m pretty sure even your neighbours can attest to how good of a time I gave you,” he smirked again. “You’re not a good enough liar for the way you moaned my name to have been an act.”

The white hot fist in her stomach folded in on itself as it melted to a stickiness despite the misguided insult. She certainly hadn’t been putting it on Saturday. Every sound he’d drawn from her dripping with sincerity. Every moan and whimper well deserved.

“You’re right,” she said.

Cassian blinked.

Nesta prowled toward him and hummed, “those, four, orgasms, were about as fake as my emergency.”

The sultry softness to her voice thickened to something less affected at those last words.

Cassian scoffed. Though there was something withdrawn and careful to him that hadn’t been there a second ago. Like a snake recoiling in case it needed to strike. “Your emergency, of course. Which was?”

“Nothing to do with you.”

He shook his head, laughing bitterly.

“Seriously, Nesta? You’ve had two days to come up with something now.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Nesta slipped atop the corner of the desk, perching there with her long legs crossed over one another. The blade of a stiletto heel close enough to brush up his calf if she wanted to make him shiver.

But she didn’t. She just wanted him to listen. To understand what she was saying so she didn’t have to say anything more because for fucks sake he was the one who’d acted up and yet she was here putting her pride on the line again.

“It had nothing, to do with you,” she said slowly.

A weighted silence settled like snow between them.

Until Cassian took a blow torch to it.

“Shit.”

His head fell into those large hands.

“Shiiiiiiiit,” he cursed again. “Oh god, how badly have I fucked up?” He groaned, looking up. So humbled and distraught it was almost comical.

“Irredeemably.” Her eyes flirted with the notion of a little smile even if her mouth remained unquirked as she propped her hands against the desk behind her and leaned into them to more comfortably watch him suffer.

“I’d beg you not to tease me but honestly I think it’s the least I deserve- fuck.”

“Like me teasing you isn’t the highlight of your day.” She rolled her eyes.

Cassian laughed, pained and almost sheepish, which shouldn’t have been hot but god it made her blush.

Keep your cool goddamn it. She wanted a little more bang for her buck where grovelling was concerned before she let on how eager she was for things to get back on track.

“Want to flat out abuse me and make it the highlight of my year?”

She was struggling to keep the smile off her face even as she said, “I’m not in the habit of rewarding bad behaviour. You’re a man, you get enough of that already.”

“Nesta,” he took his glasses off, setting them down on the desk beside her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I’m, really, really fucking sorry I’m an idiot.”

Nesta slid of the desk.

“Go on,” she instructed.

“A moron a fool a stupid, stupid son of a bitch.”

Taking a step forward she was stood between his thighs. Picking up his glasses and pushing them back on his nose. Missing the sight of this hulking, powerhouse of a man in spectacles.

“I’m sorry.” Cassian was looking up at her with those big brown eyes, and the bastard actually leaned into her palm.

“Oh for fucks sake how did anyone discipline you as a child with those damn puppy-dog eyes?” She growled softly, furious.

“They didn’t to be honest,” he admitted with a breathy laugh.

“I can tell.”

She slid her hands to his shoulders, fingers curling soft and possessive over the stacked muscle and palms pressed to his upper chest, stepping tighter into him.

“I guess I’ll just have to do it.”

Cassian swallowed.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he tried. Intoxicatingly deep, trying to maintain that arrogant and playful edge in a way that made his words all the hotter. The simmering ache he attempted to push down all but throbbing in his voice.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she returned, brows arched. Battling a smirk off her face.

“Can I ask you to do something for me, then?”

“If you say please.”

“Please don’t screw around with me.”

Nesta faltered.

Those warm hands came to rest on her lower back, long fingers curling slightly into the fabric and coaxing her that last bit closer so that her thighs brushed against the edge of his chair and her stomach was brushing up against his.

“I’m really into you,” he admitted. “You’re smart and you’re beautiful, and at first I thought the whole hard to get thing was an act but woman you are genuinely hard to get and it is, so sexy. But whatever it is that’s holding you back, that made you wait a week to call me, that made you claim all you wanted was a hook up; I’m clearly not cut out to compete,” he confessed. “It got in my head, and that’s on me and me lashing out at you the other night that’s on me too and I’m so, so sorry Nesta. I need to know where I stand with you though. I need to know if you’re actually interested in me. Because I like you. But I’m too old for games.”

The silence was so thick she could have cut through it with a knife.

Nesta’s hands fell from his chest slowly.

“That’s good,” she assured him at last. “Because I’m not a toy.”

She brought her fingers to the belt of her coat and pulled slow and deliberate.

Black glazed her figure with a gorgeous intimacy. The dress hugging at what little it concealed with perfection enough to make up for its lake of mercy. Long legs sheathed in those thigh-high boots, the item was short enough that a decent length of her thighs could be seen. Interrupted at the last possible moment by sleek jet as though she’d been dipped in oil of purest night.

Cassian’s eyes blew out to sticky treacle behind those glasses.

“I’m human, Cass,” she hummed, tossing her coat onto the desk behind her as she spoke. “Which means I make mistakes.” He swallowed as she sighed softly, her cleavage swelling a little with the motion. “And that I have needs. Needs you can be the one to fulfill or not.”

She slipped into his lap, straddling him, knees bent either side of his thighs. The corded strength of which pressed painfully and exhilaratingly apparent against the soft seam of her inner thighs and she was genuinely suffering from some kind of contact high. Every inch of him seizing up subtly, deliciously taught at her touch in an effort not to respond and yet it only revealed just how much she affected him.

“Nesta-“

“Shhhhhh,” she interrupted. Hands cupping that ruggedly handsome face and titling it back to tuck her’s against him slowly. “But I want it to be you,” she purred against his jaw, tracing her nose up the stubbled curve. “Let me show you how bad.”

“Someone could come back-“

“I don’t care,” Nesta murmured against his mouth. “I want you.”

His eyes fluttered shut. And she felt his cock stir in those immaculately tailored slacks.

“Nesta-”

She could feel every muscle that licked up his stomach tremble with a drawn out contraction as she said it again, her hands slipping down to his broad shoulders.

“I want you,” she purred again.

He might have tried to breath. And it might have rubbed up something uncomfortably nice in her lower tummy.

“Say it,” she whispered, tilting her face so that the tip of her nose brushed up the side of his. Her breath hot on his stubbled Cupid’s bow and hands running down the solid power of his upper body, burning up through his shirt. “Say it, Cassian.”

His brown eyes like cognac and magnolia were hooded behind his glasses as he conceded.

“You want me,” he breathed.

She grazed her mouth against his. Lips parted suggestively and an almost silent, utterly cruel noise escaping her.

The length of his thick cock pressed up against the seam of her plush sex as he grew to full, hard attention in his slacks. Warm and thrilling even through her panties and their open mouths melted into one another hot and heavy, tongues caressing as his large hands came to her knees and smoothed up her bare thighs covetously.

“Fuck,” he groaned lazily as her hips began rolling deeply into him, and her hands slid under his shirt. Fingers splayed, she snaked up the cobbled muscle of his stomach, the flesh burnished and warm beneath her touch. His shirt riding up to reveal the gutter of his hips, gruesomely toned and dusted with hair.

“This is…such a…” he breathed, between the perfect and yearning motions of their jaws, a hand smoothing up her waist in a way that made her shiver.

“Dream come true?” She hummed, kissing him wanton and unhurried. Dangerously close to becoming a brainless mess with the way his cock rubbed up her core.

His groan melted to a laugh or maybe it was the other way round.

“Yes,” he admitted breathlessly. “And a bad, bad…idea.”

“Well you’ve been a bad, bad boy, Cassian,” she whispered filthily against his ear, before capturing the lobe between her teeth softly.

She sucked and nibbled oh so gently and he expelled a breath so gravelly and masculine it twisted the hungry knot in her core tighter.

“Nesta…we-fuck you’re good at that…” he groaned lethargically . “Sweetheart, we can’t…”

“Why not,” she coed quietly, the sound airy and affectedly filthy.

“We’re…” he choked as he took in the sight of her cleavage, pushed intimately to his chest and escaping the neckline of her dress like a plume of toothpaste squeezed from the tube. “Fucking hell Nesta we’re in my office.”

“And I’m saying you could be in me.”

She rocked her hips against him with a particularly cruel slant.

The groan that escaped him made something flip in her stomach, tossing about whatever sweet, impossible to describe feeling rushed there at the same time at the way his head fell back against the chair as she worked him over. The hot friction that rubbed against her sensitive core the cherry on top of the sweet, creamy, decadent sundae.

“Besides,” she moaned, breathless and sultry. Teeth plunging softly into her plump bottom lip as she continued rolling her hips. Hands rubbing over his shoulders and providing her leverage. “You’re the boss.”

“I think we both know…that I’m not the boss…right now…” he groaned. Almost pained.

“Your cock a little much for those slacks?” She hummed, faux sympathy dripping through her mocking pout.

“I thought you liked a tight fit,” she teased, still pouting but eyes smokey. Her toes curling in her boots as her fingers began work on pulling his shirt apart.

The buttons popped undone with a sensual and pining tempo and she was moaning quietly into his mouth as she explored the panes and ripples of that powerful upper body. More than thorough in her hands-on assessment.

Cassian’s own hands were keeping just as busy, massaging and kneading her ass indulgently before smoothing over her rolling hips and eventually coming to her lower back. His thumbs pressing to the small of her back either side of her spine and it made something tight inside her swoon. The touch so hot and the memory it conjured so good. His big hands on her as he fucked her from behind.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned deeply, as she began rocking into him tighter, hotter. The impression of his cock lined up just right with her aching core.

“Hey, baby,” She purred, drunk on the friction that made her whole body throb and hum with pleasure and the tip of her nose brushing the side of his. Hands snaking from his exposed chest to either side of his face and capturing his bruised mouth with her own. Chewing on his bottom lip obscenely, the friction beginning to push her over edge.

“Fuck you’re incredible,” he groaned huskily once she let up. Kissing back decadently. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed almost mindlessly. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nesta.”

“You wanna show me how sorry you are?” she purred, sultry and low, mouth parting, forehead still pressed to his and eyes fluttering open to hold his own.

Cassian nodded, dumb and silent and eager and Jesus it turned her on.

“Yeah? You wanna make me cum?” She hummed.

“Yes, yes, please.”

“Touch me, Cassian,” she whispered against his open mouth. “Make it up to me, make me feel good.”

Cassian’s hands slid back to her ass and she moaned into the kiss he captured her lips in as he lifted her with a sensual squeeze, wrapping her long legs tightly round the tapered cut of his waist as he stood.

The surface of the desk was beneath her before she could work out which way was up and his touch smoothed down her legs to her knees before she could take a a breath in reprieve from kissing him. Her legs splitting either side of his broad hips and his erection, tucked to the side in his slacks and thick and heavy and hard, pushed against the inner seam of her thigh as he pulled that band from her hair.

“I’m gonna make these gorgeous legs tremble for me,” he pledged against the her jaw, kissing and nipping his way down to where her pulse throbbed for him as he a hand through the loose locks.

And he began suckling at that sensitive spot just as a calloused hand slipped between her thighs.

“Mmmmm,” Nesta moaned smugly, gripping at his biceps still sheathed in the sleeves of his shirt as Cassian’s thumb ran up the seam of her dripping cunt through her panties. The lace a flimsy veil between her swollen clit and his hot touch.

“Fuck I’ve missed you,” he moaned into her neck, her head rolling back as he snapped her panties and began stroking his fingers through her soft folds possessively. “Missed those little sounds and your mouth and this pretty neck and perfect pussy.”

“Then cut out the all bark no bite bullshit and prove it,” she breathed.

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured thickly, the pad of his thumb coming to her clit and she moaned as he circled the sensitive bundle of nerves expertly. Her nails pressing into his shoulders, a few through the hiss of his shirt but the others carving crescents into the bronze muscle and tattoos like the meat of an apple.

His forefinger began teasing at her tight entrance and Nesta’s breath caught.

“Tease me and you’ll fucking regret it,” she warned thickly, and he pushed the digit inside.

The intrusion was far from the thick, eight inches she craved, but when he curled his finger against a sensitive, swollen spot deep inside her Nesta keened aloud.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Cassian breathed, husky and bestial as he crooked his finger inside her over and over.

“More,” she demanded.

It probably wasn’t clear if she was demanding more dirty praise or physical attention but Cassian was a good boy and covered all his bases. A second finger pushing inside her that second.

She gasped as the snug walls of her cunt stretched to accommodate the two of them as he waxed lyrical about how hard her moaning got him. Their foreheads level and those deep brown eyes lathering her with his earnest attention.

“You’re dripping down my knuckles like a fucking peach,” Cassian told her as he thrust inside her over and over, the only thing more obscene than her facial expression and the breathless sounds she was making being the quite, wet noises his fingers illicited.

He hadn’t let up on her clit, and at the exact moment he decided to start curling those two fingers together, he increased the speed and pressure with which he rubbed at her most responsive spot with his thumb.

“Cassian,” Nesta moaned, her fingers running up the nape of his neck and delving into his hair, still pulled into that bun.

“That’s it, that’s so fucking hot, baby, I want your cum dripping down my wrist,” he growled softly. Her nails sliding down his scalp.

“You’re so fucking needy,” she got out, which only served to utterly delight him. His thumb working at her from an oh so subtly more intense angle that had a familiar buzzing low inside her threatening to pluck her apart at the seams.

“Oh my god fuck,” she moaned. “Uhhu, that’s it, just like that oh my god.”

“You gonna cum, Nesta? You gonna cum on my desk- Jesus I’m gonna be thinking about you moaning, long legs spread for me while you moan so fucking dirty for my fingers every time I’m sat at this fucking desk now, you know that?”

His words sent her over the edge.

Silently she threw her head back as her orgasm licked up every frayed nerve in her body. It was hard. And Cassian kept on working those thick fingers inside her and over her sensitive clit throughout.

Fucking her dirty and skilled. Prolonging her twitching and bone melting pleasure.

Until she was snaking her hands from where they’d wound through his fastened hair, and pushing him off her at the shoulders. Falling back on her forearms with a shaky exhale, thighs still trembling subtly.

Cassian smirked. And brought his fingers to his mouth. Licking up the length of the calloused, sticky digits. Eyes on her’s from behind those obnoxiously sexy reading glasses she had half a mind to slap off his face.

“You taste even better than I remember,” he purred.

“Then get on your knees.”

Her voice was shaky but he didn’t even throw her another of those antagonistic and gorgeous smirks, just sank down. All six foot whatever, two hundred and something ridiculous pounds of muscle. Knelt on the floor between her legs.

“Is initiative encouraged of am I to be strictly obedient?” There was that smirk.

“You can use your brain,” she permitted. Still out of it. But still dying for him to touch her again. “If only because I need to be convinced you have one.”

His chuckle felt like fucking heaven between her thighs. His stubbled jaw rubbing up against her aching cunt as he kissed her like he meant it. Open mouthed and his tongue then slipping out to lavish her dripping slit before he began playing with her clit with the tip.

Nesta moaned, chewing down on her lip once she located the dignity to quieten down so she could keep it that way.

Her previous orgasm should have taken the edge off, but it had only reminded her already whetted appetite what there was to gorge on. Leaving her pining for more and disastrously sensitive.

“Mmmm,” Cassian moaned deeply- though honestly it was closer to a growl which was hot- and brought those large hands to her thighs. Holding her open for him stoking the bruise-blue flame that writhed in her core and allowing him better access to her pussy.

“Oh god right there,” Nesta keened. His nose brushing up against her clit as he licked up her snug entrance, teasing his tongue inside.

He threw her legs over his stacked shoulders and obeyed, working his tongue inside her with shameful enthusiasm only emphasised by the noises he was making. Seriously he was putting her to shame.

In fact if she hadn’t been rapidly approaching another orgasm she might have thought he was have more fun than her.

Hands no longer occupied with gripping her black-clad thighs they came to her hips and waist. Coaxing her to slant forward at an angle that granted him an even more advantageous angle from which to eat her out.

She moaned, manicured nails almost clawing into his desk behind her. “Mhmm mhmm uh,” she gasped sharply at the sudden relocation of his tongue. Cassian capturing her clit in his mouth and sucking on the sensitive bud as he flicked his tongue up and down.

“Fuck, yes yes yes yes,” she was utterly breathless. “Oh god, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” she whined.

Cassian fucking groaned and it was like he’d pulled at the knot in her stomach with his teeth.

The muscles in her lower stomach twitching as she came, the cushiony walls of her cunt pulsing tight and the only thing grounding her to reality.

Though she was just lucid enough to know Cassian was lapping up the nectar between her legs with audible and pleased snarls of pure, masculine satisfaction.

Nesta couldn’t say how long it took her to stop seizing, just that she was completely drunk on pleasure by the time her body allowed her to at least try and think. She failed completely. Wasted on her orgasm, on Cassian.

“Come ‘ere,” she said, breathless and doped up. Eyes barely fluttering open, heavy lidded and probably glazing over with unabashed appreciation as Cassian did as he was told. Rising to stand before her, thick arms winding round her waist snuggly and pulling her to him tight.

His sheathed erection pushed to her sticky inner thigh and his powerful upper body, chiselled and broad and comforting, warm and hard and dusted with dark hair, pushed to her’s.

His sharp jaw, like her thighs, was slightly sticky, and his mouth looked even more abused than it from the attention of her teeth. But the best part- better than his mid-sex blush or the way he was breathing all deep and powerful and hungry for her, were his glasses. They were slightly fogged up at the edges.

“Apology accepted?” He asked huskily, like he was already sure of the answer. Like he didn’t care because no matter what she said he was going to have her screaming for him till they were both sick of each other.

“Apology accepted,” Nesta confirmed. Splayed hands smoothing up his broad chest as she captured his lips in a wanton kiss.

“That still leaves your punishment though,” she whispered.

Cassian’s dark brows had barely risen before she’d pushed him back and he was falling into the chair again. Breathing deep and thrumming with a desire that destabilised him as he watched her slip a stiletto heel beneath her panties on the floor and flick them up into her hand. Prowling toward him and climbing into his lap. Hoping it wasn’t obvious that her legs felt like liquid.

“Hold these,” she demanded, feeding the bundle of lace into his mouth, his groan muffled by the fabric and her hands making quick and embarrassingly eager work of removing his unfastened shirt. All but tearing it off his sculpted arms that must have been as thick as her thighs- his body was ridiculous.

She griped his wrists before he could start doing something like feeling her up and brought them behind his head. Elbows out and biceps flexed, his hands meeting in the middle at the nape of his neck.

Cassian kissed and nipped at her fingers as she plucked her panties from his mouth with one hand, holding his wrists with the other.

He licked at his lips as though chasing the taste of her lingerie, eyes on her’s from behind his glasses.

She wasn’t gentle knotting the lace round his wrists.

“Oh,” he grinned, trying to move his arms.

He couldn’t of course, the physics working against him and rendering it so his only way out would be pulling until the lace snapped for a second time this evening. Still, it was a fucking gorgeous sight watching him try. Biceps and broad chest flexing.

Tied up and at her mercy she was dripping wet for him and slipped her tongue into his mouth as a little reward for how fucking hot he looked like this. Kissing him obscene and wet.

“Safe word?” She murmured into his mouth.

“Harder,” Cassian grinned. No doubt referencing her answer to the very same question the other night.

Nesta bit his bottom lip, puncturing the bruised cushion subtly and she tasted blood on her teeth and his tongue.

“Safe word,” she insisted once more against his lips, fingers winding through his hair with a drawn out and yearning pull.

“Amren,” he groaned`. Then added, “don’t ask.”

“Yeah we’re done talking,” she informed him dismissively. Unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops of his slacks with a swift tug.

Cassian’s hips jumped beneath her and she unfastened the button slung low on his hips, pulling the zip of his fly down. Parted lips close to brushing.

“Down boy,” she purred.

“Bit late for that,” he breathed raggedly, jaw feathering as she slid her hand into his boxers.

“God you’re adorable,” Nesta pouted, freeing his thick cock. Obnoxiously engorged and a dribble of pearlescence spilling from the uncut tip.

“Now be a good boy and don’t you dare cum until I say,” she warned.

And sank down on thick inch after inch of his hot, rigid shaft.

Nesta couldn’t help the arch that slipped through her spine as he filled her up, the stretch so acute it had her eyes rolling back with a flutter of her thick lashes.

“Oh my god,” she moaned breathlessly, hands splayed against his powerful chest. Thighs straddling his, her walls hugged him vice like and- Jesus, he rubbed up that deep spot inside her perfectly.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned beneath her. “You’re so… fucking tight.”

Nesta rolled her head to the side in tandem with her hips, growing accustomed to the sheer size of him and eliciting a raw sound from the man before she removed his reading glasses. Fitting them over the bridge of her own petite nose.

“No backseat driving now, sweetheart,” she purred a little shakily.

She rose onto her knees only to sink back down again with a filthy twist of her hips. Repeating the motion again and again. Gliding up and down his cock with a tight and slippery friction that had her stomach flexing and his gaze heavy lidded. Encouraging, low noises escaping from deep in his chest that she wanted to bottle up and get drunk on.

“Uhh,” she keened, dirty and blissful, hands on his stacked shoulders. “Uhhu.”

“Oh fuck,” Cassian breathed huskily. “Mmhhm…that’s it…fucking ride me baby”

Nesta felt a familiar heat fan at her core as she drank him up. Every perfect, delicious inch there for her to use.

“Cassian,” she moaned. The sound tasting like sex in her mouth.

She fluttered around him again on an upwards twist of her hips, his cock pushing in and out of her snug cherry with a delicious wet sound. Just audible above her filthy moans.

Riding him was like sucking on a hard candy, that intense sweetness at the centre burning ever closer. And he kept running that damn mouth. Gravelly and deep, lavishing her body with sickly sweet and dirty compliments.

“Fuck that’s it gorgeous, just like that sweet thing fucking hell you’re fucking perfect.”

Powerful and dripping with raw fucking desire his body rolled upwards into her, slick with sweat and chiselled sinew. His cock burying deeper inside her. The sounds he was making just to top it off causing a tight fuzziness to tremble in her upper thighs.

“Oh my god,” Nesta moaned, hands coming to his face and lips brushing his as so she moaned a hot, “I’m gonna cum,” into his mouth.

Cassian groaned. Kissing her hard and deep.

“Cassian,” she keened.

She began bouncing deeper in his lap. Up and down up and down. His cock thrusting inside her hard and rubbing at her g spot just right while her clit grazed the coarse hair at his rugged hips. There was a bead of sweat gliding down the chiselled muscle that carved his broad torso, washboard abs flexing as he resisted release and Nesta felt the pressure between her thighs reach a fever pitch.

Grunting he bucked violently beneath her once, twice, and she was undone.

Nesta might have made a noise this time. Airy and hot and open mouthed against his neck as she buried her hands into his hair.

He was so tense beneath her, like pure marble soaked in the heat of the sun. Trying not spill inside her as her walls flexed with every hot wave of pleasure.

And once it passed his breathing was as ragged as her own.

“You did so good,” Nesta whispered at last against his ear. Voice wrecked like she were experiencing a sugar crash. Nibbling at the lobe. Tasting salt on her lips and eyes fluttering shut at the heady scent of his aftershave.

“Does that mean I get a reward?” he managed.

“Something like that,” she hummed, repositioning herself so that her back was to his chest.

“Nesta please. Just untie me, sweetheart,” Cassian whispered against her ear. Voice trembling like he’d shot up something good.

Nesta only chuckled, head knocked back so she could hold his eyes as she rolled her hips. Teasing, tormenting.

“The second you get your hands on these,” she brought her hands to her tits, giving them a soft squeeze and biting her lip, “you’ll be cumming and out of commission.”

Cassian growled, watching her feel herself up as she rolled her hips in leisurely circles. Sensual and dirty. The length of his hard shaft, thick and velvet smooth beneath her.

“Fuck,” he moaned huskily. Nose buried at her throat and lips working against her pulse point with the assistance of his tongue and teeth. Just as slow and through as her hips.

She gasped softly, grinding deeper.

“You know how good I can make it for you,” he purred.

“Mmmm,” she moaned quietly in agreement.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Cassian.”

“You make my name sound so sexy,” he grazed his stubbled jaw against the bruise he’d worked into her throat, the sensitive skin blushing warm at the contact as he moved his mouth to another location and started kissing and nibbling there. “Untie me, baby, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Nesta smiled.

“Or I could keep you tied up and just take it.”

Cassian growled against her neck as she tilted her hips forward allowing his cock to spring up, and sank down on him again.

She moaned, loud and keening. Hands snaking through his hair behind her as she rocked herself up and down slowly. There wasn’t a lot of friction, but for now it was enough just to revel in how good Cassian’s cock felt. That last orgasm having finally takes the edge off.

“Fuck that’s it grind for me,” he moaned. His breath was hot against her neck and she could feel his heart beat. Feel every deep sound reverberate through his chest as she moved.

His cock rubbed up against her g spot, colours and stars bleeding behind her eyes like fireworks.

“Cassian,” she whimpered lowly.

It was so good.

Hands fumbling distractedly she brought her fingers to untie him. And he deemed it all the permission he needed. Tearing himself free with a growl. Capturing her mouth in a slow and wanton kiss as those big hands came to rove her body, taking his time to pull her apart.

His touch hot and calloused, Nesta moaned into his mouth as he ran up her stomach, her hips, her thighs, her tits. Massaging and glazing every inch of her with a rough heat that made her feel like she was going to explode. Her body a champagne flute dangerously close to shattering at the frequency of his hot groans and growls.

“Right there, oh right fucking there baby,” She moaned quietly against his lips, one of his hands rubbing her hip and guiding her motions while the other palmed at her breast.

“Yeah? You like that?” He dipped his head to pull down the straps of her bra and dress down with his teeth until her cleavage spilt from the cups. Pebbled nipples tight and rosy in the dim light, peaking over the balcony of her bra.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured against her throat, exploiting the sensitive spot as he made his way back up to her face and watched her plump tits sway. A hand running from her hip down her thigh and back up again to slip between her legs to stroke her clit.

Nesta whined softly.

“Cassian…more…”

She kissed him sluggish and distracted. The two of them humming and moaning every so often until he started caressing her clit tighter and her sounds grew more frantic.

“Fuck uhhu, uhhu just like that,” she panted quietly into his mouth. “Oh god uhh, uhhh more…more…more more Cassian fuck me.”

She was on her feet before she could complain that his hands were no longer between her thighs. Pushed up against the edge of his desk, hands falling splayed against the surface to stop herself falling across the wood and legs split apart.

“Oh!”

“Good girl,” he grunted deeply. “Moan for me.”

His calloused fingers came to her clit, coaxing her closer to the edge as the other gripped her hip.

“That’s it, that’s my girl such a good girl baby.”

Mouth caught open as though on a fish hook Nesta started seeing black splodges, the puddles flaring in her vision on every one of his thrusts. Deep and dirty and filling her till she was so impossibly full she spilt over.

“Fuck fuck just like that oh my god you’re so fucking tight, cum on my cock, cum on my cock, uh, uh, uh.”

Cassian finished inside her with a guttural sound as she came. Pumping her full one last time with a brutal snap of his hips.

She was vaguely aware of his ragged breathing against her ear. Somewhat sure her forearms had fallen flat against his desk and her head hung forward. Hair falling over her face and back arched as her tight sex twitched and fluttered around him.

Coming back to her senses took longer than she’d ever admit.

“Is that cctv?” Nesta asked eventually, head tipped back and resting on his shoulder. Eyes flicking in gesture to the tiny little camera in the opposite corner of the ceiling.

“Don’t worry,” Cassian breathed. “It’s switched off.”

She turned her gaze to him.

“Shame.”

He let out an exhausted and reverent sound that might have been a laugh. And just as exhausted, once he’d pulled out, he fell back into the chair behind him. Trousers pulled back up but unbuttoned.

Nesta followed in fatigued suit, working her dress back down over her hips and sinking to the floor, back against the desk. She probably shouldn’t have worn black… but the impending bill and judgement from her dry cleaner would be worth it.

“Friday night. Pick me up at eight,” she breathed.

Cassian grinned.

“You like Italian?”

Nesta rolled her eyes from behind the reading glasses askew on her nose, but nodded none the less. She was sort of screwed if she didn’t. Cassian’s adopted family were Italian on his father’s side. The cuisine was going to be pretty commonplace if they kept seeing each other she imagined.

“What are you thinking about?” He hummed, watching her.

Nesta smiled. Then crawled toward him across the floor. “How I still have that table cloth you call a dinner jacket at my place.”

“Was that plan b?” He laughed, snaking an arm round her waist as she climbed into his lap. “Hold my jacket hostage till I agreed to go out with you again?”

“No,” she glared at him softly, nestling into the crease of his shoulder. “Though I had thought about wearing it tonight. Just your jacket and a pair of heels.”

Cassian licked his lips as though contemplating the sight and liking what he imagined very much. “Next time,” he hummed distractedly. Less promise more pleading. “This was…,” his free hand roved down her side, the black fabric glued to her figure. “And these…,” his touch made her melt as he ran down her thigh and platform boot, her legs flicked over one another.

“Lethal,” he whispered.

Nesta scoffed. “You’re telling me. My toes are killing me.”

Cassian hummed sympathetically, fitting a heel in his hand and guiding the shoe off her foot. Nesta groaned softly and he did the same with the other boot.

“That bad?” He chuckled, starting to massage her.

“Worth it though,” she sighed, nuzzling into his shoulder.

Cassian held the door open for Nesta to emerge out onto the street first. The cool night air whipping lazily at her hair.

Their second date had been incredible.

He’d taken her to Gnocco in the East Village. Proper Italian food, fairy lights, and intimate little corners perfect for flirting over too many glasses of wine and playing footsie beneath the table. Not to mention casual enough to see Nesta Archeron fitted out in heels, a snug black top, and a jaw dropping pair of jeans.

Tactically quiet and effortlessly biting as ever, she’d been armed with passionate reviews on the podcasts she’d listened to or books she’d read that week. Asking him about his own week and listening thoughtfully in a way that had probably made him blush.

If it hadn’t, then the way she’d licked at the creamy vanilla gelato on her dessert spoon definitely had.

Cassian was far too tempted to slip his hand into the back pocket of her dark skinny jeans as he emerged after her, but he felt Nesta probably wasn’t one for PDA. Or more accurately, public groping. And he was determined to be on his best behaviour this evening. Determined to make her forget all about how shit-awfully he’d handled last Saturday.

Not that he hadn’t given her a thorough apology.

Consistency was key however, and there would be no lapse in his conduct any time soon when it came to Nesta. He’d lucked out so fucking hard in getting a second chance when he hadn’t even deserved the first with a woman like her. Clever and beautiful and passionate and god he had it bad.

Had been thinking about her all week. Their date the only thing getting him through the late nights that were pretty much killing him at this point and the days spent arguing with Helion.

Cassian had worked out who’d put a hit on his friend. And why.

The contracts Helion was in the midst of signing were of a more personal nature that he’d originally let on. His will to be precise. In which it was detailed that upon his death, the pharmaceutical powerhouse that was Day Inc. should be handed over to Saoirse Vanserra.

The married woman Helion had gone and fallen in love with twenty odd years ago. The mother of his child.

Not that Helion had been aware of the that little detail until recently. Terminally ill, Saoirse hadn’t wanted the secret buried with her, and had gotten in touch with her old flame to tell him her youngest was his.

Despite being well into his fifties, Helion behaved like a twenty-something at the best of times. But learning he had a son that actually was twenty-something had thrust him into a panicked play at accountability. Saoirse was going to die, and soon, but Helion would still have a piece of her, a piece of the both of them despite the estrangement that had haunted their relationship since the start. A piece he’d do every and anything in his power to do right by.

Which meant Lucien would inherit his father’s company when the time came.

But removing Saoirse from his will…it felt like signing her death warrant. At least that’s what he’d told Cassian. That it it felt like he was giving up on her.

Cassian wished Helion could process everything in as much time as it took him. But time was a luxury not even the multi-millionaire could afford. Not with Saoirse’s eldest, Eris, trying to take him out before the will could be changed.

As things stood, Eris was set to inherit anything of his mother’s- a compromise reached between Saoirse and her cunt of a husband who’d wanted everything in his name. The Vanserra court its own savage little patriarchy of snakes and vipers, meaning as long as Beron was around, what belonged to his sons, belonged to him.

Still, Eris was the undisputed second in command and Beron wasn’t getting any younger. If he could take Helion out before any changes were made to the CEOs will, and if Saoirse’s doctors were to be believed, Day would practically be his by the end of the year.

Maybe sooner. If Beron beat his cancer ridden wife to death upon learning she’d been left Helion Day’s company and why.

He doubted anyone would put it past the bastard.

“Hey,” Nesta’s voice tugged at his attention as they turned off tenth. “Where’d you go?”

Cassian snaked his arm around her small waist, pulling her against him. “Just thinking,” he said. And as hard as he tried to push those thoughts away, something of them lingered in his voice.

She raised a neat eyebrow. That little beauty spot above the arch lifting with it and the one beneath the corner of her plump bottom lip quirking just barely.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Tucking her tighter to his side as he looked down at her. “That’s because the only thing I ever think about is you. And when I’m with you, I don’t have to do that, do I?”

Her blush was so utterly adorable it made him want to kiss her senseless.

“How do you do that?” Those eyes like the smoke of ice narrowed in sincere curiosity. It was a little terrifying. Which off course only made him like her more.

“What? Make you blush like a-”

“No,” she interrupted him with an embarrassed and chiding laugh, pushing at his chest slightly. “Say things, just say them- like the only thing that matters is that you mean them?”

Cassian smiled. “Not everything has to be done strategically, Nesta.”

“Says the military man.”

“And wouldn’t you say that makes me qualified to- okay fine, roll your eyes at me. Jokes on you because it’s actually very sexy when you do that so.”

Nesta laughed, her head falling to rest below his chest as they walked.

“Fortunate you say something to make me roll my eyes every five seconds then,” she hummed.

“And that I know just how to make those eyes roll back,” he purred lowly in response with a roguish grin, rubbing his thumb against where her coat lay over her stomach.

“Oh and you’re telling me this whole conversation wasn’t strategically constructed so you could use that line?” Nesta looked up at him.

“Sweetheart, when are you going to accept that I’m just incredibly smooth?” He grinned. “Besides, that wasn’t a line.”

“That was so a line!”

“You’d know if I was giving you a line.”

“Go on then. Give me your best line,” she challenged. Stopping dead and turning on him with her arms folded. Cassian didn’t let his arm slip from around her waist though. Kept it right where it was as he brought his free hand to tuck a lock of chocolatey hair behind her ear. Inspiration striking him.

“Are you a box of chocolates?” he asked, gravelly and suggestive. “Because I’d love to take your top off.”

Nesta really had the loveliest laugh in the world.

“That’s awful!” She put her hands firm against his chest. “How did you ever get laid before I took pity on you?”

“Um I’m gorgeous and rich,” he reminded her, both arms now caging her in.

“What a coincidence,” Nesta purred, their noses tucked against one another just barely thanks to his date’s shoes. No doubt expensive as they were tall.

“No coincidences here, sweetheart. This is all fate.”

“I’m deliberately not rolling my eyes just to spite you for saying something so cliché and dumb,” she murmured.

“Fine then. Fate and your meddling sister,” he admitted.

“Let’s not talk about my little sister right now,” Nesta’s hands snaked up to toy with the lapels of his coat.

“What would you rather we talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk at all,” she whispered. And pulled him down lazily to meet her mouth.

Cassian moulded his lips to the perfect pressure of her own. Hard and soft, her mouth like velvet and her body pressing into his tight and loose in all the right places.

Kissing Nesta was like brushing you fingers against the glacial softness of snow like flakes of glass. Irresistible and inevitable. Burning so soft at first before the sensation grew unbearably tender and acute. It reminded you that you were alive.

The movements of their mouths grew hotter, no less lethargic, but simply heavier. Like they had all the time in the world and planned to exploit every second.

So much for not into PDA, Cassian thought, as she coaxed his mouth open further with her tongue, his own slowly swiping to meet it. And he did slip his hand into her back pocket then, giving her a fond and pining squeeze which pulled her tighter into him.

The pads of her thumbs brushed at either side of his jaw as she arched a little, those perfect tits pushed against his upper body and he dug his fingers a little more possessively into the fabric of her coat. Bunching at her waist beneath his calloused touch.

Nesta sighed sweetly into him-

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cassian swore. Tame Impala playing from his pocket.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who likes your attention,” Nesta laughed quietly, hands smoothing back to her sides politely. The little menace. Her effortless composure all the more devastating with her mouth kissed cherry-red and pupils blown wide as saucers.

He fished out his phone, and declined the call.

“Well you’re the only one getting it.”

She rose her brows as though she were impressed, winding her arms back around his neck.

“For a man who hates games you have game, Velaris.”

“Would you feel less wooed if I told it you was just Rhysand?” He admitted. Rejecting his busybody brother’s phone call a far less bold gesture than if it had been work.

Nesta’s little smile was like molten satin.

“That makes it even better,” she kissed him again.

Cassian kissed her back through his laugh, dipping her back slightly for a more indulgent angle, her arms lacing tighter around him to hold herself up. Like he’d let her fall.

Nesta was the one laughing now and it tasted like gelato and champagne and sunrises. He nipped at her lip as he pulled her back up with him snuggly, and she brought her hand to cup the side of his face, the other at his tapered waist.

“I should get going,” she hummed distractedly, hand gliding up his body like she didn’t even realise.

Her tongue caressed his slowly before he was muttering against her, “probably”, chasing the plush heat of her mouth.

They didn’t stop. Not even as Nesta was murmuring a disjointed, “heighten the…suspense…keep you…wanting and all that.”

“I’m already losing interest,” he purred gruffly, their jaws knocking intimately as the kiss became hotter and fitful, short breaths and hungry mouths. Her nails scraping softly up the nape of his neck and through his hair.

“And you’re looking for it in my back pocket, is that it?” She whispered, and Cassian gave her ass a firm squeeze as either confirmation or reprimand.

She bit his bottom lip, the nip of her pearly teeth giving way to a sensual sort of chewing that made his eyes roll back behind closed lids and his large hands wound through her hair to guid her head back so he could take charge. Kissing her slow once again but dirtier, thorough and wanton and Nesta keened almost silently.

“Found it,” Cassian said thickly into her mouth.

“Want your prize?” She whispered breathlessly.

“Yes please.”

Nesta slid her hand between them. Fingers brushing his belt, then lower-

Cassian couldn’t tell if he was relieved or devastated when she slipped her way inside his pocket and plucked free his phone.

She withdrew just barely from the kiss, switched it on and turned the screen to him. The device unlocked as both his hands tucked into her pockets and her manicured thumbs were tapping away.

Cassian brushed at the curved beam of her high cheekbone with his nose, trying to see what she was up to.

“What are you doing?”

“Callander says you’re free Friday. Or it did. Now it says you have a date.” She nestled herself back into him tightly, tucking the device back into his pocket, exploiting that teasing proximity to something else entirely and driving him crazy as she grazed his mouth with her own.

“Congratulations.”

Cassian grinned.

“Tha- wait just to be clear the date is with you, right?”

“Yes, Cassian, the date is with me,” she chuckled. “And I can’t wait,” her humming melted to something wordless and heavy as he kissed her again.

Slow and explicit he stroked his tongue inside and he swore he felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheek.

“Cassian,” she breathed almost silently and it burnt his lungs like freezing air.

“Can I take you home?” Cassian whispered.

“May I take you home,” Nesta corrected between the sinful caress of their lips.

“Please do.”

She was kissing the smirk off his face like she could taste how snug he was and wanted a piece of it for herself. Like she were working at a marshmallow or strawberry lathered with thick chocolate from a hot fountain of the stuff.

“Maybe you are smooth,” she whispered and it only inflated Cassian’s self satisfaction. “But we both know I like it rough.” Ouch. “Just like we both know you’re way too exhausted to have your way with me.”

He pulled back abruptly.

But his mouth had barely opened to argue when she gave him a definitive “don’t”. It was little bit arousing. “You said yourself how late you’ve been working. Have you slept at all this week?”

For all her icy glares and hellish attitude, at her core, Nesta was kind. She cared despite her pretences to the contrary and it meant she noticed things. Like how despite his lively grins, Cassian was out for the fucking count.

“That’s what I thought. You can screw me when I know you won’t pass out before making it to third base.”

“The only one who’d be passing out is you once I’m through fu-”

“Save that thought for a night you have the energy to see it through,” she said.

“But I-”

A quirk of her neat brows shut him up.

He growled a bitter but accepting sound. She was right, of course she was right, because she was Nesta and a Nesta was always right.

“Friday,” he promised. “I’m gonna cook for you, something fucking romantic.”

“More romantic than that sentence?”

“Look I may not be Keats but I know my way round a stove, so hold all sarcastic comments until I’ve fed you.”

“I’ll try, but I know for a fact you’re going to make that very hard.”

“How have you already failed?”

“Shut up,” Nesta laughed.

“You have the sexiest fucking laugh.”

“So you’ve said,” she blushed.

“And I’ll keep saying it if every time I do you blush like that.”

“Like I’m embarrassed for you?” she countered with an arched brow and a cruel twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re so mean,” he grinned.

They made their way to the curb and hailed down a car on twelf.

“Want me to ride with you back to your apartment?” he said, opening the back door of a yellow cab that had pulled up for her.

“That’s sweet, but trust me, I can take care of myself,” she promised.

“Text me when you get home safe and sound just to spite me then,” he said from the opposite side of the door.

“I will. But you better not be awake to read it,” She gave him a lingering kiss before gracefully tucking herself inside.

“Night, gorgeous,” he winked, and shut the door.

Her ride had just turned onto fourteenth when Cassian decided against hailing his own despite the cold. It was only fifteen or so minutes on foot, and he could probably do with cooling down.

Though even if he had to trek through tundra to get home he suspected he’d still find himself burning up under a cold shower in an attempt not to jack off to the thought of Nesta like a fourteen year old.

Stuffing his already slightly numb hands into his pockets he began walking, his fingers brushing against his phone. He should probably call Rhys back.

The phone rang for a moment before his brother picked up.

“Did you decline my call?”

“Yup.”

“Bastard.”

“I’m sure Feyre will kiss your bruised ego better,” Cassian grinned as he walked. “Along with something else so long as she doesn’t hear you’ve been calling me names,” he added slyly.

“Are you threatening to tell on me to my wife?” Rhysand asked, a little wound up by the allusion to Feyre’s kissing certain places even if he hid it behind an unimpressed drawl.

“Are you pretending the thought doesn’t have you quaking in your givenchy loafers?”

“On the topic of not upsetting Feyre, she’s demanding a family dinner.”

He laughed deeply at Rhysand’s avoiding the question.

“That why you’re calling?”

“Partly,” Rhys said. “Work’s been…She wants to be around family right now,” he said with an all too familiar casualness. “You free?”

“For Feyre?” Cassian said without hesitation. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He would just have to pull an all nighter on the Monday.

“Thank you. And also fuck you for implying if it was for me you wouldn’t be,” his brother said.

“Well you called me just as Nesta was about to slip her tongue down my throat so-”

“Nesta?” Rhys interrupted. “I thought that was over?”

Shit.

In all the carnage that had been the last week he hadn’t bothered letting his family know he and Nesta were back on. The woman was a touchy subject and he hadn’t had the energy or balls to get into it.

While Rhys had been able to excuse Elain’s inactivity when the Archerons had been at their financial lowest, he’d never managed to extend that same courtesy to Nesta. Maybe it was because the first time they’d met she’d called him a cradle snatching whore. Regardless, Rhysand pretty much hated the woman’s guts, meanwhile his wife was desperately trying to lure her into the inner circle of the Velaris family.

Cassian may have been able to bench a number higher than his IQ but he wasn’t dumb. He’d clocked on to the fact his sister-in-law was using him as Nesta bait. In all honesty he was loving it. Nothing made him happier than helping out his family, and if that meant taking out an intelligent, passionate, stunning young woman, then really it was a double-win.

Taking a second to grind his jaw softly he was reminded to tread carefully. Not something he generally excelled at, but for the sake of his brother he could try.

“I know you’re not her biggest fan,” he said. “But Feyre forgave her years ago for bailing-”

“Well Feyre’s a better person than I am.”

“I’ll say. She set me up with a smoking hot model, meanwhile you’re trynna cock block me,” he tried.

“You can put your dick wherever you want, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I guess not,” he ground out. Itching to hit something at the implication Nesta was just “somewhere to put his dick”.

“Cassian if you want to date a biblical plague in human form knock yourself out, seriously, god knows Feyre will be thrilled. And Azriel, your moping-”

“I don’t mope,” Cassian interjected.

“Fine, your stropping-”

“Fuck off.”

Rhys’ laugh was about smug as the bastard’s crooning voice.

“Mor’s gonna kill you by the way. You put a two grand dent in her wine collection over a woman you took back the next week.”

Cassian groaned, wiping a hand over his face. The only thing worse than the hangover he’d had Monday morning would be Morrigan’s laying into him on this.

“Don’t you dare tell her,” he warned.

“Fine but you’ll have to do it before next Sunday, you’re bringing Nesta.”

“Hang on a minute-”

“Feyre wants a family dinner and if you and Nesta are back on that means she’s coming,” Rhys said.

“Boy you are asking a lot of me here,” Cassian sighed dramatically. “I mean I can think of a few ways to persuade her but most of them are illegal in a lot of countries,” he grinned.

“I don’t care if you have to roofie her and strap her to the hood of your car, just make sure she’s there.”

“Alright, alright Don.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rhys growled irritably to Cassian’s delight.

“What else were you calling about then?” He smirked. “You said dinner was only part of it.”

“I wanted to ask how things were going with Helion,” his brother said. “Any update?”

Cassian sighed heavily.

“This a secure line?”

“Always”.

“The hit’s Eris,” he said. “Apparently Saoirse does pretty well for herself if Helion kicks it and it’s looking like she won’t last the year. When she goes Eris takes the lot so he’s trying to take Helion out before he can change his will.”

“That little bitch,” Rhys interrupted.

“I’m not done. Guess who Helion might be transferring that inheritance to?”

“Is Azriel going to finally have the funds to build that sex dungeon?”

“Not quite,” Cassian said. “The money’s going to Lucien.”

“Lucien?”

“Turns out the kid’s his.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Seems obvious in hindsight to be honest.”

Rhys was silent on the other end for a moment as he evidently thought through matter.

“You said might, is he waiting on a paternity test or something?”

Cassian winced. “No. No he’s dragging his feet about changing the will altogether.”

“Why the fuck is he doing that there’s a bullet with his name on it!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cassian hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “I’m the one whose gonna have to jump in front of that bullet if he doesn’t get his ass in gear. But he…he’s losing the love of his life, Rhys. I’m trynna cut him a little slack-”

“Slack Eris is going to have someone strangle him with.”

“I’m handling it,” Cassian promised.

Rhys went silent again.

“We could always just kill Eris.”

Cassian would have laughed at the unrestrained glee in his brother’s voice if the suggestion hadn’t been so tempting.

“No you can’t,” he reminded him, ascending the steps to his front door.

“Sorry, sorry, you probably want plausible deniability and all that- which is a shitty reason to leave a family business-”

“What are you talking about? I left because I don’t like any of you.”

“Dick.”

“See it’s that kind of thing that made for a hostile work environment I really couldn’t foresee a future working under,” he grinned, unlocking the door.

“You taught me words far more creative than that growing up, monte de merda-”

“Desenmerda-te, and don’t cuss at me in Portuguese carcamano.”

“I’m fucking Persian!”

“Tell that to your pale ass like unbaked garlic bread, minchia,” Cassian retorted in Italian as he tossed his keys onto the skirting board and shrugged off his coat.

“A fanabla!”

“Love you too, tell Feyre I said hi.”

“See you and Nesta on Sunday, I’ll text you timings.”

“No shop talk okay, she still doesn’t know anything about-”

“I know, I know, it’s not me you have to worry about. Feyre keeps asking me to hire her.”

“As what? Has Cosa Nostra began dabbling in the modelling industry under your direction, baby brother?”

“If I said yes would you come back to us?”

“I’m a one woman man, Rhys.”

“Jesus, it’s been less than a month.”

“At which point you and Feyre were engaged.”

“Nesta’s no Feyre.”

Yeah, Nesta has enough wit about her to know you can’t go round offering Mafia jobs like candy, he thought to himself.

“Whatever man, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

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otonymous · 4 years

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A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part III: Near & Far

Description: Promising beginnings and a premature end throw you into a tailspin Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised. Potential trigger warnings: depictions of mild PTSD symptoms, mentions of death of a close family member, disappearances, “breakups,” angst, profanity Word Count: 1882 words (~9 mins of falling in love and wallowing in angst 😱😂) Author’s Notes: If you’re still following this story, please accept a giant (virtual) hug from me to you! Thank you very much from the bottom of my heart for supporting me and this piece of work! 💖 Without further ado, I present to you part 3 of my slow-burn Shaw fic, written for the lovely @op-peccatori as part of my follower milestone celebration.

As always, dear reader, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above, and happy reading! 😊

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Four

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

“You can relax, you know. I won’t try anything funny while you sleep, not my style. Besides, isn’t this much better than camping out on the floor?”

Nodding your head before you realize that Shaw probably couldn’t see you in the dark, your “Yes” comes out in a mewl so pathetic you wished you could immediately take it back.

His snicker shakes the bed, reverberating across squeaky springs to where you lay beside him, right at the edge of the twin mattress as you tried not to let your hands touch.

No matter how much you wished for them to.

Beyond the window, a neon signboard paints electric shadows on your walls in splashes of pink, flashing in time to a rhythm Shaw tapped out with one foot beneath the covers.

“Is it cool if…if we didn’t draw the blinds tonight? I can’t sleep in complete darkness.” He had asked you earlier that evening, towelling off his hair as he emerged from your bathroom wearing a shirt your ex had left behind along with your broken heart a year and a half ago.

Snoopy looked much better riding his skateboard across Shaw’s broad chest anyways.

And there, in the midst of an awkward arrangement where sleep would surely prove fleeting, the sounds of the night: the low hum of the refrigerator, the pawn shop’s sign buzzing just on the other side of the windowpane…the tick-tock of the clock on the wall, steady like Shaw’s breath beside you as it counts down precious time—

“I’ll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning.”

Ba-bump.

“No, there’s…there’s no rush. Honestly.”

“Can you really afford to miss more work because of me?”

Silence. You couldn’t refute the truth.

“Tell you what, in exchange for putting up with me, you can ask me anything you want. I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes; surely you must be curious about some things. Might as well find out before I go.”

Your stomach knotted, clenching tight. He was right. For all you know, it was now or never. “Why did you join? The triad, that is.”

He is silent for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to piece together.

“I’m looking for my brother.”

Out of all possible answers, this wasn’t one you were expecting. Turning onto your side, you study the handsome profile of his face — watching as pink mixed with lavender in the most ethereal way until you were overcome with the sense that in this vast ocean of life, you and him stood on very different shores. Eyes still fixed on your ceiling, Shaw continues.

“He was an undercover cop, working to infiltrate the ranks of the group I’m currently a part of. I only found out by accident, and he made me swear up and down not to breathe a word of it to mom. Then one day…he was gone. Just...disappeared off the face of the earth. Mom and I went down to the station every day for months, knew the names and faces of everyone who worked in that building, but it was like Gavin never even existed.

“It was too much for her. I came home late from school one day — found her on the floor, barely breathing. It was dark in the apartment…so dark. She had probably just drawn the curtains. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was already gone. Heart attack, they said.

“I lie awake at night sometimes, wonder how I’m going to tell him that mom’s no longer here — go through the motions in my head, rehearsing every line. ‘Cus I know that sooner or later, that day will come. There’s no way he’s dead. I know my brother.”

A glimmer at the corner of his eye catches yours. Beneath the covers, your fingers inch towards his, finding courage in the darkness to brush against his pinky as if the sliver of warmth could express what words simply couldn’t convey.

“With mom gone, there was nothing to lose. I joined the group, worked hard…did what they needed me to do to gain their trust, all while collecting scraps of info here and there — whatever I could get my hands on in the hopes that it’ll lead me to Gav.”

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Tiny drops of rain speckle your windowpane. And when Shaw’s finger hooks around yours as if in a solemn pinky swear, the tears burning your eyes finally fall. You don’t ask him how many years it’s been, the dirty deeds he’s had to sully his hands with. You don’t question him about the father he doesn’t mention. All you can do is watch as a solitary drop rolls down the side of his face before soaking into lavender strands fanned out on the pillow, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back bitterness only he knew.

In spite of it all, he is the one who chuckles when he turns towards you, eyes red rimmed even as his brows rise in feigned exasperation when he says, “Why are you crying?! I’m the one with the tragic past here!”

And when you start to cry even harder, his soft hushes of “Shh, shh…I’m sorry, that last part was a joke. It’s all right, everything will be okay, I promise,” burrows deep into your heart and you believe him.

Because when he reaches towards you — the thumb wiping the tears from your eyes calloused yet gentle — you are struck by a sense of overwhelming tenderness:

In the carefulness of his touch.

In the way he regards you with the sincerity of some unspoken emotion.

In the entirety of this man whom the rest of the world has already written off.

And that is when you know…

“I didn’t mean to make you cry by telling you all this, I’m sorry.”

…that you are in love with him.

“I’ll make it up to you. Ask me another question. Maybe something less depressing this time.”

A smile spreads across his face. You wished there was a way for you to keep the warmth of his hand on your cheek forever. Sniffling, you try again.

“Wh-why did you keep coming in to my store everyday? There’s a lot of other convenience stores in the area—”

A flash of panic in those amber eyes, and Shaw is turning over with lightning speed until all you can see is the smooth expanse of his back.

“Changed my mind. A guy’s gotta keep some secrets! Goodnight!”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

Wrap your arms around the pillow.

“Good girls shouldn’t concern themselves with bad boys.”

Bury your face into its cushiony fill.

“Or have you forgotten that I’m wanted by the police?”

And inhale deeply.

Shaw’s scent on your sheets is faint now, so much so that you can’t be entirely sure you’re not imagining it, having gone through this ritual countless times since the day Shaw left your apartment…

…and stepped out of your life.

* * �� *

“Is there…any way I could stay in touch with you? I-I just…just want to make sure you’re okay…”

Voice trailing off, you watch as Shaw gingerly shrugs one arm then another through the sleeves of his leather jacket, still wearing the Snoopy t-shirt he had slept in the night before after you told him he could keep it. His own was torn beyond repair, stubbornly dyed in blood regardless of how much you scrubbed at it. And when he hesitated still, you said he would just be doing you the favour of taking out the trash.

Smoothing down the front of his jacket, Shaw glances at the phone in your hands — eyes tracing along your eager fingers, poised to type. The expression on his face is unreadable, as if the man you had spent the night sharing secrets with was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

“It’s better if we don’t. I’ll be fine, just laying low for the next while — boss’s orders. And I don’t want the cops coming around to your place again. Detective Whatshisname looks like he could be really good at hounding pretty girls like you.”

That smirk again, so familiar to you by now. And in the compliment that would’ve made you blush bright red before, nothing but a smokescreen.

“Shaw, I don’t mind—”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?" The force in his voice cuts, and you barely breathe to feel his finger curl beneath your chin, tilting up your face until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. Those eyes are dull, like molten gold frozen beneath a layer of impenetrable ice. “Good girls shouldn’t concern themselves with bad boys. Or have you forgotten that I’m wanted by the police?”

The shiver that runs electric down your spine makes the hairs on your skin stand on end. It was like looking at a stranger. Heart racing, your palms grow clammy with sweat, unsure of exactly when your phone had dropped from your hands, slipping away like…

“I don’t care about the cops! I’ll deal with them—”

“DEAL WITH WHAT?! You think that just because you managed to turn them away at the door that it makes you a hardened criminal?! WE are not the same, okay? My life is worthless. I’ve already signed it away a long time ago, I’m ready to give it up without a second thought. But you…you’re different. Y-you’re kind, innocent. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. One day, you’ll make someone the luckiest person in the world, be a beautiful mother to beautiful children. Don’t sell yourself short…not for someone like me.”

The silence that descends is thick, suffocating. You don’t speak, afraid to open your mouth because it takes all your concentration just to keep the tears from spilling from your eyes.

Finally letting go of your chin, Shaw reaches behind his neck to undo the clasp on the thin gold chain he wore, the jade disc pendant that hung from it still warm from the heat of his skin when he places it in the palm of your hand.

“It’s not much, but it was a gift from my mom and the most valuable thing I own. You saved my life, so it’s yours now. Maybe…maybe one day, you can give it to your own child.”

Lump in your throat, you can barely breathe, let alone tell him there was no way you could accept something that precious, something that priceless. That you didn’t drag him home that night, broken and bleeding, in the hopes of gain; not for money, not for love.

He curls your fingers around the heirloom, gentle thumb pressing on index, middle, ring then pinky in turn before your fist finds itself held tightly within the press of his much larger hand for one…two…three seconds…

…before those purple Chuck Taylors take him to your door…

Slam.

…and just like that, the man with the lavender hair is gone.

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

Forgive me for trolling, but there really was only one bed LOL! Hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter, and please stay tuned for what may be the final instalment in this Shaw saga! - XOXO

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Thanks so much for reading! 💕 Check out more of my work here! 📚(Please do not repost/copy/alter my work. Reblogs, on the other hand, are a-ok and much appreciated! 👍🏼💖)

#mlqc #mr love queen's choice #love and producer #mr love dream date #evol x love #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #mlqc shaw smut #mlqc shaw fic #mlqc fic #my writing #fanfiction #elex

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adxmparriish · 4 years

Text

make you sing like birdsong - read on ao3

writer: lizziebxnnet / godgavemelou words: 1671 rating: explicit

“My dearest Jude,” Cardan breathes, his mouth moving closer to her, the hot air of his breath causing her to shiver, “I’m going to make you scream. Your voice will be like birdsong to the folk of Faerie.”

Written for Day 12 of Folktober.

@jurdannetrevels @jurdannet @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @clockworkgraystairs

-----

Jude’s mask weighs heavy on her face as she scans the room, hundreds of people milling about, dancing, and making conversation. Wine flows from every cup, laughs and merry energy floating through her skin and bones, making her feel light.

Her dress is extravagant. The deep burgundy of the fabric dips in a low a-line, showing off the caramel color of her skin. It’s sleeveless but bears a sheer cape, falling down her arms and down her back, the bottom of it grazing the floor. Her mask is the same deep red, with flecks of black, and feathers off the side. Her hair is swept back from her face, twisted in an elegant knot as the base of her neck. She looks lethal, like she’s swimming in the blood of all her enemies, the blood of people who met the blade of Nightfell. She’s never felt more beautiful.

Cardan is the one who decided on having this masquerade and yet, Jude hasn’t met his eyes in over an hour. A full moon’s light filters through the windows of the hall, casting beautiful shadows as all of Elfhame dances the night away. Jude moves with grace through the hall, the dais lingering at the front, taunting her with Cardan’s empty throne.

As if he’s heard her thoughts, Cardan’s hand meets her hip, his fingers playing with the soft fabric of her gown.

“How is my High Queen?” he drawls, the smell of wine heavy on his lips. Jude smiles.

“She’s busy wondering why her King has abandoned her,” she whispers back, twirling in his grip so their faces are close, nose to nose.

He’s stunning, beyond breathtaking, the black ink of his eyes twinkling as he grins back at her. His hair is messy, the crown sitting on his head at an angle, as it always seems to be. The black of his outfit makes his eyes shine even more, velvet covering the lapels of his jacket. Jude runs her hands over it, feeling his heartbeat beneath the fabric, before falling to his free hand, gold rings covering every finger.

“I would never allow myself the displeasure of abandoning you, my sweet villain. I was merely mingling.” Cardan’s eyes wander, following the deep cut of her dress. Jude feels her skin heat up under his gaze.

“Besides,” he grins, pulling her even closer, “if I had indeed abandoned you, I would be doing myself the dishonor of not seeing you in this dress.”

Despite the company around them, Jude suddenly feels as if they’re alone, darkness swallowing up everything but herself and Cardan. His hands are heavy on her hips, his gaze burning into her own. He lifts their intertwined hands, kissing her fingers. Jude’s heart races in her chest at his touch, Cardan’s lips moving from her hands as he leans forward, finding her neck. Despite the fact that they are in the hall, eyes finding them in the middle of the masses, she tilts her head, allowing him better access. She can feel his grin against her skin.

“Cardan,” she gasps, her hands gripping his jacket. She’s so warm from his touch, she fears she might catch aflame.

“Yes, my darling?” he ponders, his mouth sucking a bruise into the delicate skin of her neck.

Jude pulls back from him, gazing at him with heavy eyes. He frowns slightly, his enjoyment delayed. However, as she grabs his hand and pulls him from the hall and out the side door that leads to their chambers, his smile returns. Jude wonders, as she guides them through the winding halls of the palace, if this wasn’t his plan the entire time.

The guards by their doors nod at them as Jude swings open the door, pulling Cardan inside before slamming it shut. His hands find her body quickly, pulling down the zipper that lines her side. He brushes the cape of her dress aside as he pulls down the dress, careful not to rip it. Jude isn’t sure she even cares about the gown as she steps out of it, completely bare when she rips the mask from her face. Cardan’s eyes watch her as she steps forward, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Before she can grab the bottom of his silk shirt, he grabs her and kisses her, the press of his lips against her own urgent and rough.

Jude pulls on him hard, the delicate fabric of his top ripping in her grip. She opens her mouth and breathes him in, his tongue dancing against her own as they kiss. They both kick off her shoes as they move towards their bed, the movement of their mouths and hands never stopping, clothes falling to the floor of their chamber. Cardan spins her and her knees hit the mattress, causing her to fall against the sheets. Cardan is wearing nothing now, both of them naked, moonlight dancing through the windows and on the milky white of his skin. He’s so devastatingly beautiful that Jude fears her heart may burst.

Cardan’s hands meet her thighs, pushing them apart as he falls to his knees before her. She props herself up on her elbows, watching him as his hands graze her legs, his long fingers hot against her skin. Her own hands shake, the nerves in her system at an all time high. Every time with Cardan is like this, the emotion flowing through her like a rushing river. Oh, how she loves him.

“My dearest Jude,” Cardan breathes, his mouth moving closer to her center, the hot air of his mouth causing her to shiver, “I’m going to make you scream. Your voice will be like birdsong to the folk of Faerie.”

Jude shakes as Cardan’s tongue finds her core, licking a slow, hot stripe. Her teeth bite down hard on her lip as she moans, her shaking hands gripping their sheets.

Cardan’s hands pull her hips closer, his fingers pressing bruises into them. Like a man starved, he feasts on her. Jude is dizzy with heat and pleasure, her lungs unable to find enough air. He tongues at her clit with fervor, making her tremble and whimper. Her mind is a constant thrumming of his name, his tongue, his everything. Cardan stays buried in her, his tongue driving her wild as time ticks on.

Jude’s heart stutters in her chest when his teeth pull lightly on her clit, the pain delicious, and a groan falls from her lips before she can stop it. Cardan grins viciously against her, pulling back so he can meet her eyes. His wicked mouth is glistening and Jude’s eyes roll back in her head.

“I said I’d make you scream. Don’t make me break that promise, my Queen.”

At that, he dives back in, this time his fingers finding her core, two digits entering her along with his tongue.

“Oh god,” Jude moans, her hands shoving his crown from his inky hair so she can grip it with her fingers.

She pulls him closer and Cardan moves gladly. Her hips move on their own accord as she practically rides his mouth. His tongue and fingers move inside her, curling up as he pumps them, finding her sweet spot and causing her back to arch. Despite her teeth drawing blood from her lip, they do nothing to drown out her moans. Her skin is on fire, the pleasure in her blood thrumming all through her.

When Cardan’s teeth find her clit again, Jude has to clap a hand to her mouth to stop the scream erupting from her throat. Part of her, ever wanting to defy Cardan, wants to keep the sounds at bay. She knows she’s only biding time.

Unsatisfied, Cardan pulls back and jerks, moving them both backwards onto the floor. He falls to his back and pulls on her hips, her knees meeting the floor beside his ears. He looks up at her as she hovers over him, her bright pink cunt glistening, waiting for him to dive back in. Jude looks down at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of pleasure, every nerve a livewire under her skin. She lingers over his face, watching as he lifts up, his tongue licking slowly up her folds, teasing her.

With nothing to grab and find purchase, her hands find her breasts, pulling at her nipples as she rides him. Cardan’s eyes have closed now, immersing himself in the taste of her. Warmth bubbles at the base of her spine as he tongues at her, pulling on her clit and sucking, pulling noises from her throat as he does.

After several more minutes of slow torture, Cardan’s mouth leaves her for only a moment. His long fingers brush against her clit with fervor as his black eyes find her own.

“Come, my dear Jude. Scream for me, my darling nemesis.”

At his words, Jude’s climax slams into her with the force of thunder and lightening. A scream tears from her, her orgasm shaking her to her very core. Her vision whites out as she rides his mouth once again, his tongue finding her to maximize her pleasure. Her hips stutter and then slow as she comes down from the high, her thighs giving out as she falls forward and rolls off of Cardan.

The softness of their rug welcomes her, her body exhausted from the ordeal Cardan just put her through. A smile graces his mouth as he turns towards her, pulling her closer to him. She smiles back at him, delirious with happiness, her love for him blooming like a wildflower in her chest.

“I love you,” she murmurs, her body curling into his.

“You are my everything,” Cardan returns, his voice heavy with sleep.

Jude’s thoughts are slow and relaxed as she stays curled into Cardan’s embrace, his tail finding a place wrapped around her calf. As she drifts off, Cardan’s lips find her temple, planting a kiss there.

She will return the favor, she thinks, as she finally drifts off into nothingness.

#folktober #folktober2020 #jurdannet #jurdannetrevels #jurdan #tfota #jurdan fanfic #tfota fanfic #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #jude duarte #jude greenbriar #cardan greenbriar #judecardan #my fic

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bi-writes · 4 years

Photo

notorious: reboot — chapter five venom

May you be dead long before you realize what I’ve poisoned you with.

type: series, alternate universe detail: mob!tom word count: 8.5k warnings: mature language and themes, nsfw content included in this chapter series masterlist

Time could be an enemy. Time could be a friend. Time could heal wounds, and time could rip them open, letting them fester and bleed and scar. Time could even do all of these things, all at the same time.

Time had done those things already. All of them, all at once, all to you.

You were alone again in your apartment. You were alone a lot these days. Mariposa had disappeared, like she always did, and you weren’t sure it was for a mission any more than it was for herself. You knew she was tangled between sheets somewhere near, sleeping in his arms, being comforted by him. Time had brought them together, little by little, and time was drawing them close, so close you knew soon they’d be nothing but inseparable.

She had even done a few jobs beside him. Opening up doors with a flash of her sweet smile and letting Harrison pull the trigger. They were reckless together. They were chaotic together. And you were furious, but every time you went to confront her about it, how could you say no to that sweet face? Mariposa was happy. Mariposa was loved. Mariposa was getting the attention that you could never give her, and every time you went to yank it away from her, you failed. Not to mention Harrison was looking after, watching her back. She wasn’t alone anymore, and Harrison always had one hand on her and another on his gun, and you couldn’t say the same, because in the end, you really only looked out for yourself.

And I hate myself for it.

You knew deep down inside that your love would never be enough for her. But his could be. And God, dammit, you couldn’t do that to her, not anymore. It had gone too far, she was in too deep, and you knew she would never forgive you if you took him away from her. You knew that she would say that it was okay, but that she would forever resent you deep down inside her pretty heart.

Time was a bitch.

There were nights like this when you were alone, and Tom would be here. There were nights when you would have your head in his lap, and you would talk, and somehow the sun would be coming up, and you would be kissing as it rose. The shadows on his face would change, from purple and blue to orange and red, and you would kiss and kiss until you didn’t have any more words left to say.

I miss you.

Then he would leave and come back, leave and come back, and you realized there was so much depth in the darkness of his eyes. Before you had just seen one, continuous color of dark coffee brown, but now you saw something else swimming in there, things you wanted to know, to learn, to figure out. Tom himself was someone you wanted to figure out.

You couldn’t count the amount of times you both were sitting in your living room, drinking, laughing. Sometimes you would curl up on the couch with a movie, and other times you both preferred the silence after a long, long day. Other nights neither of you could stop talking.

I am yours, and you are mine.

You felt like such a snake on nights like those. Both of you would spill secrets into each other’s mouths, kiss, tell each other stories. If this was any other man, you might even say you were falling into the deep end with him, but you knew when you opened your eyes, there would have to be a gun on his head, and you would be pulling the trigger.

Maybe I’m not yours, but you are all mine.

You weren’t sure when that time would come when you had to wake up from this dream. There was venom in every kiss, poison against every touch, and sometimes you lied awake at night, tears falling silently down your cheeks when you realized how deep this was starting to go.

You wondered what he would do when he found out that you knew all along. You wondered what the look on his face would be. You wondered if he would be surprised, or angry, or maybe just broken. You wondered if he would love you or hate you or maybe, just maybe, he would feel nothing at all.

We’re all broken inside. You just might have a few more pieces left, that’s all.

You wondered what he would do when you finally put a gun to his head. Now that you thought about it, you figured he might just let you kill him. You figured he wouldn’t fight back. He had said it to you, a few nights ago, and now that you thought about it all, you knew he probably hadn’t been lying.

You laid your head on his shoulder, one arm around his middle as you both looked out at the bustling below on Park Avenue. The wind was blowing, a chill running through you, and Tom wrapped his arm around you tighter, taking his suit jacket off the back of the chair and draping it over your bare legs.

“I’m sorry you got into trouble tonight, love.”

You sniffled a bit, shaking your head. Tom always said he was sorry. You liked to believe that he was, that he was sorry. You liked to believe that he worried about you, sitting in his office, waiting for the phone call that told him the job was done and that you were alright.

“Tom, you…you didn’t know—”

“But it happened,” he interrupted you, and you closed your eyes, putting your cheek against his chest. It had been a long time before you were scared the way you were tonight. They had cornered you, grabbed onto you, and you only got free enough to pull the fire alarm that had everyone swarming around you, pushing you all, throwing them off of you as you fled. All you did was send one text, and Tom was picking you up, and you had fallen into his arms in the car, staring into nothing as he held you.

Now, Tom was holding a glass full of hard liquor that you were both sharing, but it didn’t do much to numb what you were feeling. You called Tom. He was the only person you could call because you knew he would be there. You could’ve called De Luca, but he would’ve yelled at you. Tom, you knew Tom. Tom would hold you.

“I should kill you for sending me,” you tried to joke, and Tom just shook his head.

“You should,” he replied, licking his lips. “Fuck, I should’ve…”

“Tom. It’s okay. I got out. I didn’t get hurt.”

“But you almost did. And shit, y/n, when you called, I…fuck, I was so worried,” he murmured. “I know things haven’t been…I know I haven’t been delivering on my end, but you have, and for that…if something had happened to you, then I would’ve gone back on my word, and shit, that would haunt me.”

“To go back on your word?”

“To go back on my word when it comes to you, love,” he said into your ear. “I don’t want to be someone you can’t trust.”

It was sweet, his words. But they were toxic. He was lying. He was so good at it, it almost hurt you. Tom was playing a part, and he played it so well that you wanted to believe it because right now, you needed his tenderness. You needed it all.

“Kill me if I am.”

You stared down at your hands. They were bloody, so bloody, and it was dried under your fingernails, seeping into the cracks of your palms. You were shaking a bit as you fell onto the floor of your apartment, and you scrambled for your phone, putting it to your ear as you heard it dial. You couldn’t stop shaking. Nothing would stop the shaking.

“Please, Tom, please,” you stuttered, stuck against the wall. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t move anything. Your feet even had blood on them; it had seeped in through your heels, and your dress was in tatters. The phone call went to voicemail, and you whimpered, getting the courage to pick yourself up off the floor. There was something inside of you screaming for him.

Tom. Tom. Tom.

It was your only motivation. You got into the back of a taxi, barefoot and still covered in blood, and you screamed an address at the driver, and he drove with his eyes screwed to the front. You dropped a wad of bloody hundreds into the front seat as you got out, and you made your way into the autobody shop, opening the door with the key in your hand. You left bloody handprints everywhere you went, but you didn’t care. When the doors finally opened, Tom’s men couldn’t stop staring. They didn’t say anything, and you were glad for that, even if they were gawking at you.

A few of them seemed like they wanted to ask you what was wrong, but someone had broken the rule before, talking to you before you had talked to them, and Tom had put them in their place at that. Now you were just walking through the shop, covered in blood, going for the staircase that led up to the second floor.

You grabbed a hold of his office door, but nobody warned you. You pushed it open, expecting to find him sitting at his desk, a drink in his hand, ignoring you slightly as usual. But that’s not where he was. The closet doors were opened, and Tom was standing there, his eyes on the woman in front of him. You didn’t get a good enough look at her except for the dirty blonde waves that bounced as Tom moved her against the wall, their grunts and moans like nails on chalkboard in your ear. You just froze. You couldn’t explain why.

He always answered my calls. And this is why he couldn’t?

You stepped back, still barefoot, continuing to back up until you hit someone from behind. You turned around, looking up into those familiar baby blues, and you had tears in your eyes.

Because he was cock deep in a woman he doesn’t even know?

There was relief inside of you, looking up at him. Because his brows were furrowed, and he was looking at you, worried. Harrison cared. He cared about you because Mariposa cared about you. Even if you weren’t precious to him, you were precious to her, and that was enough for Harrison to put his hands on your shoulders cautiously, concern etched in his handsome features.

“y/n?” Harrison breathed. “What…what the hell happened to you?”

The tears fell slowly, and they were visible on your dirty face because as they fell, they left behind clear skin. Your cheeks had been dried with blood, just like your hair, tangled and matted with it, and the sight was gruesome. Harrison reached around you and pulled Tom’s office door shut, trying to ignore what he just saw, the noises muffled as it shut behind you.

“I couldn’t…I just…”

“It’s alright. It’s alright, love.”

Harrison looked around, at Tom’s lackeys who were still staring, and he bent down and picked you up. He cradled you to his chest, and you let him, and he glared at anyone who continued to stare.

“Get back to fucking work!” Harrison snapped, carrying you down the stairs. “You shouldn’t have come here, y/n.”

You put your arms around his neck, hiding your face in his chest, and he could feel you shaking almost violently. You didn’t answer him smartly or say anything at all. You just stared blankly behind him, at the now shut door to Tom’s office. You didn’t know how to describe how you felt.

Empty, maybe. Like his promises.

Harrison held you for a long time. The car rode as smooth as it could, but there was traffic, moments when everything stood still, and it was just you in Harrison’s lap, holding onto him because if you didn’t, you would’ve burst into tears. Harrison rubbed your back, keeping you close.

“y/n, you’ve got to talk to me, love,” he murmured. “Who did it?”

You said nothing. You were still thinking about it, truthfully. You could still feel his hands on your back, in your hair, pulling on you, growling in your ear about how much he wanted to kill you. His blood had been so…warm. So eerily warm, and you tried to wipe it off your arms sometimes, but it had dried there, was stuck there, and Harrison would push your hands off gently, keeping you still. He didn’t think low of you because of the way you clung to him. In fact, Harrison thought maybe this entire time, his ill opinions about you were just because he was misinformed. You had gone out alone tonight, and you had come back alone tonight. Clearly, something had happened, and although you were covered in a mess of someone else’s blood, you were alive. You had survived, and there was nothing more admirable in Harrison’s eyes than that.

He was sorry. He was sorry because he had thought you were just a spoiled, ill-trained heiress from sunny California. You were anything but. There was determination inside of you, strength. Being vulnerable like this didn’t make you any less, it just made you human.

You didn’t count the minutes like you usually did, but the driveway and the house that emerged after the drive was familiar. Harrison brought you out of the car, with you still in his arms, and he walked past Tom’s brothers, gathered in the kitchen, and went upstairs, carrying you towards the nearest bathroom. He set you down on the counter before he started up the bath, and then you heard clicks of heels against the wood, familiar curls emerging in the doorway.

Her eyes widened so big, and as soon as she saw you, her face was flushed. Her y/n, not even recognizable anymore.

“y/n,” Mariposa came towards you, and she wiped your matted hair off your forehead. “Oh, y/n, who did this to you?”

Her voice was so soft and angelic, and all you felt was tears as she cooed soft things in your ear.

You still said nothing. Mariposa took your shaking hands in hers, looking back between you and Harrison. You stared off into space, not caring that you were rubbing off dried blood onto her hands. Harrison shut off the water, and Mariposa helped you off the counter, getting your clothes off. She came with you to the bathtub, helping you get in, and as soon as you sat down, the water was turning a dark, ugly red.

He’s still everywhere. I can’t get him off.

“I’m going to…grab a few things, I’ll be right back,” Mariposa whispered, getting up and hurrying out. Harrison stood there, rubbing his chin, and you looked at your hands still dark red and stained. He let out a breath through his nose before he took his suit jacket off, rolling up his sleeves before grabbing the sponge from the side of the bath. He knelt down beside you, but it was like you didn’t even notice anything happening around you.

Empty. Empty is the right word.

“y/n, who did this to you?” Harrison asked, dipping the sponge in the water. You shook your head, and he gently put the sponge to your face, wiping it down softly. You leaned into him as he wiped some of the blood off of your cheek, your skin a little cleaner. “y/n, you’ve got to talk to me. Tom sent you out on a job tonight?”

You nodded slowly, and he dipped the sponge in again and started to wipe your hands clean. Your hands were the most stained. They felt sticky and frozen, but Harrison was gentle,

“y/n, who was it?”

Mariposa came back into the room. She was holding some of her clothes and a first aid kit, and she set it down on the counter before coming towards the bath, kneeling beside Harrison.

“Harrison, just let her be,” Mariposa said softly, reaching into the bath and getting your hands into hers, starting to clean them more thoroughly. Harrison wet the sponge again and rung it out over your head, wetting your hair. The bath got redder, darker, and Mariposa grimaced a bit. “It’s okay, y/n. I’m here, okay?”

Harrison got most of the blood out of your hair before Mariposa pulled the plug out of the drain, letting the water go down. She shooed Harrison out of the bathroom, and Mariposa turned the bath back on once it was all clean again. She took the soap from the edge of the bath and scrubbed the blood out of your matted hair and off your body, and when she was satisfied that no more blood was on any part of you, Harrison was waiting with a towel by the door, and Mariposa took it gratefully. Their eyes met for a moment, and Harrison just shook his head. Mariposa was close to tears. She was so angry that it hurt. Harrison put a hand on her cheek and kissed her forehead gently before she turned and made her way back to you.

She helped you out of the bath, brushing your hair out as you shrugged on the tank top and sweatpants she gave you. She sat behind you as you sat on the floor, braiding your hair back and out of your face as you stared at the floor. As she braided, Harrison took care of the cuts and bruises along your arm and the blister on your hands. He could tell you had fought well tonight. Your knuckles were yellowing all over and split open, and your palms were cut. He was careful, but you barely reacted to his touches.

Why today? Why today, Tom?

Mariposa took your hand and helped you up off the floor, and she guided you into the bedroom and onto the bed she made up for you. She tucked you in gently, and you curled up against the sheets, closing your eyes, and she promised she would be back in a moment as she gathered your bloody clothes, following Harrison outside.

“You tell me what happened right now, Harrison,” Mariposa demanded, throwing your clothes onto the ground. “What sort of death mission did you idiots send her on?!”

She was so angry. Her face was red, and she was pushing on his chest, and her tears were daring to fall.

“Ri, I promise, I had nothing to do with that,” Harrison assured her, putting his hands on her cheeks. “She…she just came into the office, looking…looking like that. And God, shit, she went into Tom’s bloody office and saw…Jesus…”

“Saw what?” Mariposa narrowed her eyes. “What did she see?”

“Tom and his fucking whore,” Harrison put a hand to his forehead. “God, he had a whore in there, and he was just…”

Mariposa’s nose twitched a bit, and she sucked in a breath. She wasn’t there. She hadn’t been at your apartment when you came home. She was here, in Harrison’s bedroom, waiting for him.

“Oh, no,” she closed her eyes. “Oh, God, she needed me, and I…I was here. I was here, waiting for you.”

“Ri—”

“No!” Mariposa shrugged off his arms. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Trouble in paradise, aye?” A dark voice laughed, and Harrison and Mariposa turned their heads to look down the hall. Tom was taking his jacket off, strolling towards them, and Harrison was too focused on what he was going to say before he could stop Mariposa. She bent her knee, snatched the heel off of her foot, and she threw it at Tom, hitting him square in the face. She kicked off her other heel before running towards him, her hands on him, smacking him and beating on his head.

“Ri, stop!” Harrison cried, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her up. She screamed and kicked in Harrison’s arms.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Tom pulled his gun out from his waistband, pressing it to her forehead. She fell limp in Harrison’s arms, and he let her down gently, holding her to his chest. Her chest was still heaving as she panted, and she struggled against Harrison, trying to break out of his grip. All Harrison could see was the gun on Mariposa’s forehead and Tom’s finger grazing the trigger.

“Tom,” Harrison said lowly. “Tom, you tosser, put the fucking gun down.”

“I wanna know why this little bird thinks she can put her bloody hands on me and think I’ll be straight with it,” Tom growled, cocking the gun to the side. Harrison brought Mariposa’s head back, putting his hand between Tom’s gun and her forehead. Tom didn’t care, and Harrison knew that Tom would shoot through his hand to get to her if he truly wanted to.

Mariposa didn’t seem to mind that there was a gun to her head. She glared at Tom, leaning forward into the barrel and spitting right in his face. Tom scrunched his nose at that.

“For what you did to y/n,” Mariposa said weakly, wiping her mouth. “Fuck you, you piece of shit.”

Tom lowered the gun, and Harrison put Mariposa behind him. He shoved her back a bit, keeping a hand on her to hold her there.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where did you send y/n, Tom?” Harrison asked, shaking his head. “Where did you send her tonight?

Tom put his gun into the waistband of his pants, lighting a cigarette. He was unbothered still. He couldn’t really fathom the idea that anything happened to you. Sometimes you got in a pinch, but you always got out alright. You were always okay. After so many jobs, Tom didn’t think it was necessary to worry so much.

“I sent her to Midtown. What the fuck is it to you?” Tom snapped. “’s my business.”

God, the prick doesn’t even know.

“And when were you supposed to get a call back?” Harrison questioned.

Tom sighed a bit. “Shit,” he muttered, going into his pocket and pulling out his phone. There it was, your name lit on the screen. “I missed it.”

“You forgot about her, pendejo?” Mariposa spoke up. “Of course you did!”

She fought to get around Harrison, but he held her back, and Tom let out a breath of smoke. He narrowed his eyes at her, a silent warning for her to cool down before he did something about her.

“I’ve got to call her back,” Tom shook his head, and Mariposa pushed Harrison aside.

“She’s right here, you asshole!” She snapped. She picked up the bloody clothes from the floor and threw it at his chest. “You sent her into a death trap, and she held up her end of the deal, because that’s who she is. And you—!” Mariposa leaned forward, shoving Tom backwards by putting her hands on his chest, “she needed you! But instead she saw you fucking someone’s brains out!”

Harrison grabbed her arm before she could hit him again, and Mariposa had tears in her eyes.

“y/n has feelings for you—”

“Ri—”

“No, he needs to hear it!” Mariposa snapped at Harrison, pushing him away from her. She turned back to Tom, her angry tears finally spilling, and she jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. “She has feelings for you. And maybe she’ll never admit it because t-that’s who she is, she’s a hardass, but she has feelings for you,” Mariposa whimpered. “But you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her. Not for one second! And I hope she never forgives you!”

Tom fingered the bloody dress in his hands. He was so stiff and tense as he looked down at it, and he let out a cracked breath as he saw the zipper of the dress a bit torn. Someone had touched you.

My girl. Who touched my girl?

“Where is she?” Tom swallowed. “Haz, where is she?”

“Mate, it’s not a good time,” Harrison murmured, shaking his head. “It’s…it’s not a good time. She needs to sleep.”

Tom grabbed the front of his dress shirt, “Haz, don’t give me that, where is she? Where is she?”

“She came into the office, Tom,” Harrison said lowly, staring him down. “She was barefoot and covered in blood, from her feet to her bloody hair. She came, and she was looking for you, Tom, because shit happened tonight, you led her into something that almost killed her, and she needed you. And she saw you. She saw you, and she couldn’t even move.”

Tom’s face scrunched up in anger, but Harrison continued. He wanted to hurt Tom. Tom needed to understand that with women they cared about, with women that were special to them, they couldn’t just be special when they were together. They had to be special together, apart, and always. There was no picking and choosing, no sometimes and occasionally. It was all or nothing for men like them, and if Tom kept going the way he did, Harrison knew he would lose you. Tom would lose you before he realized how much you meant to him.

You’ve lost me. There’s nothing left.

“I brought her back here to clean her up. And I doubt she wants to see you, mate,” Harrison finished, his voice low and dark and menacing.

Tom let go of Harrison, running a shaky hand through his hair. He paced for a bit before pushing past the both of them, going into the room behind them. He pushed the door open, and the knob banged against the wall beside it. You were laying down still, not moving, and Tom came towards you.

Empty, empty, empty.

“Jesus, y/n,” he murmured, climbing onto the bed, and you stiffened.

Fuck you.

“Don’t touch me,” you whispered harshly when he reached a hand out. He dropped his hand, clenching his jaw. There was nothing more he wanted to do then brush your baby hairs out of your face and look at you sweetly. Your eyes were blank, hollow, not even a reflection in them.

Empty.

“y/n…love, what happened? Tell me what happened,” he demanded weakly. You met his eyes for the first time, and he was ready to wreak havoc on the room when he could see the tears on your face. It made him angry. It made him so angry to know something had gotten to you so deeply that you felt the need to cry. He ached to his bones. “Tell me.”

His voice was begging, and you took pity on that. Tom Holland never begged.

You looked away from him. “Viktor was there,” you said, your voice cracking. Your throat was dry, but you managed to talk. You said more words in the past minute than you’ve said in hours, and you could feel it. “Viktor was there, Tom.”

“But…no. Tonight—”

“I don’t know who gave you that intel,” you interrupted him, practically spitting it out. Your voice was venom, but he needed to know. “But it was wrong. I walked into a goddamn trap, and I barely made it out alive.”

“Tell me,” Tom demanded lowly. “Tell me what happened.”

It was simple. Get in, get out, smooth operation. Tom had asked something simple of you. Viktor had skipped town ever since his encounter with you, but his club was still causing a ruckus in Midtown. Tom needed you to bug the private men’s bathroom, and that was all. Get in, smack the device under the sink, and get out. Easy.

You wore black, dressed like one of the waitresses, and it was easy to sneak into the private bathrooms at the back when you were holding a tray of alcohol. You slipped into the bathroom, putting the tray down as you put the device under the sinks at the counter. When you stood up straight, you were looking in the mirror, and he was standing behind you.

Viktor. He had healed completely since you last saw him. From the rumors, you heard you had cracked his head open, and he spent a few months in recovery because of the severe concussion you gave him. Maybe the asshole would learn to think twice before touching another woman, but as you met his eyes in the mirror, you realized he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. He had a dark look in those eyes.

Is that what lust looked like? Or revenge?

You slid out of the way as he moved to punch you, ducking under his arm before pulling your arm back, elbowing him in the ribs. He fell over for a second, but then he went for your legs, tackling you onto the floor.

“Get over here!”

You kicked and grunted, using your stiletto heel to pierce his head. He yelled out in pain, and you managed to scramble away, but he caught your ankles, yanking you back down to his level. He wrapped his arms around your neck, standing with you, choking you. He threw you onto the bathroom counter, so hard your back hit the mirror and cracked it. You let out a pained gasp as you hit it, feeling the breath knock out of you for a moment. You barely had time to recover.

You ducked quickly when he moved to hit you again, and his fist collided with the mirror, the glass shattering and falling around you. You grabbed him by the head and brought your knee up, hitting him square in the nose. You could practically feel his nose break against your knee, felt it crack, and when he looked up at you, his nose was gushing blood practically, dripping onto your legs.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” He grabbed you by the waist and yanked you off the counter, throwing you over his shoulder, but not before your fingers grabbed for a shard of glass and stabbed him in the back with it, your fingers stained with blood almost immediately. He dropped you onto the floor, crying out in pain, and that’s when you moved to run. But then you heard the click of a gun. “Don’t…don’t move a fucking muscle, I’ll blow your head to shit all over the fucking walls.”

You froze, putting your hands up, turning around to face him. You stared him down, wiping your mouth, stripes of his blood now painted across your face. He looked pathetic, even with a gun in his hand, and you hoped the disgust was coming across in the look on your face. You didn’t have the gun, but you couldn’t show that you were afraid. Men liked that far too much. He was kneeling on the ground, his back still bleeding, but he slowly got to his feet. He came near you, putting the barrel to your forehead, and he nodded his chin at you.

“Against the wall, princess,” he growled. “You’re going to give me what I want. You’re not going to walk away this time.”

You backed up as he pushed you, and he spun you around quickly, forcing your hips against the wall. One hand left the gun to trail down your spine, and you sucked in an angry breath as he pulled on the zipper of your dress. You scrunched your nose angrily as you felt it rip a bit.

“You know…you almost had me,” he chuckled, and he leaned in to breathe against the skin of your shoulder. “You almost had me fooled. Your pretty face is deceptive. But you’re pathetic. And after I’m done with you, I’m going to throw every piece of you into the fucking Hudson.”

“Won’t you at least let me spread my legs?” You asked with a seductive giggle as he yanked your head back by your hair. “Make it easier for you.”

He smirked down at you, and you put your feet apart. You let one hand fall to the hem of your dress, where you hiked it up a bit, and he licked his lips, so distracted by the thought. His eyes rose back up to meet yours, and you let out a calm breath before wrapping your hands around the blade in your thigh holster, bringing it out slowly. You tossed your head back, knocking him in the forehead with the back of it, and then you pushed his arm to the side, hearing him pull the trigger. The light above you shattered from the gunshot, but you kept going, turning around and forcing the knife right into the side of his neck. He dropped the gun, and it clattered to the floor, and he fell on top of you, gurgling, bleeding, struggling. You started to breathe heavy as you shoved him off of you, grabbing the handle of the blade and pulling it right out. There was so much blood. Too much blood.

And then you saw stars in his eyes.

“You killed the bastard,” Tom muttered. “If you ask me, it’s about time.”

You swung your arm back and slapped Tom across the face, sitting up. He didn’t react. He just clenched his jaw, looking down.

Yeah, I deserved that.

“You can go fuck yourself,” you snapped. “This deal? Whatever deal we had between us, Tom? It’s over.”

“y/n, you signed your name. It doesn’t work like that.”

“That was before you played with my fucking life, Tom!” You shot back. “That was before you started treating me less like a partner and more like an expendable piece of ass for you to use for your own personal gain! I—I can’t believe that I trusted you! You said you’d protect me, but you know what Tom?” Tears flowed down your cheeks, wetting your flushing face, and you came close to him, yanking his face to yours with a tug on the collar of his shirt. “You used me. Like I knew you would. You know for a second, I thought maybe Tom Holland had a fucking heart. But you don’t. You pretended you cared about me, but really, I’m just another whore for you to use. The only difference is my job doesn’t involve fucking you.”

You let him go with a cry, sitting back against the headboard. You scooted to the far side of the bed, crossing your arms over your chest and looking away from him.

“Get out of my fucking sight,” you breathed. “I’m sick of looking at you. I told you! I told you, Tom! I told you about my father…about the shit I went through to get here, and it doesn’t mean anything to you! You’re just a selfish, arrogant, disgusting human being, and I hope that woman was worth all the shit you put me through. I hope she was worth it all.”

Tom stood up from the bed, but he circled to the other side. He was shaking his head, a defeated look on his face. She wasn’t worth it, nothing about her was worth it. Tom Holland never did the right thing, but tonight was the only night that he wished he had.

Why couldn’t you just pick up the goddamn phone?

“Tom, don’t you—”

He put both of his hands on your cheeks, tilting your head up to his. He kissed you softly, one hand sliding up and touching your hair, feeling the curves of the braid you had it in. You growled between kisses.

You can’t do this to me. You can’t do this.

“Get the fuck off of me, you bastard,” you whimpered, but there was no fight left in you. You needed his touch so desperately, and you hated how much you needed it.

“y/n, she meant nothing to me,” he breathed against your lips. “She meant nothing.”

“I hate you,” you cried, pushing on his chest, but he stayed there, holding you closer. “You’re such a bastard, Tom.”

“She meant nothing,” he repeated, closing his eyes. Tom could feel the tears coming down your face still. There was hurt in your eyes, and he hated looking at it. “And I will make it up to you. I swear I will. I will make it up to you.”

“I hope you rot in hell,” you croaked, and Tom leaned over you, kissing you furiously. You whimpered as you kissed him back, letting him climb onto the bed, letting him wrap his arms around you. “Tom, you weren’t there…why weren’t you there?”

“y/n, fuck—” He pulled away slowly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry. I will never let you go, I promise. For as long as I live, I will never stop watching your back. I will never stop watching you, I don’t care what the fuck it takes—”

“You said that before,” you sniffled. “You said you’d protect me. You said I was family. But you don’t care.”

Fuck you for making me feel like this.

“y/n, God dammit!” Tom breathed, his fingers going into your hair, pulling tightly, forcing you to look at him. The look between your eyes was intense, but he wanted you to see his own face. The regret, the pain, the undying guilt inside of me, he needed you to see it. “If you believe that, then you’re a fucking idiot. You know why I bury myself in girls like that? You want to know why, eh?” His voice was so raspy, cracking and low against your ear, and you let out a gentle sob. “I bury myself in women like that because I can’t have you! Do you hear me, y/n?”

“That’s a shit excuse,” you snapped back, and Tom laughed bitterly, holding your face to his.

“I know. I know it is, darling. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I just need you to know it,” he muttered. “I need you to hear it. Because after what happened tonight, I fucking hate myself. I hate myself, and I just need you to know the truth.”

The truth.

You tilted your head to the side, and he moved his head the other way, and you both kissed again, desperately.

“I wasn’t upset about her,” you whispered. “Tom Holland doesn’t have meaningful sex, I know that much.” You pulled away to look at him, your eyes watery and red. “Tom, I just thought…I thought you would put me first. I thought after everything that’s happened these past few months, when I really needed you, you’d pick up the goddamn phone. But you weren’t there—”

Tom shook his head before kissing you again, and you whimpered between kisses.

“You weren’t there, Tommy,” you said weakly. “The one time I needed you, a-and you weren’t there.”

Tommy.

“I’m here now,” he whispered harshly, hugging you close to him. “I’m here. I’m here, y/n, and I swear to God, I’m going to kill every last Russian in this bloody city to prove it to you.”

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, putting your head on his shoulder, and he hugged you right back, so tightly and securely. Your tears wet his shirt, and he wanted to hit something, break something.

You caused those tears, you piece of shit. This is your doing.

“That’s a lot of bodies,” you whispered in his ear, and he pulled back to cup your face with one hand. You adored when he did that. Grabbing your face, making you look at him, his dark eyes on you.

I am yours, and you are mine.

“I don’t care,” he said huskily, licking his lips. “I don’t bloody care. I’d pile those pricks up one by one, y/n. That’s what happens when you touch my family.”

Family. Pathetic.

“Is that how you plan on making it up to me?” You asked softly, and Tom reached up with his thumb, wiping the tears from under your eyes.

“Aye,” he said lowly, and you laid back on the bed as he kissed you. You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, closing your eyes as you kissed. The kisses were gentle, but desperate, and he brought you to sit up in his lap, cradling you to his chest as you straddled his waist. He leaned back against the headboard as you cupped his face in your hands, brushing your fingers across his handsome features as your mouths moved together.

He slid his hands down the waistband of your sweats, and you let him, only breathing out the softest moan as he squeezed your ass gently. But this time, it wasn’t to claim you or tease you or objectify you. He was touching you because you needed him to, and you hooked your fingers into the waistband, pushing them down your legs.

You let out a whine as he rolled over on top of you, pressing you back into the soft sheets as you kissed. He trailed a hand down between your breasts, splayed his hand flat on your stomach, then walked his fingers down to the waistband of your lace panties, slipping his fingers underneath it. You grabbed onto the back of his neck, keeping his lips to yours, and you gasped as he ran his index finger through your folds, your back arching a bit as you broke the kiss. You were pooling between the legs, the heat coming off of you warming the palm of his hand. Tom figured there was something between you, an attractive, warm, hotness of undeniable sexual tension, but he didn’t realize how tense it really was. He had barely touched you, only kissed you, and you were wetting your panties, staining them already.

Kill me now, she’s so beautiful.

“Jesus,” you breathed, hiking your leg up around his waist, and he watched your face as he brought his hand up to his mouth, licking those same fingers. They were visibly wet and sticky, and your lips parted as you watched his eyes roll back a bit at the taste, releasing them to stare back down at you. He grinned as you moaned a bit, breathlessly.

“Sweet,” he muttered, and you hit his chest.

“Stop being an asshole for one second, and—Oh!”

Tom grunted as he ripped the lace of your panties trying to pull them off, the thin, gentle fabric tearing in his hands. You tossed your head back and groaned, and he moved to touch your chin with that hand, running his thumb over your bottom lip before slipping two fingers into your mouth gently. You hummed a bit he did, looking up into his eyes as you wrapped your lips around them and sucked gently.

Did she do this for you? Was she as good as this?

“God, sweetheart, didn’t know you had it in ya,” Tom snickered, and you let his fingers go with a pop, bringing him down to kiss you again.

“You know, I hear a lot of talking and not a lot of making it up to me,” you whispered, shivering as his wet fingers traveled down your stomach again. “You think you’re so—”

You closed your eyes almost immediately, feeling his fingers circle your clit, drawing your legs open a bit wider for him. He leaned down and pressed soft, airy kisses around your mouth as he stayed there, his deft fingers just teasing you to no end as you writhed under him, your breathing starting to get heavier and heavier by the minute. He would collect a bit wetness by dipping the tips of his fingers into you, dragging them back up to touch your clit. You hated how good he could make you feel with just a few simple touches.

“Does that feel good, angel?” Tom murmured, and you held onto his biceps, nodding desperately as you dug your fingernails into his arms. He gritted his teeth a bit at that, but it felt good to be wanted, especially by you.

Angel. Angels don’t fuck, do they?

“Y-Yes, Tommy,” you whimpered, and he smirked down at you. Those eyes danced with a knowingness that you hated. He was so smug, so skilled and so confident in his own skin. He was so dominating, leaning over you, his hand between your legs, making you feel so foolish but so pleasured all at once.

“That’s good, love, that’s how I want it,” he whispered in your ear. “I want you to feel good. I want you to feel safe. Because you’re in my arms, darling, and ‘m going to take care of you.”

Liar.

“Please, Tom,” you brought his lips back to you, kissed him again. It felt good to kiss him, it felt good to hear those words, even if they were painted with lies. “Please.”

“Shhh, I know,” he licked his lips. “Relax, sweetheart. Relax.”

You put your head into the crook of his neck as he buried those two fingers inside of you, your hips bucking up against his hand as he kept them there, closing his eyes. He groaned a bit as moved them, hissing when he could feel you so tight around those two fingers, clenching like you needed more.

“Fucking hell, y/n,” Tom muttered, “don’t tell me your bloody sweet arse is that of a virgin.”

You laughed in his ear, your voice like music, and he kissed your neck softly as he gently curled his fingertips, his thumb on your clit as he tried to learn how your body reacted. Tom adored it. The way your hips moved with every movement of his hand, the way your lips parted to invite his kisses back to you, and especially the lustful, half-lidded look in your eyes that told him you were enjoying every second his hand was inside of you.

I hate how much I need you.

Oh, and when he curled his fingertips just right, when the pads of his fingers swiped across that spot, you were a mess underneath him, a gorgeous little angel that moaned his name so sweet, dripping like honey in his ear. You were so gorgeous, so beautiful, so completely wrecked that he found himself pumping his fingers faster not for his own sake but for yours, because he wanted to see what euphoria looked like on those beautiful, dangerous features.

“C’mon, angel,” Tom grunted huskily, and he gripped your chin with his other hand, forcing your eyes on his. Your mouth was gaping open, your breaths coming out as gentle moans, and you held onto him desperately, the look in your eyes so wanting. “Don’t tell me you need more.”

Truthfully, if Tom even uttered one more husky word in your ear, you would’ve finished right there. But then all you could see were the top of his perfectly tousled curls, and his tongue was on your clit, and he was planting wet, sweet kisses onto you, curling his fingers in sync with his kisses. You cried out in pleasure as he sucked, his tongue working so methodically, as if he knew exactly what you wanted. He kept his eyes on yours as he rose back up your body, and you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you, his fingers working you through the most mind-blowing, shivering orgasm. You wet his fingers generously, but he couldn’t be bothered as he watched your face. Your eyes rolled back into your head, your back arching off the bed and further into his chest. Your knees bent, coming up as your whole body tensed to his touch.

Goddamn you, Tommy. Goddamn you for all of it.

It was worth it. Even as you relaxed, the flush of your body, the heat you gave off, it was the sexiest sight he had ever laid his eyes on, and he wished he could repeat that moment over and over and over again. He thought maybe if he shut his eyes hard enough, he could remember it just fine.

But he didn’t want to remember. He wanted to be the only man on this Godforsaken earth that ever saw you with blinding lights in your eyes, he wanted to be the only man to ever touch you like this, and he knew it was selfish, he knew it was wrong, but he didn’t care.

I am yours, and you have to be mine.

“That was…” You shook your head, breathless, and Tom smirked. He picked up your sweats and helped you slip them back on, and he brushed the loose strands of hair out of your face, trying to find your eyes.

You kissed him for the hundredth time, not being able to resist. You held him close, your fingers tangled in his own hair, your breath finally calming enough that you could speak.

“Swear to me,” you said softly, brushing his curls off his face. “Swear to me that you’re not lying to me. Swear to me that the empty answers in Brooklyn…the ghosts that we’ve been chasing…swear to me that it isn’t for nothing. Swear to me that you’re going to find who did this, Tom, and that the things I’ve been doing for you won’t be for nothing.”

Tom cupped the back of your neck, nodding. He seemed so sincere. Everything in his face seemed like he was telling the truth, and you hated how much you wanted to believe him. You hated how safe he could make you feel even though you knew his promises were anything but the truth. It burned a whole inside of you knowing he could make you feel like this, make you feel like everything was so real, and still spit in your face with his words.

“I swear, y/n. I swear.”

His voice was poison. His lips were toxic. His words were a lie.

And so were yours.

You hugged Tom tightly, putting your head into the crook of his neck, staring out into nothing as your face fell serious. There was a part of you that thought maybe you would tell Tom the truth. There was a part of you that thought maybe you and Tom could drop the façade, could break down your own walls, and start new again. A few hours ago, you would have been ready to sit down and tell Tom the truth.

But Tom Holland didn’t care. He didn’t kiss you because he cared, he didn’t fuck you with those sweet fingers of his because he felt for you.

You were Tom Holland’s weapon, and he didn’t want to let you go. Tonight proved that much. Letting him touch and kiss you would be your forgiveness, but you were still alive inside, alive with an angry fire that could only be put out when you put a bullet in Tom’s head.

Fuck you, Tom.

If you bit Tom now, how long would you have to wait to see the venom seep into his body?

Would he die slow? Would he die quickly? Would there be enough time to look him in the eyes before death set in?

Will I get to see stars in his eyes, too?

read chapter six

#OH MY GOD #this is my favorite chapter so far ngl #tom holland imagines #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland series #tom holland au #mob!tom #thnsfw #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #please give this love

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philliamwrites · 4 years

Text

Cor Cordium

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts (3)

Pairings: Riku/Sora, Roxas/Sora (one-sided), Axel/Roxas (hinted), Vanitas/Ventus (Hinted), Aqua/Terra (mentioned)

Tags: #character study, #relationship study, #post canon, #post kh3, #spoilers, #mourning, #multiple pov, #little dialogue

Words: 6.9k (nice)

Summary: O heart of hearts, the chalice of love’s fire, Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of bloom; […] It is not the end of his story, only the beginning, but everyone is too occupied with mourning to understand.

Cor Cordium

Tell me, Atlus. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?

Sora remembers the phantom feeling of sand under his palms, warm little crystals pressing into his skin. He can’t tell if this is really a memory or just a wish. Lately, it’s been difficult to tell them apart, their lines blurring together. Or maybe since he arrived Here, it’s never been clear from the start, and he’s just clinging to shadows dancing in the back of his mind. He is floating. Or at least he thinks he is. A strange sensation tingles through his body, it feels like thousand ants are crawling on his skin, and yet he knows that his body isn’t really here. Wherever Here is. Sora is passably conscious, not asleep but not quite awake either.

Darkness surrounds him. He can’t see it— it’s more of a feeling, a gentle brush of air against his mind, but it doesn’t scare him. This darkness isn’t the end, it isn’t the beginning either. It is nothing, this blank space between existing and disappearing, and somehow Sora managed to get caught in there. How is he supposed to explain that to Kairi and Riku? And just like that, the warm feeling dissipates, and Sora thinks of his life and his friends, and how both are so closely linked together. One cannot exist without the other. But with each passing moment, Sora feels bits and pieces of him crumbling into dust, scattering like sand swirled by a breeze on a warm summer day.

Sora is alone. He is cold. He is afraid. He is dimly aware of pain, but mostly of a tremendous fatigue, as if he has been covered in layer upon layer of impossibly heavy blankets. It takes a moment for him to realise the wet drops on his face are his own tears, and he curls into a small ball, clinging to himself. He would give anything to see his friends again.

Minutes, hours pass. Maybe only seconds. Time is a foreign concept, a construct not applicable to Sora. Oblivion is grey, it eats at Sora’s mind, at his heart, and he wants to fight it because they can take anything from him but his heart; his heart, a place for so many lives; a prison? A fortress filled with light of hopes and promises he’ll never be able to keep. Maybe now he is paying for the sins he doesn’t remember, for the dreams he’s failed to fulfil, hunting him like hungry beasts with sharp claws.

He’s always known that his most powerful trait was his heart, and so in the end it was only natural that it would be his demise as well. O heart of hearts, beloved of all beloveds is a line from somewhere Sora can’t remember, but he feels it quite fits. He is the core of a small universe in which everyone stretches their hands out to touch him, to take something from him— and Sora wants to give, to give so much that in the end nothing will be left of him. Somehow he thinks that is quite alright, for he is the heart of hearts.

☆

When Sora disappears, Roxas bolts awake from a restless sleep, tears blurring his vision and burning like acid on his cheeks. He isn’t just crying; Roxas is wheezing, sobbing as his heart breaks, and he realises Sora is gone. He can’t breathe. It feels like something vital is missing—a limb or a sense, and he wonders if this is how Ventus is feeling all the time since Vanitas’ disappearance. He doesn’t hear Axel’s worried voice calling his name over and over again; he doesn’t feel his long, heavy arms around his waist. Roxas only feels this boiling, parching anger at Riku, because out of all people, he must have known what was coming. And he let Sora go.

Roxas jumps out of bed, long legs tangled in the sheets, and lands face first on the carpet. His cheek burns from the friction, but the pain is nothing compared to what is raging inside his chest. Ever since he’s become his own person, everything has become a little too much. He remembers his first week back in Twilight Town. When he saw Hayner, Pence and Olette, Roxas was so overwhelmed, he thought for a moment he would die because beside all the happiness swelling inside his chest, there was also some sense of immense grief. He mourned for the hours spent without them; he mourned for the person he could have been if he’d been a normal boy, his own person from the very beginning, and he mourned for all the stories and adventures he’s missed because of that.

And yet, he’s never felt anything like this—not when Xion crumbled into little shards of light in his arms, not when he learnt he’d have to disappear because he didn’t exist in the first place. Roxas has had a front row view to many dire times in his life when happiness was a foreign word he couldn’t explain. But this is something else entirely, something so overwhelming that Roxas is afraid; he’s one raw nerve, burning and sensible to any kind of contact. He’s unsure what exactly he tells Axel, but it’s effective because he helps dressing Roxas, and they’re immediately off to Destiny Islands where they are greeted by the sun blasting down on them. Roxas shields his eyes, scanning the beach for a flash of silver hair. He knows this place like the back of his hand even though he’s only been here once after their victory over the Seekers of Darkness. But every place Sora has visited is engraved in the back of Roxas’ closed eyes, familiar and a second home to his heart.

“Maybe no one’s home,” Axel says somewhere behind him. He’s looking out at the sea, watches as the waves curl against the white sand. The sun reflecting on the clear water draws bright shapes on his face, catching in his radiant, green eyes.

“No. He’s here,” Roxas says with a solid certainty, for Destiny Island was always and will always be the place connecting everything. It’s the knot where all strings come together, where each destiny is carved in some way.

They follow faint footsteps left on the beach, when Roxas notices movement in the corner of his eye. Near the seaside shack, he can see two figures close to each other, but the voices drown in the sound of ocean waves. Roxas speeds up, and when Riku turns, eyes wide and red-rimmed, Roxas doesn’t think twice. His fist connects with Riku’s jaw and hot pain explodes in Roxas’ hand. It’s enough to send Riku to the ground. Roxas follows him.

“You knew!” he screams, swinging at Riku for a second time. “You fucking knew, and you let him go anyway?!”

Distantly, he hears Axel calling his name, but Roxas ignores him. He’s very adamant on punching his fist through Riku’s face who puts insult to injury and doesn’t fight back. It only confirms Roxas’ suspicion: Riku knew he’d come for him. It does nothing to diminish Roxas’ anger.

“Give me one damn reason why I shouldn’t drop you in the darkest pit I can find,” he hisses, grabbing Riku’s collar. Blood runs from his nose over his mouth and chin, but Riku only blinks. The tip of his tongue darts out to clean it from his lips. When he doesn’t answer, Roxas begins to shake him. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Someone grabs Roxas’ shoulder, pulling him back, but with more vigour than before, Roxas pulls himself free, and lands another good hit in Riku’s face. “Why didn’t you stop him?” Too many thoughts race in his mind, and he can’t grasp any of them; they slip like sand through his fingers. Finally Axel, that traitor, pulls Roxas off, and Roxas fights with flailing arms and legs. His elbow finds its way in Axel’s side, winning Roxas an opening. He bolts for Riku, stumbling and shaking uncontrollably.

“How could you?!” Roxas’ voice breaks. He’s grabbing again for Riku’s collar, but his hands betray him as well and search for purchase on his jacket, begging to have a grip on something solid, something that won’t disappear like Sora. “Riku, how could you? Don’t just stare at me, say something. Say something, Riku!”

He’s still met with silence that is so loud it drives him insane, and Roxas doesn’t know what else to do; what else will make Riku talk and explain.

Someone tugs on the hem of his west, and Roxas feels Oathkeeper and Oblivion seconds away from finding their way into his hands, ready to cut through anyone trying to stop him from unleashing another wave of fury. But when he sees it’s Kairi holding onto him, that rage dissipates, and makes way for a different feeling he is far more scared of: grief. Seeing Kairi standing in front of him only confirms this reality Roxas refuses to accept. He wants to beg her to let him go, to stop looking at him with those big, teary eyes so similar to Sora’s. Instead he collapses in front of her, and wails a small, painful sound so inhuman it tears through his own ears. Roxas cries.

She can’t take away that anger from him because without it he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel, and feeling itself becomes too much. He knows there is an emptiness waiting for him after all of this, and he’s too afraid to face it.

Riku’s hand curls around his arm, and then he is kneeling beside Roxas, leaning his forehead against Roxas’ shoulder. Roxas feels more than he hears the sob rolling through his body, and he wants to push Riku away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s cried himself tired already. Hours pass as they stay like this, holding hands and weeping with rasping sobs, as if trying to force air into lungs crushed by grief, until Roxas passes out at some point.

The next time he wakes up it’s with less tears, but grief is still a cold hook sitting deep under his skin. His face hurts, but no matter how much he splashes cool water on it, the swelling around his eyes doesn’t go away. He finds Axel outside sitting on the big trunk facing the setting sun. Kairi is beside him with eyes fixed on the red horizon, unblinking. Roxas has noticed it before. Since their arrival, Kairi hasn’t said anything.

“Roxas.” Riku is standing behind him, and Roxas catches the fruit thrown at him with little elegance. Riku’s face looks awful. A dark, ugly bruise colours his right eye purple, rivalled by another one forming on his left, swollen cheek. He’s too smart to ask if Roxas is okay, so instead he settles on a wordless observation. Roxas ignores him. He feels too vulnerable and exposed in front of those keen, cyan eyes. The fruit explodes with a sweet taste in his mouth, reminding Roxas of how much he loves this place. He’s adopted it from Sora; that and many other little traits he still has to sort out who they belong to. Knowing this place will never be the same without Sora opens up a new, fresh wound Roxas knows no Cura or potion is able to heal.

“What’s the plan?” he asks, wiping his fingers on his pants. When Riku doesn’t answer immediately, Roxas’ fist burns with the need to punch him again. “You do have a plan, don’t you?” he presses further, feeling his irritation grow.

Eventually, Riku drags a hand over his face, and sighs. “We’ll talk to Mickey. And Master Yen Sid,” he says, avoiding Roxas’ eyes. “Hopefully one of them knows something.”

“That’s it?” Roxas barely manages to contain his anger from sipping into his voice. “You just hope they know something?”

“They’ve always helped us, so yes.” Blatant challenge flashes in Riku’s eyes when he finally meets Roxas’. “We will go and see them.”

A muscle twitches in Roxas’ jaw. “I don’t remember them doing anything to help me, so maybe revaluate who you’re going to ask for help.”

Riku gives him a sharp glare. “Careful.”

But Roxas has had his fair share of depending on old guys who used him for whatever ulterior motive they had, and frankly he can do without it. “Sora needs us now. You can sit around if you want, but I’m going to look for him.”

He’s almost down the gangplank when Riku calls after him. “And where do you think you’re going? You think visiting world after world will bring you closer to find him?”

Roxas exhales audibly, and wills himself not to turn around, but he’s always been bad at containing all the rage that’s accumulated over the past years. It is this anger that has always set him apart from Sora; that hate towards people who hurt him always drew the clear line between them. This simple black and white was easy to grasp and understand, and even easier to identify with until Sora plunged Roxas’ world into vibrant colours and complex structures, and brought with him so many people Roxas didn’t know and yet meant so much to him. He hates how this even applies to Riku, despite this envy, a churning black storm hidden in his chest. Riku and Sora are inseparable, and Roxas loathes it.

The only comfort lies in how he loves Sora, for Roxas has loved Sora in a way only Ventus and Xion might understand; in a way that is so unfair to Axel who’s trying his best to become everything for Roxas. But Roxas doesn’t want this. He wants Sora. He wants the world, the heart knowing every part of him. His home. Roxas remembers when he returned to Sora. Trying to do the right even though he knew it would mean his end, but once he found peace within Sora, Roxas understood the meaning of home, and the meaning of people’s destinies intertwining.

“If aimlessly searching for Sora will eventually lead to find him, then yes.” Roxas says, voice lacking any heat he’d hoped would burn Riku. Instead a strange resignation shackles every breath in his lungs, and he knows he will only be free when he finds Sora. “I will visit world after world, until the end if I have to.”

Riku drags his eyes from Kairi and Axel back to Roxas, and considers him for a moment in which Roxas tries to see himself through Riku’s perspective— the boy with Sora’s eyes; the Nobody who long ago took something important from Sora, the little piece necessary to complete something far bigger than all of them. A small sighs escapes his lips, and somewhere in there Roxas hears the unspoken You’re just as reckless as Sora. When he closes the distance between them, all muscles in Roxas tense with intuitive caution he can’t get rid of, no matter how often he’s seen Riku by now.

“I want to get him back more than anything else,” Riku says, and in that small moment Roxas sees his vulnerability for the first time. Something tightens in Roxas’ chest, and he takes a step away from Riku. “It’s been only a couple of hours since Kairi returned. And still, I already see him in everything, and I try to be kind to everything because maybe …” His voice tears on the last word, a ragged note of grief like ripped paper. Riku turns his head away from Roxas, but he doesn’t miss how Riku’s lips close into a tight line. “Stumbling through world after world might end up losing him even more,” he finishes. His calm mask is back, and Roxas just can’t understand how Riku is capable of that.

“That didn’t stop Sora from looking for you and Kairi,” Roxas throws back, chin raised stubbornly.

“No, it didn’t.” Riku looks back at Kairi, and that’s when Roxas understands that he’s searching for the right words to tell her that he will leave the Island.

“Then forget your pride for a second,” Roxas says. “And let us help.”

Riku looks like he wants to say something, but then he just gives Roxas a little, tight-lipped smile, and turns to join Kairi up on the trunk. Roxas stares holes into his back. He’ll never understand what Sora sees in him.

He retreats to the shore until cool water sloshes against his feet. A biting cold settles over Roxas, but he knows that doesn’t come from the ocean. Sora has always said how it is a part of the human experience to feel pain, that it is part of a heart, and how it strengthens you, how it connects you, but Roxas dully registers he’d rather have it ripped out of him if it means he’s spared the missing and longing. When he lowers his gaze unto the water, his reflection stares back at him, showing a pale face and golden hair sticking to all sides. His radiant eyes are a beacon, the colour of the sky. A sharp throb drives like a spear through Roxas’ ribs. Everything hurts, he thinks and waits a moment, but his only companion is silence. Sora was a mirror to Roxas, like Ventus to Vanitas. When Roxas said, everything hurts, Sora whispered, but everything can heal. He’s learnt from Sora that hate is a lazy thing, heavy, a burden; but not as heavy or difficult as love so many carry around but are unwilling to practice. Roxas will try better. It’s the least he can do to pay for everything Sora did for him.

Under the water’s surface he spies a Thalassa Shell. Roxas picks it up, and hopes Xion is doing okay. They will all go and look for Sora, and they will find him. They’ve all deserved their happy end. Standing in the dawn, Roxas vows it on the shell, closing his hand tight around it until the edges cut into his skin.

☆ ☆

When Sora disappears, Ventus fears Vanitas is also gone forever. There’s a strange tug in his chest, like his heart knows there is a place he’s supposed to be, and wonders why Ventus doesn’t follow this call. It’s different from when he longed for Aqua and Terra. During his search for them he was constantly followed by this certainty that they’ll be reunited. This is different. This is Ventus closing his eyes to a darkness he knows his keyblade won’t be able to slice through. He’s afraid to fall asleep, the only place where he’s had at least a small connection to Vanitas. If that is gone as well, Ventus would rather not wake up at all. It hurts even more since their return to the Land of Departure because Ventus expected only good things to happen from that point on, admittedly now a naive hope quickly quenched by Sora’s fate.

Ventus is sitting on his bed, a heavy blanket around his shoulders. Thousand stars twinkle above him like tears, and he wonders if the other worlds feel that Sora is gone as well. He wonders if somewhere Kingdom Hearts is crying, having lost such a pure, eminent light. Out of his window he can see the training grounds. In a couple of months, they could be occupied my apprentice keyblade wielders again. Aqua has shown her determination to become the steward and rekindle the original purpose of the castle, and both Terra and Ventus are as eager to help her; Terra even more so. He’s adamant to repent, ignoring Aqua’s and Ventus’ claim that his return is enough. But Terra had shaken his head at that. “It is a debt I will never be able to repay,” he’d said, standing in front of Master Eraqus’ grave. “But I will try. Until my last breath, I will try to set this right.”

It was difficult to explain how none of this had been Terra’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were victims of a game no one held control over— pieces on a lethal board with cruel rules no one really knew. It’s a wonder they made it out alive, together and unscathed, and still, they paid a price for that happy end, some more than others. Ventus hasn’t heard from Riku and Kairi in a while, but his comfort lies in how Aqua and Terra keep looking at each other. Strangely, now more than ever before Ventus notices how close they are. It is probably true what they say about being separated. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and if Terra and Aqua think he’s too chaste to figure out the meaning behind the dark spots on Aqua’s neck or below Terra’s ears, they underestimate him severely.

Once he’s asked Aqua about them, but she only gave him a little, sheepish smile before pushing a loose strand behind his ear. “You’ll learn soon enough,” she’d said. Terra had avoided his eyes, his hands busy with pulling on his keychain, a habit whenever he’s embarrassed. Ventus had just looked at Aqua with a careful, blank expression, and let her believe that he doesn’t touch himself under his blanket to quiet whispers of boy’s names. Ever since he woke up, and spent time with everyone else, he’s noticed how certain things jump right to his attention like a beacon. Terra’s muscles moving during practice. Hayner’s incredibly beautiful eyes, filled with wonder and excitement. Riku’s smooth, flawless skin. Then again, he’s spend so much time inside Sora’s heart who grew up beside Riku, and for Ventus to develop his attraction to boys was only natural. Ventus doesn’t want to remember when he saw Riku for the first time. Dozens of images from Sora’s fantasies flashed before his eyes, and he kept his distance to Riku, unsure how to handle the emotions. It isn’t something bad, that he knows. His friends would never judge him for liking boys. They all love each other too much for such a trivial think to matter, and why should it? It is love nonetheless, and every single one of them is just as much starving for it as they are ready to give.

And still, Ventus is so insecure, because he always ends up thinking about Vanitas. Vanitas is his mirror, reflecting unspoken pieces of Ventus he himself is afraid to face. If Ventus starts thinking too hard about it, he’ll probably stumble upon answers he wouldn’t even know what to do with. And so he tries to turn away whenever he spies glances of blue turning into intimidating gold, and buries the questions deep into his heart where he hopes they’ll suffocate from the silence.

A soft knock stops Ventus’ thoughts. His body tenses, and he waits for more to come. Instead, Terra’s voice carries through the door. “Ven? Ven, you awake?”

He could lie and pretend he isn’t but after days of locking himself in his room, Ventus started missing his friends. His only fear is that if Terra sees his sketches of Vanitas’ key chain and the logo of the Unversed scribbled on paper, he will take them away and burn them between his fingers like Aqua did. Behind the door, Ventus hears shuffling, and the fear that Terra leaves bolts like a hot spell through him. He sits up, and tells Terra to come in. The door opens with a soft click. Light from the outside hall streams into the room, casting away shadows, and once Ventus sees Terra’s broad shoulders filling the door frame, breathing becomes easier.

“Hey, champ.” Terra gives him a little smile. “Thought you might be hungry.”

Ventus isn’t, but nods anyway, just to see the little hope in Terra’s eyes— the very first sight of progress he and Aqua managed since Ventus’ withdrawal. He makes room on his bed, and turns on the star shaped lamp sitting beside his bed on a narrow table as Terra crosses the room. A plate with fruits, cheese and meat lands between them while Terra takes a seat on the edge, watching Ventus eagerly. Just to make Terra happy, Ventus picks one grape and puts it in his mouth.

“How are you?” Terra asks, much more straightforward than Aqua with her careful, quiet words. Ventus thinks about how he doesn’t want to get up forever. How this feeling weighs on him like an anchor pulling him deeper and deeper into darkness. He thinks about lying, but Ventus never wants to be separated from his family ever again— physically and emotionally, so he settles with a neutral, “I don’t know.”

Terra nods. He leans back on his arms, the skin pulling tight where his muscle tense. Ventus looks away, and stares at the faintly glowing star stickers on his shelf Aqua gave him on his birthday. He wonders if Vanitas ever got a present from Xehanort, and has to bite his lip to conceal a laugh because that is just too ridiculous.

“—us? Hey, Ven?” Fingers pop in front of Ventus’ eyes, making him flinch. “Just where are you with your head?”

A strange smile pulls Terra’s face into an expression Ventus is unfamiliar with. Another pang of guilt settles in his chest, and he misses those times when he understood Terra and Aqua without a word.

“I’m thinking about where Sora is,” Ventus lies. Terra frowns. He must know Ventus isn’t telling the truth but decides to go with it anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he says, stealing a piece of cheese from Ventus’ plate. “We’ll find him. Since Aqua can’t reach Riku or Kairi, they might have left already.”

Ventus hums, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the case. What Sora, Riku and Kairi have; how they are is much more complicated. Ventus even doubts the word love can grasp what they feel for each other. At times, he’s jealous of that connection, and the next moment he is afraid of it. He’s felt it in Sora’s sacrifice back then for Kairi, and in Aqua’s never ending believe in Terra, and what is love if not an immense power capable of pushing people to their limits and beyond, a weapon justifying any sort of destruction. Tightening his blanket around his shoulders, Ventus dugs his head and shuffles closer to Terra.

“You know, I always keep thinking that maybe … we could have done something,” he confesses. “That if Sora trusted us a little more, he’d asked for our help.”

“Do you really think Sora didn’t trust us?” Terra asks, leaning back until he’s lying next to Ventus, arms crossed behind his head.

“Well, what other explanation is there?” Ventus hates that he sounds like a sulking boy, offended because a friend didn’t ask him to join the playing. But he’d always thought the connection between him and Sora was something special, something untouchable and set into stone. He’s protected Sora just as much as Sora has protected him all those years, and Ventus hasn’t thought of stopping once.

“You don’t really believe that.” The sound of Terra’s little laugh snaps Ventus’ head up. “I know you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“We’re not that different from him, Aqua, you and I. We all love too much, but isn’t that better than to have none of it?”

“So better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?” Ventus remembers this line from a book in the library he’s read long ago, and back then he didn’t quite understand its meaning. Now, he wonders if love truly is Sora’s greatest fault, but that is hard to understand as well.

Terra sits up, and ruffles Ventus’ hair, just like the old times when everything was simple and clean. It tightens Ventus’ chest, but this time it’s not a bad feeling at all. “You’ve been in there all this time,” he says, pointing at Ventus’ heart. “So you know the answer to that. Now eat up. And think about joining us sometime. Aqua really misses you.”

Ventus nods, and takes another fruit. Terra’s smile widens. When he heads for the door, Ventus summons all his courage. It’s time to stop running.

“Terra,” he calls. Terra stops, and turns around. “You really think we’ll see Sora again one day, right?”

Terra doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Our destinies are intertwined. And besides, you never stopped believing in bringing me back home. Now it’s my time to light someone’s way.”

“And do you think … I’ll see Vanitas again as well some day?”

That brings Terra’s smile to a full stop. He isn’t happy. Ventus sees it in the way Terra presses his lips into a thin line, and squares his shoulders. He avoids Ventus’ eyes for a split second, a tiny fracture of time in which Ventus stops breathing and waits for the final judgement. Eventually, Terra quickly turns around, checking if someone’s behind him, and Ventus wonders if he’s looking for Aqua.

Quietly, Terra finally says, “If that is what you wish for, then I will do anything I can to help you fulfil it.”

The hot sting behind Ventus’ eyes is a clear indicator for tears waiting to escape, so Ventus quickly hides his face in his blanket, shuddering with a silent sob. Only when he hears the door closing, Ventus dares to look up again. His room is dark, and the glowing stars stick out more after bathing in light, capturing Ventus’ attention. He wonders if Vanitas might like them as well.

Ventus curls into himself and closes his eyes. Into the darkness, he whispers “Vanitas” three times.

But nobody comes.

The missing is the worst. All Ventus wants is to crawl inside Vanitas’ skin and stay there. He wants every piece of him to crush into every piece of Vanitas, and become whole again; to become one. He doesn’t want to keep wondering how everyone just can go on as if Vanitas never existed, not when he to Ventus is the world. His heart is still split, an open door ready for darkness to invest, and yet he knows there will only be one certain shadow his heart will allow entrance.

Ventus blinks through the wall of tears, looking at the stars. He has to focus on Sora first. If he can’t bring him back, then certainly he’ll fail to guide Vanitas home as well. A shooting star splits the heaven in two, burning on its way down. Ventus closes his eyes. In this endless night, he has only one wish: Ventus wishes a shining light will guide Sora through a starless sky, and hopes his journey home will be soft and peaceful.

☆ ☆ ☆

When Sora disappears, Riku doesn’t cry because he knows once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.

His only comfort is Kairi, though she doesn’t talk, and only spends hours upon hours writing letters to Sora, all starting with my dearly beloved. Those lines remind Riku of a bittersweet melody he’s heard in a dream once, each wistful tune pulling at his heartstrings. Back then, it had also felt a lot like a farewell to a story he wasn’t yet part of, and now his chest throbs with a low, persistent rhythm of that song.

But it’s difficult to believe this is the end. Riku is in a strange, blank space between hope and desperation, where it’s hard to look for the light, but also impossible to drown in darkness. Finding home in both, Riku is an unusual dweller cheating through life. He knows it’s more than most people get, and he’s aware of how lucky he is. Maybe that is why the universe decided he’s run out of it now, and Riku thinks how unfair that is. That they live in a universe that doesn’t want them to be together any more. It’s either him gone or Kairi, and now Sora. And so when Roxas and Lea prepared to return to Twilight Town, and Roxas had asked him, “Do you even believe that we’ll find him?” it wasn’t difficult for Riku to be honest. “I believe in a universe that doesn’t care,” he’d said. “And people who do.”

After that, Riku started avoiding Roxas, Ventus and Xion even though it is not what they deserve after everything they’ve been through. But he can’t see them, and not think of Sora with how many of his habits they’ve inherited. Roxas carries all the anger Sora has swallowed throughout the years. Just thinking back to how Roxas had punched him, his thumb tugged into his fist like Sora always did no matter how often Riku tried to correct him, hurts like a sudden light striking his eyes in the dead of the night. Ventus is the source of Sora’s broad grins and gentle smiles, laughing at everything— a blazing sun casting away any shadows. They both know the power hiding in being soft and kind, to love and forgive. Xion is part Sora, part Kairi with her love for everything that is bright. She uses everything she can find as bookmarks: cups, little stones, little replicas of everyone’s key chains. Just like Sora she wants to be close to anyone, her happiness lies in those of others and nourishes her. They all love fruits, they all hate carrots, they all can fall asleep in the most uncomfortable places like a cat that finds home everywhere. Riku would rather gouge his eyes out than see another pair of those exact radiant, blue eyes, and so he sticks around Destiny Island, and takes care of Kairi, while she takes care of him.

They live in a strange dynamic, part symbiotic and part parasitic. Riku tells Kairi stories about Sora both remember fondly, and she pays him with a rare smile that dissipates dark clouds in his heart. But Kairi can never truly tell him what exactly happened when Sora brought her back, and Riku is sure she can read the irritation on his face like an open book. Just seeing her is a reminder that someone is missing, the third party in their strange constellation of two, and yet more than ever before, they stick to each other like two pieces of the same soul dwelling in different bodies.

Riku misses Sora. He misses Sora so much, it physically hurts him. He misses his easy smiles, the jokes. The reassurance that no matter what mistakes Riku has done, it’s fine. He is a good person, deserved of being a Keyblade Master. He misses how Sora was capable of turning every pain and sadness into something bright. Sora was given the rare gift to make gold out of every pain. A purer blessing doesn’t exist. But it’s not only the words Riku misses. He misses Sora’s soft skin, his parched lips mapping Riku’s body. He misses how in Sora’s arms he felt safe and at home, that there was no past, and no future. Just the present with them both as the sole habitants, a population of two and no one else was allowed between them.

Riku remembers their first kiss. It was in the Secret Place and they were 15. It was nothing but a chaste, quick peck, lips briefly brushing against each other, and yet Sora had giggled so helplessly, cheeks red and happy like it was the most powerful experience he’s ever felt. He didn’t hide his smile, he’d always been so willing to share it with everyone. Riku remembers the jealousy he’d felt, how he thought Sora’s willingness to open up to everyone was so unfair. He made it look so easy, so effortless, like he didn’t need to think at all who might deserve his smiles. His heart was an open door, never closed, never locked. They’d kept their relationship a secret, or rather they tried. Kairi knew. She must have felt something going on between them. Riku never dared to underestimate a Princess of Light again, but it was like a noose being lifted from his neck whenever she gave him this soft, knowing smile.

Now he tries to think back to the last time they were alone together without any responsibilities weighing on their shoulders. After defeating Ansem and returning to the Island, Mickey’s letter didn’t leave much time to catch up after the year of their separation, and after that, during their Mark of Mastery exam, Riku was everywhere but beside Sora. Now, Riku tries to ignore the little voice telling him that he’ll never see Sora again because he doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Hope has been his constant companion for the last two years, and he’s grown too fond of it. Leaving it behind means to let go of the only rope of salvation Riku is clinging onto, and no matter how much darkness he’s learnt to embrace, he just knows that he will drown in those dark waves crushing upon him with what he can only describe as loneliness.

But if life is lonely for him, it is far lonelier for Sora. When he tries to imagine in what place he must be now, Riku is quite simply angry. Martyr lies on everyone’s lips, and yet no one dares to speaks it out loud because that would be to acknowledge everyone’s fault. He knows this anger won’t bring him anywhere, but it is just hard to accept a fate that robbed the universe of someone vital to so many people.

Sora loved like few ever could love, with all and everything; unrepentant and with a passion that burned holes in anyone’s doubt. The sea and the sky will never stop holding his ghost: in each wave Riku can hear the wisp of Sora’s laughter, in each cloud he can see the remnants of Sora’s eyes. So whenever he waits until Kairi falls asleep, trying not to dwell too long on the tears hanging on her wet lashes like dew in the morning hours, Riku then returns to his room where he mourns with the moon and the stars, and it is a bittersweet feeling to share this grief with the world.

Five days pass, then six. On the seventh day, when he enters Kairi’s room and doesn’t find her sitting on her bed with a stack of papers resting on her thighs like usual, dread sinks in his stomach and he closes his eyes. If he loses her as well, Riku himself will burn down the Islands and start another war. On her table, Riku finds more scribbles of Sora, Donald and Goofy, all three huddled inside the gummi ship. His fingers shake when he takes the pen and draws Sora’s crown necklace in a corner, just focusing on breathing with each stroke on the paper. When his thoughts start to run in painful circles, Riku pushes the tip hard enough to rip the paper. Trying so hard to stay calm, not to cry, he doesn’t notice door opening behind him, until—

“Riku.”

He freezes. Behind him, Kairi looks at him with worry and something else in her eyes, but Riku doesn’t read further into it, too occupied with reaching her, holding her, holding her.

Kairi takes one breath, then a second. Her small hands on his back feel so warm, so secure, and Riku allows himself to be weak for a moment in her arms.

“It’s time for us, isn’t it?” Riku starts, and just the approving hum from her draws a shudder from him. “We can’t let him wait any longer.”

“Don’t worry, Riku,” Kairi says, and just like that, the world is tiled back to its original position. “He knows we’re already on our way.”

Riku leans back, his arms still around Kairi, and he is astonished that someone looking so fragile is so much stronger than him. Kairi considers him for a long moment. She takes Riku’s hand and squeezes tightly, leaning her head into his shoulder. Riku understands, and presses his lips to her forehead. “We’ll find him.”

It’s not a promise. It’s an oath.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Sora opens his eyes. His face is wet, everything is wet and cold, and he faintly remembers the phantom feeling of something warm against his palm. He doesn’t remember what it was. When he tries to get up, his body is there, not broken, not hurt but somehow he hurts inside, and he can’t explain what it is. All around him, the artificial lights of a city illuminate the streets, but wherever he looks, shadows wait in the deepest corners to plunge on him. Something on his left palm burns, and when he looks down, numbers blink up to him in an angry red, running down.

Instinctively, Sora closes his hand into a fist, so tight that his nails bite into his skin. His mind is foggy, but there’s a feeling that he needs to be somewhere; that he has to return somewhere he can’t name. The closest thing it reminds him of is home, and he will do anything to return. Sora has to go back, to follow this tugging inside his chest aiming for a place he doesn’t remember, for he is the heart of hearts.

Most importantly love Like it’s the only thing you know how At the end of the day all this Means nothing […] Nothing even matters Except love and human connection Who you loved And how deeply you loved them How you touched the people around you And how much you gave them

— rupi kaur

#philliamwrites #ao3 #fanfiction #kingdom hearts #kh #kingdom hearts 3 #kh3 #soriku #soroku #vanven #sora #riku #roxas #axel #vanitas

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langdxn · 5 years

Note

Okay, I have a request: smut with reader, Michael and Duncan and the breeding kink of both!!

Oops this is 2k words long but I was having a little too much fun! Thank you so goddamn much anon, this request was beyond amazing 🖤🖤🖤

Of course, the Shepherds sold their souls to Satan in exchange for salvation when the end of days came to pass. Annette revelled in the privilege that membership of the Cooperative provided — relocating from DC to Outpost 3 would simply have to be an agreeable move for her clan when the apocalypse came knocking.

To give thanks for their fortunate situation, the Shepherds hosted a formal gala for their fellow soon-to-be survivors and their saviours. One of the final times you would have to entertain republicans and Satanists together, at least above ground anyway, you decided now was the right time to bring your unconventional relationship with a Shepherd and the Antichrist out of the shadows of masked Cooperative meetings.

As Ms Underwood excused herself from your company, cradling her swelling bump, Duncan swallowed harshly and cinched you into him by the waist. His fingertips dipped protectively into the red dress draped over your figure, a gown your two boys deliberated over for many hours before you left your apartment that morning. Somehow, you’d managed to land the two most well-dressed men this side of the moon and they almost revelled in deciding your attire for you. If it were up to you, jeans and a t shirt would suffice. Luckily enough, it wasn’t up to you.

“What’s the matter, Shepherd?” You asked with a forced smile for your company, breathing a sigh of relief as the President drew further and further from earshot. The blonde made her way over to Michael, currently circulating with a group of republicans with Ms Mead in tow.

Duncan’s hand landed with purpose on your silk-covered abdomen, fingers spread wide over the plane of your stomach. Gazing up at you beneath lust-hooded eyes, his piercing blue eyes consumed the sight of you before him - glamorous, sophisticated, flawless.

“Can we try for a baby?”

Your neck craned back slightly, computing his question.

“You mean that?” Your response was admittedly quite loaded, testing the waters in case Duncan was joking.

“More than anything,” he husked, leaning forward to bump foreheads with you as you both gazed at his hand fixed to your stomach. His silent contemplation as he skimmed his fingertips over the silk spoke louder than any words that could leave a Shepherd’s tongue.

“What about Annette?” You sighed deeply, your hopes dashed by your realisation that your relationship would never be accepted by Duncan’s supposed family.

“Her opinion doesn’t matter, she’s not even my mother. Besides, she’s always wanted grandchildren, biological or not.”

“What about Michael? What do we tell him?”

Duncan’s head drooped.

“I—I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I’ll think of something, we could talk it over when we get home tonight?”

Glimpsing Michael leaving Ms Mead’s side from the corner of your eye, you hurriedly composed yourself and batted away Duncan’s adoring hand. Hands clasped behind his back, the handsome blonde made his way towards you with a grin creeping across his lips.

“You two look thick as thieves over here,” Michael jested, leaning in to plant a peck on your cheek before curling his arm around your waist, resting on Duncan’s. “What have I missed?”

“N—nothing,” you stuttered, flattening the silk over your stomach. “We were saying how well Ms Underwood looks tonight.”

“Yes, she does,” Michael glanced back to the President as she made idle small talk with Ms Mead, hand resting on her bump. Michael’s gaze snapped back to you, then down to your flat stomach. “On that note, I have a proposition for you, kitten.”

Michael’s wide hand travelled to your abdomen, clutching at the valley of your pelvis.

“Can we have one?”

You shot a bemused look back at Duncan and the brunette reciprocated. You both snickered under your breath and looked back at Michael.

“What? Was it something I said?”

———

As you bundled into your shared apartment, Duncan impatiently pinned you against the front door, frantically traversing your body with determined hands. You melted into his manic touch as he skilfully slipped your dress straps down your arms, the once elegant ball gown reduced to a puddle of silk at your feet. Michael placed a concerned hand on Duncan’s shoulder, leaning into the gap between you.

“Mr Shepherd, do you seriously believe you’re going to get her pregnant up against a door? You really want us to explain that to our kids?”

Duncan let out a disgruntled huff, shrugging as he grabbed your bare thighs and hooked them around his waist to carry you to the bedroom.

“You know what, Michael? I can already tell you’re gonna be the boring dad.”

“Easy boys, or I’ll change my mind about bringing a baby into this family.” You chuckled softly against Duncan’s shoulder as he barged you both through the bedroom door, pointing a joking finger at the blonde pacing behind you.

“Now there’s no need for that, baby girl,” Michael sighed, fiddling with his belt and casting aside the expensive leather while unlacing his boots at the bedroom door. “He knows I love him, don’t you Dunc?”

Planting you gently down onto the sheets, Duncan nudged your thighs apart and stepped back to admire the vision of you beneath him.

“Of course I do, honey,” Duncan purred, standing aside while discarding his tuxedo jacket. “So much that I’m going to let him knock you up first.”

“How generous of you,” Michael chuckled, his dress pants pooling around his feet with a whoosh as he kneeled between your legs, reaching for a pillow to place under your hips while carefully sliding down your panties. “Are you comfortable, baby girl?”

Throat thickened with anticipation, you nodded weakly and curled your legs around Michael’s waist to draw him in.

“See, Duncan might be the forceful, impulsive one in the bedroom,” he muttered while littering kisses into the nape of your neck, hands gently reaching down to line himself up with your already dampened entrance. “But he doesn’t know much about conception.”

A tut came from the tall brunette beside you, shedding his pants and boxers before settling beside you and brushing your hair back from your face.

“Coming from the Antichrist who lost his virginity to the girl he’s now trying to impregnate,” Duncan snarked with a grin, lust-blown eyes fixed between your thighs as Michael’s tip softly nudged your folds open.

“Which means I’ll be a loyal father to our child,” Michael smiled down at you as he eased his rigid length into you with a deep grunt. “You’re going to be the most amazing mother.”

Back arching desperately into his languid motion, you hissed through clenched teeth with the delicious stretch of your walls around his girth.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight,” Michael moaned as his eyes roved to the ceiling, pouring himself inside you until he filled you completely. “We’ll need to stretch you out before you can push our baby out.”

As Michael maintained a passionate, rocking pace, your head threw back into the pillows and both hands grasped handfuls of the silken sheets beneath you, broken gasps blended with gentle mewls spilling from your tongue. A decided silence fell upon the room around your explicit moans, your sideways glance landed upon Duncan gazing blissfully at Michael making love to you, palming hungrily at his own rock hard member. You reached out to curl your fingers around his base and offer the brunette some relief, to which he jerked his hips into your touch and smiled through his frustration.

“You’re doing so well for daddy,” Duncan dipped to kiss you deeply, his stubble scratching a soft burn into your cheek. “Take his cum like a good girl and I’ll fill you up again afterwards.”

“Don’t worry Dunc,” Michael reassured between smooth curls of his hips. “Our girl’s so tight and fertile, I won’t be able to last much longer.”

Keening desperately, your free hand traversed the contours of Michael’s bare chest to quell the taut pressure building in your core.

“Please fill me up, Michael,” you purred softly, feeling the stirrings of his orgasm twitching through his length between your folds. “Give me everything, fuck a baby into me.”

“Oh fuck, baby,” Michael moaned, balling his fists into the pillow beside your head, a lust-blown glaze over his eyes as his thrusts sharpened furiously. “Keep talking like that and I’ll make sure you’re pregnant again as soon as our first baby arrives.”

Accepting his challenge willingly, you hooked your legs tightly around his waist and drew him flush to your chest.

“Keep fucking me like—like this and I’ll be begging you to get me pregnant for the rest of our lives.”

Cupping his face in your hands to pull him in for a deep kiss, you moaned gratuitously into his mouth as you gave in to your walls fluttering desperately around his length.

“Cum with me baby, knock me up.”

With an animalistic growl, the overwhelming pressure in Michael’s cock burst free, releasing rope after rope of hot cum deep inside your cunt. Duncan whimpered desperately as Michael’s hips stuttered frantically, the blonde eagerly riding through his climax as the slick sound of soaked, slapping skin accompanied his cum dribbling around his base.

“Fuck, we should give you a baby more often, baby girl,” Michael sighed contentedly as he slipped his cock out of your folds in sheer exhaustion, falling to the bed beside you as you lay spread open, his arousal seeping onto your thighs.

Duncan gasped, lunging forward to take his place between your spread legs and gliding the tip of his flushed cock through the white trails escaping your cunt.

“Langdon, you won’t knock her up at all if you waste your cum like that,” the brunette sighed, wasting no time pouring his coated length through your swollen entrance. “Don’t worry baby, I’ll make sure you’re pregnant this time.”

Duncan’s thrusts were instantly jagged and fierce, having excited himself far too much watching Michael dominate you, who was now a panting, crumpled heap of limbs beside you planting sloppy, grateful kisses up your arm. The blonde reached down to your core and thumbed at your overstimulated clit, revelling in the jerks and shakes traversing your body with every swipe of your sensitive spot.

“Gotta hand it to you, Michael, she’s so fucking tight,” Duncan’s strained groans caught in his throat died out beneath the cacophony of lurid squelches accompanying every motion inside you. “Our girl really needs us to breed her, don’t you baby?”

Unable to form a response, you cried out as Duncan pounded relentlessly against your sensitive spot. His hips jabbed harder as he waited impatiently for a response.

“Y—yes daddy,” you whined pitifully, winding your hands around his neck to welcome your second orgasm. “Please breed me, plea—please breed me.”

“That’s my girl, cum all over me,” Duncan purred obscenely, restrained yelps escaping him with every pound against your walls that jittered feverishly around his girth. He ventured a flat palm to your abdomen, drinking in the ripples of your taut skin as his cock pistoned against them. “Let daddy knock you up good.”

Your orgasm shook terrific tremors through your legs, leaving you wailing in Duncan’s ear as he clenched his thighs to unleash his climax with a blissful groan. Spilling frantically deep into your core, your walls trembled weakly, slicked with both loads of cum pounded into you.

“Fucking hell,” Duncan’s voice soared as his eyes met the ceiling, a final jerk of his hips ploughed deep within you. “If you’re not pregnant now, I don’t think you ever will be.”

“There—there’s only one way to find out,” you stuttered through your hazing overstimulation, stars dancing across your vision as you remembered Michael’s intuitive powers could easily tell you if your boys had succeeded in tonight’s plan to impregnate you.

You and Duncan glanced over to Michael, who reached forward to place a hand over your abdomen as his eyes rolled into his head to read the feelings within your womb.

“It’s definitely working,” Michael smiled. “But a few more wouldn’t hurt.”

#duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd x reader #duncan shepherd fanfiction #duncan shepherd imagines #duncan shepherd smut #duncan shepherd x reader smut #Michael Langdon #Michael Langdon fanfiction #Michael Langdon imagines #michael langdon x reader smut #michael langdon x reader #fire and reign!michael #f&r!michael

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years

Text

all was golden when the day met the night

chapter 2/5

read on ao3

start from the beginning

The bell above the door to Armageddon dings as Eddie steps inside, met with the blast of air conditioning and loud music (he recognizes the band, it’s one Buck has played for him before. 10 Years Sturdy? Something like that.). He’s exhausted after a day of back-to-back-to-back deliveries, including two weddings, some kind of charity gala, and a funeral. He does arrangements for funerals often enough, but he still can’t get over the way his stomach turns every time he walks into a funeral home. The memories of being in one, after his last tour especially, mourning his brothers and sisters in arms never leave him alone. They coil around his brain, reminding him that they would be here if he had saved them, if he had been a better leader, a better soldier.

So he’s physically and emotionally exhausted, and all he wants to do is pick up Chris, go home, shower, and sleep for 48 hours. It’s only Wednesday, and he does have work in the morning, but the thought is still nice.

He heads towards the back room, waving at Chimney who gives him a salute back, not looking up from whatever he’s doing on his client’s calf. The guy hisses in pain, and Eddie snorts as Chim rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

As he enters the back office/lounge, he sees Chris and Buck hunched over the table against the side wall, heads leaning together, the surface covered in discarded sketches and crumpled drawings deemed too terrible to save. He sees them like this more often than not, whether in this room or The Greenhouse’s back room or his kitchen table, but it never fails to settle something in him. It’s been Chris and him against the world for so long, it’s nice to have another person in their corner, someone they can rely on. Not to mention, Chris has been Buck’s shadow pretty much from the word go, and Buck always seems genuinely happy to hang out with him. The day they met, Chris spent almost a full hour asking Buck about every tattoo he could see, Buck patiently explaining each one in as much detail as he could give an eight year old. When he offered to show him some of his paper drawings and give him some pointers on his own, Chris had looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe he was real, like he had just offered to draw him a new constellation in the night sky.

Like father, like son.

“He really loves that kid.” Eddie turns towards the soft voice behind him, sees Maddie with a small smile on her face. “I think he likes having someone to teach that doesn’t talk back as much as Chim and me.”

Eddie smiles as he looks back, sees Buck offer a hand for a high five before ruffling Chris’s hair affectionately. “He’s an easy kid to love, that’s for sure.”

“Dad! Come look, Buck taught me how to draw snakes!”

Eddie walks over to the table, peers down at pages of cartoon snakes in various positions. He can see the progression of Chris’s practicing on the pages, going from shaky and unsure to something more realistic as Buck guided him.

“You were halfway there dude, you just needed some help with the movement,” Buck says as Chris preens.

“These look great, buddy. Can you stick them in your backpack so we can get going?”

Chris gathers up his good drawings, pushing the rest of them into the trash can under the table. He picks up his crutches and makes his way to the other side of the room to his backpack and coat.

“Thanks again for watching him, I really thought we’d be done with deliveries by the time school was over,” Eddie says. Buck just shakes his head, a smile similar to Maddie’s on his face as he watches Chris.

“It’s never a problem, Chris is awesome. He offered to hold a girl’s hand that Maddie was working on because it was her first tattoo and she was scared. And then I got to draw with him! That’s definitely a win for me.” Buck looks back at him, and Eddie feels the warm glow of his smile try to sink into his chest. It would’ve, too, if he wasn’t still on edge from his visit to the funeral home. He can feel that his returning smile doesn’t meet his eyes, and Buck looks at him for a moment before setting a hand on his shoulder. Eddie tries his best not to melt at the touch, but feeling the heat through his shirt doesn’t make it easy. “Hey, you good?” Buck asks quietly. “He can keep hanging here for a while if you need some alone time.”

Buck doesn’t know everything. He knows Eddie did two tours, and Eddie had let him draw his own conclusions on how that may have affected him. Whatever Buck thought, he didn’t know the truth, didn’t know the poison sloshing around in his soul, the constant reminder of the light he left behind in Afghanistan and the blackness he brought back instead. And Eddie will do everything he can to keep Buck in the dark, to make sure he never sees those ugly parts of him that even Eddie can’t fully face.

But god does he make it hard. When he looks at him like this, earnest and open, like he can see right through Eddie, all he wants to do is break. Let the poison come spilling out because he knows Buck will help him clean it all up and get rid of it, maybe for good. But he’ll get burned in the process too, and Eddie refuses to let that happen.

So he just shakes his head, forces his smile to a normal size, pats Buck’s arm that’s still holding onto him. “I’m alright man, but thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow, say goodnight Chris.”

“Bye Buck! Thank you!” Chris wraps his arms around Buck’s middle, while Buck bends in half to squeeze back.

They leave with a wave, say their goodbyes to Chim and Maddie too as they walk out the door. Chris doesn’t stop talking about his afternoon with Buck until he’s tucked into bed. As Eddie goes to bed himself, he tries not to think about a warm body with blonde curls and legs for days taking up the spot next to him, wrapping him in his arms, keeping him safe from the monsters that wait for him in the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

His brain doesn’t really care what he does or doesn’t want to think about, it seems.

The dream starts as it often does: he’s in the desert, hiding from enemy fire behind the wreckage of his helicopter, surrounded by the corpses of comrades that he couldn’t save. The others, still alive, are looking at him, outraged and not fighting back, like they already know he’s led them to their deaths. Bullets ricochet off the metal, and one by one the bodies fall, blood spilling out of them, flowing towards him. He’s surrounded by noise and heat and death, and the blood keeps coming, soaking into his boots, staining his skin. He drops his weapon, knowing there’s no use in fighting back. He waits for the inevitable bursts of pain when the bullets finally get him, but after that, he knows it’ll be nothing but blissful, all encompassing silence.

Except this time, when he falls into the darkness that usually wakes him up, he’s not alone. He catches glimpses of sky blue eyes, a lopsided grin, a birthmark that looks like a kiss from the heavens. He sees skin covered in intricate patterns and designs, the ink coming to life as he reaches out to touch. He can’t quite reach it, but it doesn’t matter because he feels safe. Protected. This presence, this warmth that’s surrounding him, makes him feel centered in a way that he hasn’t since...he can’t remember when. And he can’t do anything but sink into it, wrap himself up and burrow into it like he knows he won’t allow himself the same luxury when the sun comes up. It feels like home, like salvation. Like the thing Eddie’s been needing to make him feel right again.

So he takes. He knows it’s just a dream, so he takes and he takes, and he doesn’t feel bad.

When he wakes with a start, hands twisted in his sheets, he desperately tries to hold onto as much detail as he can, but it’s all slipping away as he becomes more and more conscious. Some things stay — the eyes, the smile. The overwhelming warmth. And there’s an ache, too. A longing, physical ache that still lingers in his chest even now that he’s awake.

He tries to breathe through it, but then he remembers whose eyes those are, and it pulls him under all over again.

“Shit,” he whispers into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ache is still there as he opens the shop the next day, dull but ever present. He’s pretty self aware, so the depth of his feelings for Buck isn’t news, but he really thought he’d have gotten over it by now. He thought Buck would have stopped in one day to get flowers for someone that wasn’t Eddie, and Eddie would have been crushed, but he’d have been able to start the process of moving on.

But Buck hasn’t done that. He’s gone on dates, but no more than one or two, always claiming they “just weren’t right for each other.” And Eddie’s dumb heart fluttered every time he said that, and his feelings kept growing and growing, and now they’re physically hurting him and haunting his dreams.

He’s so, so screwed.

The bell above the door dings, and of course it’s Buck, the one time Eddie doesn’t actually want to talk to him. Eddie feels the ache grow, feels it pushing at his ribs, but there’s also that warmth and sense of safety from his dream. That feeling he always gets around Buck, no matter what. It’s hot and cold at the same time, and he can’t even begin to figure out how to process that.

“You know, if you keep glaring like that, you’re gonna scare off your customers. Your smile is a much nicer greeting in the morning.”

Eddie snorts and rolls his eyes, not fighting said smile that spreads on his face. It’s almost scary how easily Buck can get him to relax. “Says the man with the leather jacket and a nose ring.”

“Hey, I have a very sunny disposition, even if the clothes don’t match. Plus nose rings are cool, not scary.”

“Whatever you say. Here for your flowers?”

Buck smiles brightly, and there goes Eddie’s heart again. “Yep. Whatever you’re feeling.”

Eddie reaches towards the cases of flowers and pauses, because the only thing he’s feeling is how much he wants to grab Buck by the collar and kiss him until they can’t breathe. How much he wants to wake up next to him, cook breakfast with him, make a life with him. How he’s the first person he’s even thought about showing his darkest parts to because he’s getting tired of carrying them all by himself, and he trusts Buck intrinsically to shine his light on them and start to make them better. Start to make Eddie better in the process.

He cannot, however, say any of that out loud. So he settles for the next best thing.

Aster, gardenia, and pink camellia. Trust, love and longing. It’s unbelievably on the nose, but as he hands the bouquet to Buck, he feels a little lighter. Not like he’s getting over it, but like the pressure of holding it all in has been released just enough that Eddie doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. When Buck waves goodbye, he smiles a little easier, because he did tell Buck, in his own way, and he didn’t have to subject him to any of his mess to do so.

So maybe this is fine. Maybe he can handle these one-sided love declarations that only he understands. Maybe, maybe, he can make this work, until his heart decides it’s had its fill and starts to move on.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s definitely not working.

Because rather than working it out and moving on like he thought he would, rather than feeling the relief he felt the first time, he just wants more. With every mallow, moonflower, and red tulip he hands over to Buck, he wants to let him know exactly what they mean, exactly how Eddie feels about him.

But anytime he even entertains the idea of coming clean, that little voice in his head reminds him that it doesn’t matter because he’s not enough. If he tells Buck how he feels, he’ll just laugh in his face because even he knows that Eddie wouldn’t be able to give him everything he wants. No matter how supportive he may seem, Buck will take one look at the shredded bits of Eddie that he keeps locked away and leave, because no amount of goodness and light will ever be able to put them back together in a way that resembles someone worthy of that goodness.

Eddie’s never been able to ignore that voice, so he listens and keeps his mouth shut and keeps hoping that one day, he’ll give Buck a bouquet and all of his pent up feelings will just disappear along with it.

A month on, and that day still hasn’t come. It’s cool this morning, so Buck’s leaning over the counter in a hoodie and black beanie, shivering slightly, and Eddie wants to wrap his arms around him and warm him up himself. Or better yet, take him up to his apartment, wrap him in his comforter, and never let him leave.

They talk like normal, and Eddie’s glad he can keep this part up, that their friendship hasn’t suffered any outward damages just because he can’t get his shit together. Hen joins them while Eddie is wrapping Buck’s flowers, and pauses briefly when she sees what Eddie picked out — orange lily and marigold, desire and pain. A strange mix, but it’s exactly what Eddie’s feeling. He wants Buck so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Buck, thankfully, just smiles as Eddie hands the bouquet off. “These are perfect. Not quite as perfect as our friendly neighborhood florist, but they’re coming in at a close second.”

Eddie just shakes his head, blushing as always. Buck winks, waves to Hen, and steps out the door, letting in a hint of chill as he leaves.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Hen turns to Eddie, fixing him with a pointed look that almost makes him flinch.

“What?” he asks, straightening up the front counter just so he doesn’t have to look at her too long.

“I know what flowers mean too, you know, and I see the ones you keep giving to our favorite tattoo artist.”

Eddie breathes out hard through his nose, rests his head on the counter. It takes more willpower than he’d like to stop him from banging in on the hard surface a few times.

“You really should talk to him.”

He looks up at her, vaguely panicking at the thought. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because his friendship means too much to me, and to Chris.

Because I refuse to open myself up and drag him down to this hole with me.

Because I’m not what he deserves, and I never will be.

“It’s complicated.”

Hen shakes her head, shrugs as she turns towards the back room. “All I’m saying is, he’s in here all the time, and flirts with you like it’s his job. I don’t think that’s all for nothing.”

She heads to the back, leaving Eddie to wallow. Maybe she’s right, maybe Buck does feel even a fraction of what Eddie feels, but that doesn’t change anything. Buck is still one of the best people he’s ever met, and Eddie is still full of unfixable darkness.

And he’s still so, so screwed.

#buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #9-1-1 fic #9-1-1 fox #eddie doesn't know what's going on in his head and honestly? relatable #the flower shop #ficcery

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

“If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

“And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

1989

John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

“Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ loser.”

Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

“Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

“What?”

“No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

“What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

“No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do not address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. You will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – ten. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will not like it.”

Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

“Good.”

He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. Dangerous territory. For him as a man, and a father.

If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a normal way. When she died, normality went with her.

He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

“Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

“Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

“You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

“Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a fairy, do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. Men don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

“What?”

“Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re stronger than your mistakes.”

2020

Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he tries voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

“You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

But this?

Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

“Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

“Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m bisexual. Are you happy?”

Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

“…Yeah?”

“Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

“Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of blue. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

#cracktober #profoundnet #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #henry winchester #john winchester #dean winchester #bi henry winchester #bi john winchester #bi dean winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #sam winchester #castiel

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harlot-of-oblivion · 4 years

Text

The Devil’s In The Details

You stop by the morgue and find a crucial piece of the puzzle that leads you towards a unconventional solution.

Chapter 2: Consulting With The Experts

Your mind begins to wonder about this puzzling case while the surrounding world zooms past you in a dizzying blur. It all started with some missing people cases…well, you are certain that it started there. Your colleagues believe that you are chasing shadows, and that it really started with the recent string of murders.

On the surface, both the missing people and the murders do not have any connections with each other. But they do share at least one confirmed detail given from multiple witnesses and resources: they all acted strangely before either disappearing or becoming a victim of foul play. You know that the connection is pretty broad, but at the same time…a huge group of people exhibited dissociative behavior before meeting their current fate. Something in your gut tells you that it all just seems too convenient to be a coincidence, but multiple witness testimonies are not enough to connect the dots that no one else seems to notice.

You now have put all your focus on another plausible shared connection: the strange injection wounds found on the victim’s bodies. It’s also a bit of a stretch, but when you looked through all the accounts of the missing people cases again…a few minor details that were glossed over before are now glaringly obvious. Several accounts mention suspicions about the use of drugs being involved, and ten of those accounts include descriptions of seeing wounds that look to be inflicted by needles. That is one too many coincidences for your liking, but just mere conjecture will not be taken seriously by the higher ups…which is exactly why you dropped everything to go to the morgue.

Normally, you would go to a toxicologist for this kind of information, but Red Grave’s history with demons as well as the black market for their weapons and other nefarious goods steered you towards another kind of expert. Everyone knows that those who deal with the dead in this city have seen some pretty interesting deaths in their time…such as overdoses from otherworldly drugs or accidental poisoning from a mishandled weapon.

So, to prove that your speculations have merit, you have enlisted the help of Grayson Beckett a.k.a. Graves, the medical examiner who does not seem to mind his morbid nickname. He’s a little strange as all professionals in his line of work tend to be, but that has not stopped him from being one of the best in the field. His eccentricities have never stopped you from valuing his expert opinion in matters he’s more qualified for than you are. And it does not hurt that he is one of the few to also find all these oddities of this case to be quite perplexing.

Your inner contemplation comes to an end when you finally arrive at the police station of Red Grave City, pulling into parking space before cutting off the engine and removing your helmet. You shake your hair away from your face while gathering your thoughts, putting on that mask of professional stoicism as you hop off the bike. It does not take you long to track down Grayson in the morgue since he can always be found roaming around the cold chamber. He told you once that he finds it calming to pace around in there during his downtime…something about the silence of the deceased makes for perfect conversation whenever he needs to sort out his thoughts.

But when you walk into the macabre storage room, you find him pacing around like a madman, far from the epitome of calm and more like a vision of distress. He jumps back with a startled gasp before letting out a sigh of relief. “Ah! There you are, Detective…very timely arrival as always,” he greets, straightening his clothes before holding his hands behind his back.

“What’s wrong, Graves?” you inquire with a raised brow.

“Oh!” he gasps with a shake of his head. “Right…well, you see uh…” he trails off, shoulders twitching as he clears his throat, “…one of the body’s is uh…missing.”

“Missing?” you repeat, staring dead straight at him. “As in…”

“Gone!” he abruptly shrieks, waving his hands around wildly before raking his fingers through his hair. “It’s as if it simply got up and left!”

“Alright, slow down,” you urge him calmly while taking out your glasses, slipping them on before grabbing your sketchbook from inside your jacket. “Start at the beginning,” you instruct as your hand slides the pencil from the spiral spine before readying itself on a blank sheet.

Grayson takes a couple of deep breaths. “I came in first thing in the morning, like usual, and shuffled through a bit of paperwork before getting ready for an examination.” He walks over to one of the storage doors. “When I went to pull out the body in question, I noticed that the hatch wasn’t closed properly,” he informs while pointing to said hatch on the door before continuing. “It seemed very odd to me, but I chalked it up to maybe carelessness from one of the other examiners. But when I opened it up…” He grips the hatch and pulls the door open to reveal an empty chamber. “The body wasn’t there!”

Huh…San Diego’s theory has some merit after all, you admit wryly while finishing a small drawing of a zombie bride walking out from the storage chamber before launching in a series of questions. “You’re absolutely sure you were the first to arrive here?”

“Why yes!” he exclaims with a nod. “I always come in an hour before anyone else.”

“Do you know who was last here?”

Grayson shakes his head. “Not right off the top of my head, but we do keep records of our examinations. Let me just…” He goes over to a nearby computer and informs you that he is emailing the record to you while you jot down the possibility of the body snatcher being an employee here.

“Does anyone else have a key to this room?”

“Only me and the other two examiners have access as well as some of the higher ups,” he explains while tapping away on the keyboard.

“Which body was it?”

“The strangled victim from last week.”

Your brow quirks above the frame of your glasses as Grayson sends the email with one final click before turning around to share more details. “I was going to check it one last time before handing it over to the family…Oh how am I going to explain this to them?” he bemoans, sagging his shoulders as he lets out a dejected sigh.

“The security footage may have caught something as well,” you inform while gesturing towards two security cameras in the corners of the room with your pencil. You draw a noose around the zombie bride and write down that the missing body is one of the victims of your current case. “I’ll put in a report as soon as I’m back at the station,” you assure him a confident nod.

Grayson straightens his shoulders and takes another deep breath before thanking you with a grateful smile. You make a quick note about the cameras before closing your sketchbook with a sharp snap. “Now…you said something about results?” you ask, getting back the matter at hand while readjusting your glasses.

“That I did, Detective! Right this way!”

He motions you to follow him over to a small makeshift desk in the corner of the room, which acts as his office even though he has an official one outside the cold chamber. He opens a laptop covered with various punk rock stickers and signs into his work email. “After a bit of research and numerous email exchanges with the toxicologists, I’m able to confirm with utmost certainty that the strange substance is…” he pauses for the dramatic effect while searching for the appropriate emails, circling the important part of the exchange with his cursor. “Completely unknown,” he reveals with a curious lilt in his tone of voice.

“Why am I not surprised?” you mutter with a frustrated sigh.

Grayson nods in agreement. “Now, from what I was able to gather from limited resources on the streets,” he begins as his eyes flit from side to side even though he knows that you are the only one present with him. “This strange substance isn’t a new drug out on black market either,” he finishes with a secretive wink.

“And yet it’s administered through an injection,” you ponder aloud as your mind begins to churn with new theories.

“Yes, well…in my humble opinion, it appears to be more like a venom than poison since it needs to be injected in the first place,” he clarifies with a small shrug.

“A venom…hmm…” You flip open your sketchbook and take note of this new bit of information. “Any idea what this venom might do once it enters the system?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he admits with a sad shake of his head. “And there’s not enough evidence to support your theory about the victims being paralyzed, but that’s only because we were not aware of this mysterious venom at the time. If only we knew beforehand…we could’ve dug a little deeper,” he laments while looking at the empty storage chamber.

“Well, you’ll get your chance with this next body,” you reassure with a small grin while finishing up the last of your notes.

“Excellent!” he exclaims, face lighting up with childlike joy as he claps his hands in excitement. “Perhaps we’ll finally have some answers…right, Quickdraw?”

You chortle at him using your nickname. This little victory may not be enough to convince your superiors to validate your theory, but it could be the hairline sliver that leads to a crack in the case. So, you give into Grayson’s infectious joy for a moment and bring one hand up to tip your imaginary cowboy hat to him while putting on your best western accent.

“Sure thing, Partner.”

Grayson chuckles as you bid him farewell and take your leave. You flip through your sketchbook while you make your way through the Department of Criminal Investigations. Your mind starts to put a few key pieces together, hoping that it will be enough to convince the Lieutenant of your ongoing theory. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts under your nose as you enter the main office area of the department, reminding you to grab your first cup of joe in the morning.

You walk towards a group of coworkers surrounding Blaise Fuller, also known as Detective Douche, the fond nickname given to him by Carmen for his overall contemptible attitude. They all grow quiet as your approach and their eyes follow you as you pass them by, whispering in hushed tones while you pour yourself a cup at the designated coffee station of the department. He should be wowing me with his stellar observation skills, you surmise while sprucing up your coffee with a couple of sugar packets and a splash of creamer. Any minute now. You stir your coffee with a plastic stirrer before taking a long sip. In three…two…

“Well, well…looks like the Ice Bitch finished a little too early this time.”

You can practically hear the smarmy grin plastered on his mouth before you turn around to address him. Your eyes look over the frame of your glasses to focus on his smug face, pinning him down with your unimpressed gaze as you finish your first sip of coffee with a pleasant hum. “Funny…that’s what your ex-girlfriend said about you too.”

All traces of smug arrogance drop from Fuller’s face while a series of shocked gasps and stifled laughter sounds off from everybody within earshot. You honestly cannot tell if he’s angrier about the vulgar insult or the fact that said insult is the unfortunate truth. Maybe I hit him a little too far below the belt, you wonder as he squares up his shoulders and prepares to bite back with his own venomous rebuff. But then again, you do not have time for his juvenile attempts at getting a rise out of you. So, you put one hand on your hip and take another sip of your coffee, showing oblivious disinterest while waiting for what will assuredly be the most scornful slight of the century.

“Hey! Knock it off you two!”

Your eyes dart over to Jayce Spencer, your former partner before the promotion, standing there with a severe frown on his face. The resounding snickers from before gets cut short as everybody quickly disperses from the scene. Fuller snorts and gives you a deriding glare before rejoining the small group of co-workers by his desk. You move towards your own desk in the opposite direction, intending to check your email while waiting for the Lieutenant’s temper to cool off before presenting your findings to him.

“Detective Y/N! My office. Now.”

But it seems that you’re not getting off the hook so easily this time. A resigned sigh leaves your lips as you march towards the Lieutenant holding his office door open for you with a stern grimace. You enter the office and launch into an explanation as soon as the door clicks shut behind you.

“Before you go off on me, let me explain-”

“What the hell were you thinking leaving the scene of a crime that early?” he demands testily, brushing past you to sit down behind his immaculate deck. “We’re in the middle of goddamn shitshow out there and you skipping out-”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I wasn’t skipping out,” you cut him off as you take a seat in front of his desk before pulling out your cellphone. “I got a call from Grayson and went to check up on a possible lead.”

Jayce quirks a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that right?” You open your call log and show him the exact time of the call you received from Grayson. He takes a quick look at the screen before sighing deeply through his nose. “Well, whatever you have better make up for all calls from the press asking me to reprimand you for almost running over a few of their journalists.”

“Sorry about that, Sir,” you apologize softly, “…maybe next time they won’t block my way,” you mutter under your breath while pocketing your phone. Jayce just rolls his eyes at your flippant retort as you take out your sketchbook. “This is the fifth victim with the same exact puncture wound as the others,” you inform, showing the drawing of the victim and his wounds before handing your sketchbook over to him. “And Grayson helped me confirm that the substance found in the previous victim’s body is unknown to the lab and on the streets.”

Jayce looks over your various notes and sketches, nodding his head in agreement to some of your observations and raising a quizzical brow at the zombie bride. “Fuck…” he sighs under his breath as he hands the sketchbook back over to you.

“Yep. Fuck indeed.”

“So, we really do have a serial killer on the loose,” he surmises quietly as you put away your sketchbook.

“Possibly.”

Jayce rests his elbows on the desk and leans in closer as he scans you with his critical gaze. “What’re you getting at, Detective?”

You cross your legs and take off your glasses so that you could regard him with your solemn gaze head on. “I believe that demons are involved, Sir.”

“Demons,” he repeats with a blank stare before letting out a tired sigh. “Now, I know you check your boxes and cross your T’s more than anyone here, but I gotta ask…”

You let out your own exasperated sigh while pinching your brow. “Lieutenant-”

“Y/N…let’s drop the formalities and speak veteran to veteran.” His voice drops down low, sharp eyes clearly showing concern as he asks the question that you have been dreading since concluding demon involvement. “Are you sure you’re not just seein’ ghosts of cases past?”

Your eyebrow twitches as boiling anger surges through your body. “Fuck you, Jayce!” you growl, furiously hopping out of your seat and slamming your hands down on his desk. “You know better than anyone that I don’t let past feelings or trauma get in the way of my reasoning!” you argue, never tearing your irate gaze away from his worried face.

“Easier said than done, Hothead,” he counters calmly, not at all fazed by your outburst. “I’m only asking as a friend who, may I remind you, knows the truth behind what happened during our first case together.”

All your searing rage begins to bubble back down as you concede to his concerns. It still irks you that he still thinks that you have not gotten over what happened…but nonetheless, you know that it is within his right as your superior to question your state of mind. You curse under your breath as you settle back down in your seat, crossing your legs and huffing in defeat while he continues to stare you patiently.

“Are you seein’ ghosts?”

“No ghosts, Hard Ass,” you assert, “only dead bodies and a killer to catch.”

Jayce nods. “I believe you. But without sufficient evidence to support your claim…” he trails off with a weary sigh as he leans back into his chair.

“It’s fucking bullshit,” you grunt irritably, bobbing your foot up and down in frustration while shaking your head. “We’re living in a city drowning in demons and they have the gall to-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand, “but that’s precisely why we need the evidence…or else we’ll have every criminal we apprehend claiming that a fucking demon made them do it.”

A contemplative silence falls over the office and you go over the available options that will move the case forward. You cannot proceed the normal way; dealers in the black market are not known to help their local law enforcement catch a killer, especially if demons or Devil Arms are involved. What I really need is…Your foot stops fidgeting as the proverbial lightbulb blinks on above your head.

“What if we consult with an expert?”

Jayce furrows his brow in serious thought for a moment before the true intention behind your suggestion hits him. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we consort with a demon hunter, are you?” he inquires with an incredulous chortle.

“Yeah, I am,” you confirm with a curt nod. “Hell, maybe collaborate with one since there were a bunch of them roaming the streets when that freaky tree cropped up a year ago.” Jayce gives you a bewildered look from across the desk, but you go on with your perfectly reasonable explanation. “Plus, some of them are well respected by the people…unlike some us here who swore to serve and protect.”

Jayce squints his eyes as he thinks it over, steadily staring at you while his face goes through a torrent of expressions: wariness, consideration, and dismissal before finally settling on a decision. “Goddammit, Y/N,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “You have anyone in mind?” he asks hesitantly, eyes gleaming with curiosity despite his apprehension.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” You straighten up in your shoulder and announce the best candidate with utmost confidence and conviction in your voice. “Dante, the Son of Sparda and Legendary Devil Hunter himself.”

Jayce’s jaw literally drops in shock. “You have got to be bustin’ balls! That nutjob has a file this long and there’s no way-”

“Which is why he’s the perfect man for the job,” you cut in smoothly before listing off the reasons behind your suggested collaborator. “He’s infamous around here; the richest of the rich know him from his father’s status and the lowest of the low know him from reputation alone.” You uncross your legs and lean in closer towards the desk. “And if we offer to wipe his record clean-”

“Say what now?” Jayce scoffs in disbelief.

“Then he may just help us without payment,” you finish with a nonchalant shrug while grinning triumphantly.

“Un-fuckin’-believable,” he mumbles, head hanging low as he pinches his brow. “You know that we’re not supposed to wipe records for cooperation, right?”

“Yeah, but we both know that only works on paper,” you refute smugly, crossing your arms and sitting back in your chair as you provide more incentive for your former partner. “And we might as well use his name to get the press off our backs since they’ll focus on him instead of how we’re floundering right now.”

Jayce glares at you before leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing his chin as he mulls over the plan you’ve just presented to him. You wait patiently, knowing that he is going through the other possibilities in his head before inevitably coming to the same conclusion as you did. Once a hard ass, always a hard ass, you observe in quiet amusement as he finally lets out a resigned sigh.

“Alright, fine. Go and find this crazy son of bitch…see if he’ll work with us in exchange for getting his record cleaned,” he relents, lowering his head so that his cautious gaze meets your determined eyes. “But I’ll warn you now: you’ll be walking a very fine line if you choose to work with a mercenary like him.” He gets up from his chair, moves around his desk to stand in front of you, and delivers his one final warning.

“Stay sharp. And for fuck’s sake, be careful.” He offers his hand as you stand up.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” You take his hand and give it a firm shake. “You won’t regret it.”

“We’ll see about that, Detective.”

Jayce walks by you and opens his office door, signaling that this discussion is officially over. You exit his office and head straight to your desk, trying your best to hide your enthusiasm while considering your next step: there is still a key witness that needs interviewing, witness statements to look over, and the missing body at the morgue. But your gut instinct tells you to seek out Dante as soon as possible…maybe do a bit of investigating of your own on this prolific mercenary before heading out.

After all, the day has yet to truly begin and this Legendary Devil Hunter may very well be exactly what you need to solve this case.

Read Chapter 3

My Ao3

My Masterlist if you want more 💖

Tagging: @bettybattaglia @drusoona and @exsultry

#dante x reader #dante #devil may cry #detective reader #murder mystery #crime drama #eventual romance #the devil's in the details #ooooh the plot thickens!!! 👀👀👀#and it seems a clever lil devil will make his debut soon!#harlot writes

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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A Legacy Begun (10)

Chapter 10: The Advent of an Alliance | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: After a long time of running and fighting, you and Cal decided to finally settle down after all these years to raise a family. However, it was never a life of peace whilst the shadow of the Empire looms over your heads.

Prompt/s in play: Anon prompt (found in Chapter 1 link) + fic idea

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Scruffy! Cal Kestis, Daddy! Cal Kestis, Adult! Cal Kestis, Jedi Family, Jedi Offspring, Force-Sensitive Offspring, Settling Down, Rebel Alliance

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 | Previous: Part 9 | Next: Part 11 | Masterlist

10 of ?

Cassidy darts out of the quarters, her precious unignited saber in hand, and kept announcing the words, “I did it!”

Everyone turned to the scarlet-haired child. She wanted to make sure everyone got a closer look of the saber that she has constructed all on her own, she was three times proud of herself than her parents combined. Her quirky disposition somehow reminded you and Cal individually of your childhoods—the medley of thrill and anxiety at the Gathering, the accomplishment of constructing the saber down to the last component all by oneself, and the satisfying hum of the saber blazing out of the emitter that cements their being a Jedi.

“Ooh, it turned out quite beautifully, Cassidy!” you grinned, leaning closer to get a look of the overall design.

It was neat and sleek, simple yet elegant—you strongly believed that the lightsaber reflected her, not just by personality, but also her fighting style.

Two years prior this Gathering, it was too soon to figure out what lightsaber form Cassidy was inclined to using. However, it was vital that she’d be exposed to all seven forms—you and Cal have made it clear that it wasn’t a hard requirement for her to master each and every one. Although her capabilities appear to drift between Form I: Shii-Cho and Form III: Soresu—the latter is the most prominent.

“You think so, Mom?”

“Of course. I never doubted you for a moment, my girl,”

She rung her little arms around your neck, naturally, you hugged her back—wrapping your arms around her small back and playfully shaking her in the middle of it.

“Go ahead and play now, if you like, but we’ll get clean up in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” she nodded and then turned to BD-1 sitting on the sofa. “Come on, BD!”

“Trill, bee!”

The two friends scampered along, the droid followed wherever the girl went—fetching her three favorite toys: the Binog named Nog, the Bogling who’s been called Bog ever since her infancy, and the Shyyyo Bird she fondly referred to as Shy and then placing them all in the lounge.

While Cassidy played away with BD-1 and her stuffed animals, you headed to the bathroom to draw a warm bath. You politely interrupted Cassidy’s playtime to clean her up—starting with taking off her snowflake-covered poncho, you brought her to the bathroom and cleaned her there: wiping her face clean of frost and snow until the freckles and the pinkness of her cheeks stood out more, rinsed and lathered her head well enough to make sure the snowstorm hadn’t hardened her hair into a red, solid sheet.

Finally, she sported a dark green jacket and black pants—an ensemble that nearly looked identical with Cal’s, spare the armor. She returned to her playtime and kept her saber close, even though it’ll be a long while before she could actually use it. Eventually, in the middle of the trip, exhaustion has taken over little Cassidy until she had fallen asleep in the middle of her playtime—BD-1 didn’t want to disturb her so he set himself to sleep mode as well, sitting with his legs tucked underneath his body on the table, along with the toys, and her arms crossed together acted like a pillow but her saber was trapped in her hand. You’re endeared by the sight—you first pulled away the saber in her hand and then carried her to the couch where she’ll be comfortable, you replaced the saber with the Binog as the child continued to dream

“Sleep tight, baby,” you whispered and leaned to forehead to plant a kiss.

You retired to Cal’s former quarters and found himself busy against the workbench. He turned around to acknowledge your presence.

“She and BD are taking a nap,”

Cal paused from his handiwork, “Oh?”

“Yeah, I just tucked her in on the couch in the lounge,” you leaned casually against the door with your arms crossed and a smirk traced all over your lips.

“You’re not too busy, I hope,” your husband purred as he started pacing towards you.

The smirk on your face extended, chuckling through your nostrils as you play along with the act. You rolled your eyes in a thoughtful manner and then shrugged your shoulders seconds later.

“I don’t think so,”

“Good,”

A single flimsy wave of his two fingers and the audible crunch of a button clicked right next to your ear. He maintained that smug look in his face, you smiled off the growing tension ripping between the gap that he’s closing with every step closer to you.

“I’m afraid the door’s jammed,” you jokingly point out the obvious.

“How unfortunate,”

He planted his palms flat against the wall on both of your sides, trapping you between his arms; he’s surprised that you’ve kept your demeanor steady for this long. You slid down while keeping his eyes on him, giving him the false hope of you submitting to him, but you only did so to slip underneath his arms to retreat to the workbench.

“So, what is it that you’ve been busying yourself with?”

He sighed and then went after you, “I’m recalibrating the Mantis’s shared-line transponder, Cere thinks that it’s taking a few seconds before the signal reaches our home.”

“Any luck so far?”

“Haven’t tested it yet,” his warm breath blew over your shoulders, goosebumps crawled all over your arms. His hands slithered down to your thighs and dug his fingers deep into your flesh.

“Do you plan to?”

“I have other things in mind,”

His fingers clawed their way up to clutch your waist; he goes on to leave a trail of kisses on your neck—gradually bruising them as he gingerly nips away at your skin—you crane your head up, giving in to his lips. You absentmindedly put aside the transponder to the far side of the worktable. He quickly lifted you up to the surface of the table the instant you turned to face him; he denied you a chance to speak or react using his lips, his tongue slithering into your mouth and exploring your taste.

Even with your eyes closed, you managed to unzip his jacket, pale skin popped out of the clothing and he shook off the sleeves until he was bare—he did the same to you and rucked up your tank top. A chuckle rumbled in your throat, it rang seductively into his ears as his lips ghosted over the groove between your breasts.

Cal hooked his arms around your thighs while his tongue flicks your nipple inside his mouth, a squeak escaped your throat—keeping yourself quiet amidst this heating ecstasy was a struggle, you didn’t want to wake Cassidy with your screaming Cal’s name. He pulled away for a moment only to shush you and then rested you flat against the white, narrow bed.

“Hush now, we wouldn’t wanna disturb Cassidy’s nap,”

“I’ll be good then,” you mewled.

He brushed his lips to yours to silence you, his tongue tracing along the line of your bottom lip while you prod yours into his mouth.

Hours later, both of you cuddled in your former bed, truly reliving the old days but feeling like you’re still back to the time where all of you were just wondering where to go next. You opted to take a shower and wore your jacket lousily until you found your way to the bathroom. While you bathed, Cal stepped out of the quarters to fix himself a glass and spotted Cassidy already up and about.

She stood in the very center of the ship—just in front of the lounge’s table—testing out her saber, waving it around the same way she would with the practice saber back home. Cal watched her from the dining table, making stances of her own mixed with the standard ones taught to her, he smiled to himself when he saw her attempt a flourish spin.

“Be careful when you do that, sweetie, we wouldn’t want Greez to find a slash on the ceiling,”

Cassidy spun around, startled by her father’s remark. She was so absorbed with her solo practice session that she wasn’t unaware of his presence; a bright red colored over her freckles as she realized this rookie mistake.

“Sorry, Dad, I… I figured you were there,”

“I guess you concentrated a bit too much on your saber,”

Unable to respond, she was guilty of that claim, she averted her eyes from her father—slightly embarrassed—and then turned to her saber, examining the smooth black hilt rolling in the palm of her hand.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m not mad,”

“I should’ve really known your presence seconds ago,” she mumbled disappointingly to herself.

Cal walked away from the dining and towards his daughter. He knelt down to her level and plants his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s easy to get lost in emotions—especially excitement—but that doesn’t mean you’re less of what you’ve become. That saber is an extension of you; it’s only natural that you’re taking your time with it. Just remember to be mindful of your feelings and your surroundings, we’ll learn more on that when we get home. Will you be ready by then?”

Cassidy’s soulful, dark eyes lit up and her mouth stretched into a wide smile on her little face.

“Am I ever!?”

“That’s my girl,” he tussled her hair and leaned in to brush his beard against her cheek. “Itchy kisses!”

“Aaaagh, no! Not the itchy kisses, Dad!”

It was too late for Cassidy to run away from the clutches of her dad, he had already locked her in his arms at the mercy of his beard tickling her cheeks and neck. Her laughter, a voice that’s sweet and silky like honey, chimed across the entire ship. Eventually, she slipped away from her father’s grasp and snatched up both Nog and Shy—as protection, she pecked Cal’s head using the little Shyyyo Bird’s cotton-stuffed beak.

“Oh no, the Great Shy has attacked me!”

Cal’s baritone laugh mingled with his daughter’s high-pitched giggles. You were attracted the sound and led you to the galley as soon as you stepped out of the quarters after getting dressed. The sight of father and daughter instantaneously warrants a smile across your face. You discover Cassidy splayed like a bird, with her Shyyyo Bird in hand as if mimicking its flight, while being carried in Cal’s arms—your husband gently swerved and bobbed your daughter up and down.

You sneak up on them, picking up Bog along the way and bounced the toy across Cassidy’s back.

“Hey, you forgot to bring little Bog on the trip with Shy!” you cooed.

“Oh, that’s right! Bog always loves to go higher than he can jump!” Cassidy concurred.

BD-1 joined in on the game when he used his little turbojets to give Nog a joyride flight along with the Kestis family.

“Alright, BD! Glad you brought Nog with you!” the child yipped. “Now everyone’s joined in!”

The four of you have lost yourselves in the dreamy, imaginary world where Boglings can ride Shyyyo Birds and a droid can carry a Binog on top of its head as it flew—a fantasy world that your little daughter had created. The parents had a bit too much fun playing with their daughter that they didn’t realize the Mantis had already finished its landing cycle.

“Uh, didn’t wanna interrupt your fun time there but we’re back at Zera now,” Greez announced as he awkwardly put himself into the scene of the Kestis family bonding.

“Oh, we’re home!” Cassidy squirmed away from her father’s arms, she couldn’t wait anymore for him to lower her to a safer height. She speeds out of the ship, ultimately forgetting about her backpack and only brought her lightsaber with her.

“Well, kid’s been homesick after being in that snowcone of a planet, huh?” Greez pointed the empty space over his shoulder with his two right thumbs.

“Yeah, I think she’s become more comfortable with the climate here in Zera,” Cal chuckled.

The two of you collected your possessions from the quarters and the rest of the crew accompanied you to the door.

“We’ll see you soon!” you bade.

“Don’t be a stranger, you two. After all, this is still your home,” Cere added.

—–

FIVE MONTHS AFTER CASSIDY’S GATHERING

The parents’ shifted in where they stood, watching Cassidy with great interest with her change of tactics; the question of what she’s planning to do next buzzed with anticipation.

The droid repeated its attack pattern, and Cassidy was about to put her plan into play. It would appear that her free hand acted as some sort of anchor to balance herself in her stances, her knees were buckled, and her movements were quite lively—matching up to the pace of the droid’s current pattern.

It was apparent that Cassidy had become more adept in fighting with her own lightsaber, compared to using only a plain prototype. The theory that having one’s own lightsaber amplified a Jedi’s skill lingered in your minds together, but the thought was immediately brushed off, returning your attention to the child.

The floating sphere suddenly became more aggressive, but that didn’t faze Cassidy. She’s delved in too deep with her one-on-one with this ball in the air, the sight of her parents were nothing but a mere blur in her vision now. The sphere zoomed in a quite abrupt speed, Cassidy’s head jerked to follow it, and sprang to its direction; affording only a second, she bounced off of her heels, planted the soles of her feet against a tree trunk—banking more air so she could make a jumping attack against the training droid, which looked up too little too late.

Two halves of what the droid was made out of plopped to the bed of earth.

“So-Sorry, I got carried away there,” she stammered while having the kick of adrenaline still in her blood vessels, it confused her parents why she was so apologetic about that.

“Not at all,” Cal rebutted. “For a moment there, you looked like you planned it all by yourself—at the expense of only a few seconds.”

“That’s quite impressive, to think fast within such a small window of chance,” you added. “That’s a remarkable trait that you should hone, Cassidy.”

“Really?”

In reply, you flick your eyebrows up while Cal busied himself with something.

“Let’s try something else—it’s pretty much the same as our daily instruction, but you can’t improve without a challenge in the way,”

Cal places a helmet with an opaque visor that covered her eyesight.

“Uh, how am I supposed to see the enemy—or the training sphere, in this case?”

“The eyes can deceive, but if you trust the Force as well as your instincts and emotions—letting it guide and flow within you, only then will the lack of sense of sight not be such a disadvantage. Let’s begin.”

There was no room for Cassidy to argue on that. She positioned herself in a stance, her yellow blade hummed lowly next to her ear and the hissing of the replacement training remote drowned out the sound of the insects and critters lurking amongst the trees.

Her anxiety was very evident—the calm exterior that she demonstrated while she still could use you eyesight had been reduced to a hunched, shaky demeanor.

“Relax,”

She rounded her lips to release the air that she had been keeping in her lungs, readjusted her fingers’ grip around the sleeve of the hilt; her ears twitched at the hiss of the training droid—indicating that it had moved, but to where?

Fair enough that her blade mirrored where the sphere had hovered to, though it was tricky to predict the timing of its attacks. Cassidy allowed herself to loosen, giving a part of herself to the Force.

One. Two.

On your left. She mentally coached herself, but it felt like she was only repeating the words the Force was telling her.

Three. Four.

Top.

Five!

The droid’s aggressive attack patterns were denied of a target from the young Padawan. The child never ceased to surprise you and your husband. For the next two waves of attack from the sphere, she was only hit once in total of three rounds against the hovering ball.

“Very good, Cassidy,” he affirmed. “Now, let’s change instruction.”

Cal produced a bipedal training droid into the scene, perhaps standing about 5’8, compared to the child who was a solid five-footer; its body was coated by its own shield generator, a single contact on any part it will automatically disable by itself—indicating success to the wielder who has tapped the shield with their weapon. This was a design that Cal took pride in—it was both efficient and innovative, without needing to harm either the droid or the live wielder.

The humanoid droid wielded an electrobaton, similar to the Scout Trooper’s weapon. The towering height may have taken the little one aback, but when her hand tightened, her nerves remembered the feel of the saber hilt.

Bringing both of her hands around the sleeve, she stood in front of the droid, holding a lunging stance with the enemy at the point of her blade—she anticipated the nearly-sentient being’s next move. It thrusted its baton towards her and quickly went out of its line of fire. However, the droid was quick to deflect her overhead strike. They traded strikes—the sunshine gold blade parrying against the indigo lightning crackles contained at one end of a stick.

“Cal, do you read?”

Cal’s comlink rang and he replied to acknowledge Cere.

“I’ve picked up a signal that came in. It’s a gunship, but not Imperial. I think it’s Mari Kosan,”

His eyebrows furrowed. What would she want to do here?

He asked Cere to verify if it was really her vessel and if it really was her aboard it; no doubt about it, the ship that just arrived is the partisan.

“Did she transmit anything?”

“She only asked where you’d be,” Cere received the coordinates of the Kestis homestead’s area coordinates from Cal in reply.

You sensed the distant growling of a ship’s throttle—distinctively different from the Mantis’s—and glanced to the side, to your husband for some enlightenment.

“It’s Mari,”

Your reaction was the mirror image of his own mere moments ago when Cere connected to his comlink. He noticed that your eyes have trailed away for a second, and he’s sensed it too—the gunship has touched the forest moon’s soil. There was a wordless exchange between you and Cal, he marched out of the clearing and you stayed put in watching over your daughter’s training session.

Cal personally met with Kosan, her ship had docked a few miles away from the homestead’s vicinity; he had already spotted her reaching halfway of the house. Mari immediately noticed Cal coming from the other direction and shifted there, she was flanked by four more soldiers.

The distance was now close between the Jedi and the partisan. They exchange greetings, simply by mentioning their names.

“It’s been a while,” Mari followed up.

“A few years or so,”

“How are you and [y/n]?”

“We’re holding up quite well—better than Ilaro, actually,”

“So sorry to hear what happened there,” she hung her head low. “It was your home albeit for a short time.”

“Yeah, it took us by surprise. Neither of us imagined that the Empire would get there, but at this kind of time, it shouldn’t come off as such,”

Mari Kosan hummed in reply, an agreeing tone at that. A brief moment hung between man and woman. Then in the silence, Mari had sensed Cal’s question coming on, so she beat him to it.

“Ever heard from Saw?”

“Not lately, why?”

“The last time my contacts found him, they told me he was close by this system,”

Cal flung his arms, gesturing the wide nothingness except for the green plains where they stand.

“And then they told me that the two Jedi who helped us in Kashyyyk lived in the said system.” Mari finished.

“I didn’t even know Saw had been close to us, geographically speaking. Ever since we got here, it was just the people in the Mantis, my wife and I, and—”

Mari spotted you coming out of the forest, catching a glimpse of his daughter holding your hand, Cal immediately followed where the partisan’s eyes were. You joined his side in front of Mari, standing behind your hip—almost as if hiding herself from the strangers—is Cassidy.

“Your daughter, no doubt. She has your hair and her mother’s eyes,” Mari pointed. “She’s a beautiful child.”

“Thank you,”

“Hello there,” Mari’s expression warmed to meet the child.

“Hi…” the child’s voice was barely inaudible, still shy of these armed people whom she’s seen for the very first time.

“Mari, it’s been a while,” you greeted.

“Yes, too long if I may say so,” she greeted back, speaking for the fine lines etching across her cheekbones and jaw.

“What’s this visit all about?”

Your inquisitive tone slightly shook the aging partisan, but she smiled the assumed tension away and answered directly.

“There’s a base in another moon, Yavin IV, where it’s safer. The rebellion. It’s been established a year ago, the growth is slow, but we have good people there—some of the partisans from Kashyyyk have already been moved there, either by their own volition or they’ve been scouted or endorsed. When I heard that you two were here, I knew I had to seek you out,”

“And you want to recruit us—as fighters? Just like back in Kashyyyk years ago?”

Your hold around Cassidy’s shoulder slowly reeled her in closer to you, imaginings of skirmishes flashed in your mind—back then, it felt like an honor to fight; but now that you have a family to take care of, second thoughts always followed behind.

“That decision lies with you alone. But I’d be lying if I said you won’t be fighting or encountering any danger. Still, it’s better than hopping from one planet or moon to the next just to elude the Empire without anyone but yourselves—that’s not exactly the most ideal lifestyle for a family.”

Husband and wife traded questioning glances, still not biting into Mari’s pitch.

“Think of it this way, you’ll have good people—some of whom you may know—surrounding you in a safe place. These people are fighting for the same thing—freedom, for all of the systems that the Empire has robbed of opportunities and own choices. Everybody’s tired of the suffocation, we’re just the handful of people who wanted to do something about it.”

Cal looked to you, he had sensed you’d been deliberating with yourself ever since Mari started pitching. Your eyes rolled down to Cassidy, she had been listening even though she barely grasp the concept of what this older woman is trying to pursue.

When she was received with silence and pensive stares, she collected her breath after that speech.

“The offer still stands, I’ll be in touch with you—Cere has a hold of my signal. Think about it, Cal, [y/n]. For your child’s sake,”

She turned face, she and her soldiers marched their way back to their gunship. You and your husband watched the group disappear from the glade. Cal shepherded mother and child to the homestead as night fell.

For hours, Cal felt your uneasiness, he had caught the shudders in your arms and hands whenever the two of you touch—accidentally or otherwise. That night, you had just finishing bathing Cassidy in time for bed, the sheen of her hair shone against the lamp’s light as you brushed her in neat, smooth strokes.

“Mom, who was that lady earlier?”

“That was Mari, a friend of ours. We fought bad guys together,”

“Why did she say that the other place is safer?” she turned around to face you, unintentionally moving away from the brush. “Are we in trouble here? Because I don’t sense any trouble or anything. It’s been really nice here.”

Her dark irises gleamed in the lamplight. For you, it was like looking back in a mirror—but it felt more like looking back and talking to your younger self of that exact age.

“What Mari means is that the other place, called Yavin, is much safer because we’ll have our other friends there,” you continued to brush her hair in that angle. “Unlike here: it’s just you, me, Daddy, aunts Cere and Merrin, and Greez.”

“Well, if the bad guys ever find us, I’ll help you and Dad in fighting them. I got my saber right here!” she extended her hand, pulled in her saber from the nightstand to her hand using the Force—proving her conviction.

“My, what a brave girl you’ve become,” you crooned, gently taking the weapon away from her hand, putting it back down on the nightstand and then cupping her cheeks. “I’m so proud.”

“Is our little girl ready for bed?” Cal popped into the room, joining you on Cassidy’s bed.

“I was just about to, Daddy,”

“Well, time to tuck you in, little champ!”

“You should’ve seen her earlier with the droid—evading its attacks like a Jedi Master,”

“Did she now?”

“Yeah, I went like this! And then that!” the child towered over her parents, standing up on her bed as she reenacted her movements from the training session earlier.

Cal caught her before she could get carried away and hurt herself off the bed, but he still encouraged and affirmed her, boosting her morale on her Jedi training.

“Any more training and you might beat me!”

“Yeah, I sure am!”

“Aww, I can’t let that happen—not until my scruffy kisses have something to say about it!”

Cal attacked Cassidy with his stubble, tickling her with his fingers wiggling across her sides while pricking her cheeks with the ends of his beard. Laughter squeaked out of the little girl’s throat, kicking and pushing away her dad but to no avail. Only when she had called you for her rescue did Cal ceased to attack her with tickles.

“Alright, alright, more tickles to come if you don’t go lights out now,” you playfully scolded.

“Okay, Mom, good night!” she leaned closer, wrapping you in a hug as she kissed your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetie. And Daddy?”

Cassidy jokingly hesitated and wagged her finger at Cal, “No scruffy kisses?”

“No scruffy kisses, I promise,”

That was good enough for Cassidy. She threw her arms around Cal and aimed for his freckled cheeks to which he kissed her back and wrapped his arms around her as well. Over her shoulder, Cal exchanged glances and small smiles with you.

“Alrighty now, my little Padawan, good night,”

“Good night, Daddy, I love you,”

“I love you too, munchkin,”

You switched off the lamp on her nightstand, leaving the bedroom together with Cal. You stopped yourself in your tracks, turning around to see Cassidy falling asleep peacefully, warm in her bed under her wool blanket. Cal stood behind you, watching your daughter.

“When we had Cassidy, I never imagined it to be like this,” you shake your head, arms crossed while leaning against the door frame. “Yet somehow, I’ve always known such a time like this would come.”

Cal rested his chin over your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist while thoughtfully looking at your baby girl, “It’s not an easy childhood, but it’s the lengths that we do to keep her safe. To keep our family safe. She’ll understand when she’s older—we’ll help her understand.”

You peered to your side, Cal flashes a small yet fond smile. He inched closer, kissing your cheek; he takes your hand and spirits the two of you away from Cassidy’s bedroom.

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geckolady · 3 years

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Skulduggery Pleasant: Raising Cain - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Clues and progress

They got to the car they borrowed and had to call a taxi to help get them all back to Gordon’s. They decided to rest for a little while before heading out and Crow went upstairs to remove the body which would be collected by the Sanctuary Cleavers and then cleaned up what he could, Wolf helping him.

Panda sat carefully at the kitchen table, looking at her nervously try to think up something to eat. She could make little bits, her and Gordon had been learning things slowly as a way of spending time together and also so Gordon wouldn’t forget to make food as often, Stephanie would remind him to spend time with her. It made her chest ache for him for a moment. She still loved him, but he had set up everything so she could move on quickly and she intended to make him proud.

She found some rice, tinned tomatoes, passata, cheese and mozzarella after a while and after digging out the recipe from the messed-up folder they had created together. Panda helped her work out how much food they needed for six, then decided after a moment to add on another two portions considering they were all so big and they were all so hungry.

It took a while to make and she had had to replace some passata with tin tomatoes, which were meant to be fresh anyway, and there defiantly wasn’t enough mozzarella, but with cheese on top and the fact it was alright tasting and there was more than enough for everyone, she was the star of the night and everyone doted on her. She’d always thought cooking for people was boring, but they made it fun, and Panda had done all the onion chopping so it wasn’t too horrible.

When they had all finished the meal – Stephanie had forced Crow to sit with them – they all went their various ways to relax. They had made sure to have two on night duty as well as Crow at all times but Stephanie was not involved though she didn’t complain with that, as the others would also be doing washing, drying and putting away since she cooked.

She washed for a long time in the shower, finding a lot of bruise and feeling a lot more aches than she realised she had. There was a particularly big yellowing bruise on her butt cheek she had no idea about but it didn’t hurt and too soon she was out the shower and in her massive, fluffy towel. She took the old nail varnish off her toes and couldn’t be bothered to repaint them after filing so she finished up, including her teeth and putting away the things she’d used in the draws, although they had no real home so it wasn’t exactly organised.

She didn’t care though so she took her clothes back to her room with her towel around her. She was sort of embarrassed to get waved at by Weasel who was going into his room someway down the hall as she was used to sleeping on a whole different floor to Gordon and had even walked, quiet freely, from the bathroom to her room naked without fear of being spotted in the past. She wouldn’t be able to do that anymore, which was disappointing in a weird way. Walking around naked was fun.

She shook the strange thoughts from her mind and went to her room with her massive super king bed and beautiful sheets and all her pillows and throws in various colours and materials, some gifts from her friends, others artfully picked by Gordon. The four-poster had semi-transparent white curtains she always had the tied up. When she was younger they had been the best thing in the room.

She had a desk and fairly new computer though the monitor was the same one from years ago, possibly from before she was born, a desk that went across the span of the room held up with massive screws and brackets rather than legs, giving the allusion of a lot of space. She had a vanity and massive walk in wardrobe with custom shelves, hanging space and shoe space that had never been full but she still loved for the fact it was over the top and made her feel important.

She changed into new pyjamas and got under the covers. She slept soundly.

She had a vague dream of Gordon that night, nothing of importance, no particular event, but she dreamt of Gordon, her and her boys. That’s what she called them in her dream and as soon as she awoke, she remembered that and not much of the dream itself. She decided that was what they were. She was their girl and they were her boys, her bothers. Sure, it wasn’t a perfect name for them, but it was the feel more so than the name itself.

She didn’t bother changing from her shorts and massive t-shirt Gordon had handed down to her some years ago, just grabbed her Panda toy to show Panda and slowly rubbed her eyes and went downstairs.

They were all in the kitchen, Bear, Panda and Weasel mumbling over tea, Crow reading a newspaper and the others far too excited for the morning and making up a big meal for them all. Stephanie sat on Bears lap and he moved back to give her room and was in a good enough mood to even wrap one arm back around her so it rested on her opposite hip, basically hugging her. Such a big, bad man, so feared across the land, and here he was, grumpy, drinking black tea and cuddling her.

“Cub!” Wolf said when he turned around. He was wearing an apron that said ‘I’ve been a naught cook’ on it and started laughing. “What do you want for breakfast?”

She stifled her laughs. “Whatever’s going I guess.”

“A full Irish, coming up.”

“Well, not a full one,” Crow pointed out over his paper.

“No,” Snake agreed. “But it’s pretty close.”

Stephanie listened to them argue over breakfast and noticed she was the last down and only one that hadn’t gotten dressed. Looking at the clock, she noticed it was ten o’clock and they must have been waiting for her.

She was given her food not long after and when they had all eaten and she’d helped putting things in the correct place when it was washed, she ran and got herself ready for the day. Back in her protective clothes, she came back to the kitchen to reconvene and found them inspecting her Panda bear.

“Hey!” She said, making them jump. “Don’t touch my Pandy!”

Wolf put it in the middle of the table. “I just wanted to see Ghastly’s namesake is all.”

“Yeah, just curious,” Snake said.

“Which is totally allowed,” Weasel pointed out. “So don’t get mad.”

“Yeah, but this is special. It was made for me and it’s special and you can’t hurt it,” she told them. “Anyway, I wanted to show Panda.”

“He saw it earlier,” Crow said, coming in from the living room. “He said it brought back memories of the wild animals his father made for him as a child. I think he wishes he made you more now.”

“He made me tones of stuff. I have almost everything you ever got me upstairs. Even the nonsense stuff you gave me.”

“They weren’t nonsense,” Crow muttered and left the room. “We’re leaving in five so get ready.”

Stephanie put her old toy, which was quite beaten up but still cute, at the end of the table and they got into the Bentley and the van and made their way down to the coast.

They stopped near her aunt and uncles place and Stephanie looked out the window at the nice little house. It was deceiving, how quaint it looked considering how bad the people within it had been to her on occasion. She was hardly Harry Potter but she deserved a little better from them, at least.

“Can’t we just steal it? I want to break in,” she told them.

“Stop whining. You get to steal it now, just walk over, go in, steal it and leave. Done,” Crow told her.

“It’s not the same and you know it,” she said, but got out the car, accepting that she was about to embarrass herself greatly in front of everyone.

She knocked on the door and waited until Fergus opened it. “Oh,” he said.

“Yeah. I was wondering how you were?” She asked. It sounded more like she was questioning the question. She certainly was.

“Uh, we’re fine. How are you?”

“Grand, grand. Um, could I use your bathroom?” She blurted out, wanting to get it over with.

He looked at her suspiciously. “Why? What are you up to?”

She frowned meanly at him. “Nothing. I went for a walk at the coast, needed to pee and came here. Is that so bad?”

He made a grunt noise but let her in and she bolted up the stairs to the bathroom. She closed the door and then listened carefully, hearing him call Beryl’s name and her shout back from the kitchen. She crept from the bathroom to her Aunt and Uncles room and searched the jewellery box. She found it quickly, flushed the loo and ran down the stairs.

“Thank you!” She called and closed the door on her way out.

She walked at a normal speed until she was sure Beryl couldn’t spy on her and then ran to the car and got in.

“That was not fun. I hope you understand that.”

“I don’t,” Crow said. “Now let’s go.”

They travelled back to the mansion and found it thankfully clear of intruders. The basement only took a moment to search with all seven of them and they used the key to get in, Stephanie getting to do the honours. It smelt dank and wet and felt frigidly cold.

They couldn’t all go in as there were monsters within would sense their magic, so Stephanie, Crow and Wolf would enter and the others would stay behind to guard and keep them hidden since they didn’t know if Serpine knew of the caves yet and if it gave them a few moments to get the Sceptre’s alliance to them first, it would be the edge they needed.

It felt slow at first, being in the cavernous maze and just slowly wandering around, finding boring plants and fungus everywhere. She had been instructed not to touch any as it was as dangerous as the sentient things down there. Maybe more so.

Stephanie pulled out the little torch she had stashed away in her jacket and they used it to pass a little stream type thing, and to avoid a massive tendril that was moving silently and might have been a snake though she honestly couldn’t tell. They couldn’t use magic, so her torch was invaluable. When they heard noises up ahead she clicked it off and they pressed into the shadows, Wolf’s hand on her shoulder.

The monster passed them with slow, powerful sweeps of its paws – a single claw was bigger than her foot. They waited for it to go around the corner and Wolf let her go and they began running through the dark halls with the torch to help them. Eventually they stumbled across a Snickers wrapper.

“Gordon,” Stephanie said, almost welling with emotion but holding it back resolutely.

“A clue,” Crow said. “We’re on the right track.”

They carefully followed the cave system further down into the dark and they were relying solely on Stephanie’s light for guidance. They reached a large space at the end with three other corridors and an overhang above them. In the centre of the room was the Sceptre.

Crow carefully checked the air with his magic and then nodded to them. They had already decided that Crow should be the one to touch the Sceptre first since he had the most control and would be the hardest for Serpine to kill. He strode forwards and the thing started to sing. He picked it up. It… did nothing.

How anticlimactic.

“Boring,” Wolf said, stretching. “Time to go.”

They left the caves at a jog and Stephanie was incredibly surprised to find everyone above perfectly fine and healthy. They hadn’t even spotted cars around the walls. Bear said it was too quiet, but they were grateful nonetheless and sat around the living room to think of their next move, the Sceptre sitting innocently, and loudly, on the coffee table.

“It needs to be destroyed,” Bear said. “It has no place existing, especially now Serpine is after it.”

“It’s a valuable weapon though. It could be an asset in stopping Serpine,” Weasel suggested though didn’t seem too happy with it.

“I think we should destroy it as soon as Serpine is dead,” Crow said. “It is an asset, and if we could get it assessed first, prove its existence, we can kill Serpine without consequences.”

Wolf shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of destroying it, but it’s too dangerous.”

Panda nodded. “Dexter’s right. I know you want to be certain we can kill him Skul, we all do, but this isn’t the way.”

Stephanie put her hand on Crow’s gently. “It’s way too dangerous. We might not get another chance to destroy it and if someone else gets it, it’d be awful.”

He was quiet as he thought about it. “I suppose you are right. The risk is too great. But that means we need to know how to destroy it.”

Panda stood up. “I think it’s time I paid a visit to the family Vault. Who else wants to go?”

In the end, Panda, Stephanie and Crow decided to go to his family Vault while Bear went to the Sanctuary to try and convince the Elders of the Serpine’s actions. The others would stay where they were to guard the house and Sceptre. It was a fairly long drive to The Vault and on the way Panda and Crow explained a few things.

“The Vault is not a place that is gone in lightly or often,” Panda told her. “My family have collected things over centuries and I have only been in their twice myself. My mother didn’t even go in there as it was from my father’s side and they were always too protective over it.”

“Why are you bringing me and Crow then?”

“You’re family,” he said. “And that one won’t let me not take him.”

She laughed. “What stuff did they collect?”

He shrugged. “Mostly paintings, but they were very interested in the Ancients, which we told you about already, so hopefully they will have something in there that can tell us about destroying it.”

They got to the art gallery in good time and caught the guards before they were leaving, allowing Panda to show his documentation, though it was unnecessary since it was impossible not to recognise him, and they waited for them to open the massive metal door, and it was shut after them, so they could browse.

It wasn’t as big as Stephanie had assumed it would be, but it was still packed with things, all valuable looking. There was art everywhere, some of what she assumed was the most valuable on the walls, and cases of clothes, jewels, piles of books and a massive oval table and chairs in the centre though upon the surface was more things she couldn’t identify.

“Where do we start?” Stephanie asked.

“I’ll start over here,” Panda said, walking to one of the corners.

“You look at the paintings,” Crow told her. “If you find anything relating to the Ancients that might be useful, tell us.”

She nodded and got started on the nearest rack of paintings. They were very expensive and she did her best to handle them with care, the way Gordon had taught her when they had gone through his collection one time. Panda found some maps in his corner they thought could have been places the Sceptre might have been found at one time, though they had no way of checking since they had the Sceptre. They did put them carefully on a chair for photographs though, just in case there was more information about the Sceptre in those places. It must have been almost twenty minutes later that Stephanie found a picture of it.

“I found something,” she said. “But it’s just someone using the Sceptre, not anything about destroying.”

“Tell me about it,” Crow said, his voice muffled as he was bent straight over into a chest.

“It’s a man, and he’s reaching for the Sceptre. It’s sort of hovering just out of reach, and it’s glowing.”

“Is there anything strange about him?” Panda asked, looking through scrolls.

“Yeah… he’s shielding his eyes but they’re both wide open. He looks kind of crazed actually.”

“What does that mean?” Crow asked her, pulling himself from the chest.

“Well, you’d expect him to be squinting, you know? There’s so much detail, there’s no reason the painter wouldn’t make him squint.”

“Anything else strike you as odd?”

She looked it over again. “The shadows.”

“What about them?”

“There’s two. And the Sceptre isn’t making them, the angles are wrong. Maybe the sun?” She suggested as he came over to look too.

“Yes, but what time of day would it be?”

“The shadow at his feet would make it noon, making the sun overhead, but the shadow behind him would make it morning or evening.”

“Which one?”

“How am I meant to know?” She frowned at him, seeing he wasn’t looking at the painting at all, actually playing with a little box. “Maybe morning.”

“So, you are looking at a man who is reaching for the Sceptre in the past and present, seeing everything at once.”

“I suppose so. What does that have to do with the box you’re messing with?”

“Who painted it?” Crow asked. “Ghastly, get over here.”

“There’s a crest. Leopard and crossed swords,” she said.

He lifted the box and showed them the same crest. “Whoever, family or individual, made that painting, also made this Puzzle Box. People like to put things in Puzzle Boxes that might help us in our quest for information. It’s another clue, Stephanie.”

He played with it a little more and then rested it flat on his palm. It clicked and there was a high pitch motorising sound before the top opened and they saw a little blue stone inside.

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calpops · 5 years

Text

noticed nights | a.i.

Summary: Ashton was once caught in the chaotic world of critics and buyers; he felt trapped in his own art, unable to create what he wanted. So he took to the streets, painted sidewalks and concrete with passion once more and went unnoticed by the masses. He believed that judgement would not follow him if it did not know his name. He hoped his past would not catch him either. Until she came back into his life, turned his perspective upside down and and made him fall in love all over again; with art, with dreams he once thought were better left to the shadows of the night. With her.

Word Count: 12.5K

***

Ashton was shrouded by shadows, highlighted under the glare of the moon as he lurked behind cracked concrete walls. Paint lived on his skin, under his fingernails and embedded into his clothes. He found refuge within nights that art bled into walls or sidewalks; stars and swirls of colors an escape and solace to the monotony of everyday life. He was untamed and free to feel without inhibitions. His art was personal—or nothing at all. He told a story with every stroke or spray; likened his livelihood to realistic murals against abandoned buildings and abstract concepts stained on sidewalks. But tonight he held chalk in a closed hand, reminiscent of childhood summers on a paved driveway and an entire world ready to be created by his hand.

Chalk was temporary, ready to disappear at the first fall of rain. It was for him. This piece was his past and all he ever wanted for the future. No one else needed to see her figure wrapped in flowers. She was once his and now the night’s. Born under the moon and fading with the sunrise. He could have sketched her within the pages of a book, could have taken a scrap of paper to try to let ink and linework capture her. She was more lurid in the night. More effervescent soaked in moonbeams and coated with chalk dust promising to keep secrets. He was supposed to be over her; months had gone by and her absence had settled into his heart and bore a permanent residence in the aches of his bones. He continued on, relaxed his hold so as not to crumble the chalk in his grasp.

Ashton felt a presence behind him, someone happening along his cornered haven of quiet. Those moments were rare and usually ended quite quickly. This time, the person lingered. Ashton dropped the chalk to the concrete and stood, turned to face the person in question and stopped short. Familiar eyes took in his every inch, sweeping fallen tendrils of hair out of her face, soft pink lips he knew tasted bittersweet curved into a timid smile. She stood before him and lived in lines of chalk under his feet. He felt a flicker of heat rush to his cheeks through the cool autumn air, his body alight with old flames yet to snuff out. She peered at him, with eyes that told tales of their past and wandered towards the version of her on the ground. Ashton awkwardly stepped in front of his art, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat, suddenly fallen into her inquisition once more.

He felt the months of separation between them, could still hear the last words spoken. They had been said with great trepidation, fear of the unknown running rampant through his bloodstream. She had made him many things in life, helped create the way in which he lived. Fine tuned the very essence of him, able to pluck his chords and create melodies yet to be heard.

“Lennox,” Ashton murmured, her name now foreign on his tongue, burning through his chest after sitting with unlit sparks for what felt like lifetimes.

She nodded in acknowledgment, grin dropping into a frown that reminded Ashton of mornings being greeted by pouty lips and mumbled five more minutes. He knew his tone was less than inviting; his arms crossed over his chest screaming of indignation and standoffishness. Lennox bit her lip and let it catch between her teeth as she sucked in air. Ashton watched the wave of emotions swirl in her irises. She was a crash course of every feeling in moments, able to express sorrow and demand sympathy with the blink of an eye.

“It’s been a while, huh, Ash?” She asked and Ashton wished his name had not sounded so delicately from her mouth.

Just one syllable made him susceptible to her influence. Lennox breathed new and old life into his lungs, let the past fill his rib cage like tendrils of forgotten smoke trying to smolder and burn his resolve once more.

“Months,” he said simply, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing he had counted the days.

Lennox sighed, tucked loose caramel locks behind her ear and began to fiddle with the zipper on her white satin jacket. Ashton remembered her unsure hands always finding something to preoccupy them. Zippers, buttons, his hands, loose threads.

“I tried to go to your gallery,” she admitted. “But the door was padlocked and the windows were barred.”

“It’s been closed for weeks,” Ashton said without hesitation, feeling undulated truth spill out of him. He wasn’t sure why he explained himself; if it was to ease the concern evident in her brown eyes or if it was to remind himself of his own situation. “I don’t do shows anymore. There’s no reason to keep it open.”

“You don’t—why not?” Lennox questioned, keeping her eyes on him though he could tell by the way her fingers worked her zipper up and down her mind was wandering. “Don’t you want your art to be seen?”

Ashton realized she was stuck on her likeness behind his back, his body a barrier to truths highlighted only by the moon. Her question was a double edged sword, one fine tipped and pressed to his heart. He could feel it course through him, the words seeking honesty and crashing through his being with relentless tides.

Ashton swallowed, finally letting his arms drop to his sides and let his shoulders relax. He let out a breath, his air swirling into the cool night. Lennox didn’t waver as she waited for his answer; Ashton knew she was steadfast and capable of holding onto her will for much longer than he ever could. But she also knew when to stop, could feel hairline fractures in resisting glass well before Ashton; he was one to wait to shatter.

“It still is seen,” Ashton answered, working to untangle his explanation. “I’m just not. I don’t need to be known. Just the art.”

Lennox pursed her pink lips and fluttered her gaze from side to side; trying desperately to see past Ashton’s stonewall. Ashton wasn’t sure why he caved and cracked, why he stepped aside and let her approach chalk dust and heart strings. But he did, he moved aside and let her in once more.

He watched as she took small steps forward and her gaze glazed with recognition; flickers of the past lighting up and melting dark honey eyes. Her worried hand made a quick getaway from her zipper and to his arm; cool fingers pressing familiarly into his skin. His arms were bare except for ink that told stories his words never could. His boots scuffed against the pavement as the quiet night surrounded them. She said nothing for a moment, merely let her gaze sweep towards the art and back to Ashton a few times. His look didn’t break as it lingered on her; hoping she would draw her own conclusion and not ask questions. He did not think he could withstand to tell her why he drew it or confirm that it was her. It was always her.

“What kind of flowers are they?” She asked, knocking the breath and expectation out of Ashton completely. It was abstract—the petals loose and undone in an attempt to be unknown. He felt a cut of satisfaction that not even she could garner a guess.

“Marigolds,” he answered. Your favorite dying on his lips before sounding into the night.

Lennox never knew he knew her favorite kind of flower. Ashton never did anything to prove such knowledge. But he remembered nights in sheets printed with golden orange petals and rushed mornings with wilting marigolds in frosted glass boxes set in the window as he swept out the door. Pages filled with petals and windows overlooking the city lush with color. She was an open book; one with creased pages and a worn cover, read by all and tattered and torn by one.

“I used to paint those,” she mumbled and Ashton put his hand up to his face, rubbed at his jaw as he collided back to art that scattered her apartment and fell out of moleskine sketchbooks. She never shared her art outside the walls of her home, much more content to keep to herself and discover others.

She was practiced in pastels and nature, flowers and sunrises usually graced watercolor paper with supple lines and muted backgrounds. He was striking to her soft. Harsh contrast and portraits of people and highlights of places he’d never known. Fans said it was bold. Critics said it was brash. Lennox said it was Ashton. She had a way of using his name for and against him, could contrast the delicacy of her meek voice with the spark of honesty in her eyes.

“You know they symbolize creativity.” And passion and jealousy and grief. They represented everything they had become.

Lennox nodded and let her hand drop from Ashton’s arm, fingers curling up to capture the hem of her jacket sleeve, French tip nails catching satin. “Your art deserves to be noticed.”

They deserved to be noticed. Ashton let a small smile capture his features—sparking within his hazel eyes—at her words. He knew she meant them. They were much softer than words said months ago.

They had built worlds within each other, the first stepping stones curated by passion that could not be contained. They came together on lonely nights, seeking temporary comfort and intoxicating highs that crashed them back into reality once the sun dare ascend into pastel skies.

“It already has been,” Ashton replied, Lennox quickly noting the meaning. Her own gaze more than enough attention and notice to suffice.

“It’s late,” she said, shrugging to pull her jacket closer as a crisp night breeze danced through the streets. “I should get going home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Ashton offered, bending quickly to retrieve the few pieces of chalk he had abandoned on the pavement. When he stood back up he slowly trailed his gaze along her. Lace trimmed socks folded over ankle boots, legs with bruises from walking in the dark, floral dress that clung to her every curve. It’d been a long time since Ashton had been able to capture her fully.

Lennox shook her head profusely, waved a hand in the air and played off his offer as best and casually as she could. “It’s fine, Ash. I can get there on my own. It’s not too far off anyway.”

Ashton knew that. He remembered her apartment was only around a few corners and up a couple flights of stairs. He didn’t say that.

“It’s late and dark, Lenn.”

Ashton hadn’t meant for her nickname to fall from his lips; though he knew deep inside it was a way to sway her. Nicknames, terms of endearment, pouts, promises. They all coerced her into Ashton’s desires and drowned her in his fears.

“Okay,” she accepted, instinctively reaching a hand out for his but dropping it as soon as her fingers made contact. “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Ashton soothed at the trace amount of embarrassment clouding her eyes and scrunching up her nose.

It would have been nothing if only they had held onto the something they had created. It would have been second nature, yet always, second guessed. Undefined lines harbored jealousy, built problems from nothing and made them feel like everything.

They walked on, keeping what distance the sidewalk allowed between them. Ashton shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers flexing as he craved the feeling of her hand in his. He wished she hadn’t pulled away so quick; he would have entwined their fingers and walked her home without question.

Lennox spared Ashton a glance as they rounded the first corner, glossy eyes soaked in moonlight. Ashton felt his chest tighten as he counted down the corners. There was a multitude of things he wished to say; unsure if they would happen along each other after the night bled away. Instead, he kept quiet, content to rememorize her with what time they were granted.

“The museum has a new exhibit,” Lennox said, words unsure as they tumbled from her lips and cut into the quiet. “I think you’d like it.”

“Is it like the one we met at?”

That was his favorite.

It was morning when they met; Lennox had her hair pulled back and walked with purpose in her steps. Ashton had been fighting a hangover, stumbling through the exhibits in search of inspiration—consumed with doubt over his own work. She had stopped him short, asked him if he needed help finding his way around. He had refused at first, not sure where he was headed but relented as he saw her soft eyes and fingers that fidgeted with her clipboard. He asked her what exhibit he was currently in, eyes begging for mercy at his hazy confusion. She had laughed and spilled orange sunrises into his bloodstream. He had wandered towards Romanticism, Lennox informing him the pieces he currently stood by were of the early 1800s.

“No, it’s much more modern. It feels like something your art could have been a part of,” she replied, looking ahead, cheeks pinkening at her own admission. “If you hadn’t closed the gallery and moved your work to the streets… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

There had been a time when Lennox let her words free; praise and criticism alike. She had been fearless in telling Ashton what he needed to hear. She never catered to only what he wanted her to say. Now her words were anxious and thought out. Tip toeing on fractured glass, afraid to break them both. She was flustered and failing to hide her nerves.

“Have you noticed my work?” Ashton asked, holding his breath.

He had slunk through dark nights and painted the streets with color. Tagging the side of a building Lennox passed everyday. Creating intricately designed paths on steps she was bound to come across. It would have been impossible for her not to see them; but noticing and knowing them as Ashton’s were completely different than giving them a glance.

They rounded the second corner.

“Of course I have,” Lennox answered after a moment and Ashton let out his breath in relief. “I wasn’t sure at first. I didn’t know they were yours until tonight. They’re… different than what you usually do.”

They were her.

“I guess I’ve changed.”

Lennox flinched, Ashton fully realizing the implication that word aroused. Lennox had pled for it, needed to see and feel something different; wanted more than what Ashton would let her have. And though Ashton had been the one to call the shots, grief consumed him when she left and didn’t look back. He supposed in a way he had set her free and lost himself in the process.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to change,” she began. “That wasn’t fair.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

There were many fractured pieces of their past that Ashton wished he could have changed the moment they happened. Endless encounters and words unspoken that could have changed the course of their relationship. The passion, the jealousy, the grief; it was all too much and yet never enough. Ashton hadn’t committed and Lennox feared losing him because of it. So she was the one to walk away, to end the glory and the pain.

They rounded the last corner.

“Maybe we weren’t a good fit,” Lennox continued, her own voice unconvinced of her statement.

Ashton shook his head, unable to protest verbally. He sighed, a sharp inhale followed by sagging shoulders and a defeated exhale. He let it go; he let her go. Her building stood tall and foreboding with memories that spilled onto cracked pavement. Ashton bid Lennox goodbye with a heart that still thumped in time to pencils tapping on desks and uncaught breath from playful chases. Before she turned to leave they shared a look and Ashton remembered a time when they shared the world through nighttime rendezvous’. A timid hand came up in a halfhearted wave as she took the first step up the stairs. Ashton bit his lip; bit back the desire to say something more and watched her leave. Unsure if he would only ever see her again in lines of chalk or swirls of paint. Those too would fade.

***

Streamlines of moonlight filtered through barred windows, wine stained lips and art fallen from grace and to the floor highlighted the evening. Lennox was lithe in the new night atmosphere. Ashton was rigid with uncertainty. He remembered paint covered hands and his heart poured onto bricks. He could still hear their footsteps pounding against the pavement; his boots creating resounding thuds and her heels tapping light clicks. She had run into him again, he had positioned himself in her path. She mentioned the gallery, he swayed her into a visit. Lips on bottles and falling to the floor in a mess of memories induced by bittersweet tastes led them to sobering gazes.

“I fucking hate this place,” Ashton murmured, hands clapping to the white tile floor, Lennox flinching at the sudden noise. “Wish I never opened it.”

“Ashton,” Lennox said, his name still a symphony rolling out of her mouth. “Get over it.”

Ashton looked up quick, catching her eye and tilting his head. Those words were reminiscent of a time she was candor and unfiltered. He knew the alcohol played with her confidence; restored honesty and left her with less inhibitions.

“You don’t get it,” Ashton continued and stopped deadpan, unsure how to explain. “You’ll never get it.”

Lennox turned to him, tucked her feet under her legs and leaned forward. Ashton could feel her crawling under his skin and pumping his blood a little faster; making his body a little warmer.

“I do get it. You told me you hated painting for the big guys; didn’t want to be told what to do to make it into galleries. So you opened your own little one. And then it spiraled. And it got big,” she said and leaned closer with each sloppily strung together sentence. “And bigger. Until it was too much. And the critics found you. And you couldn’t look at your art without seeing their words. So you shut it down. Shut yourself out. Took to painting the streets because you think anonymity is bliss and judgement won’t follow you if it doesn’t know you.”

Ashton paused. Took one moment to swallow her truth; let it burn the back of his throat and sit with remorse. He nodded and she smirked. Just a tilt of her lips in a knowing way. Just a subtle hint that they both knew she was right.

“I get it, I get you, I know you,” she began and pulled away, turning to put her back to the wall. Her head fell back gently and tired eyes found his once more. “I always have.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Ashton regretted that question the moment it tumbled from drunken lips. He wished to take it back. Wanted more than anything to sit in silence and oblivion. He’d had his theories. Knew she wanted more. But the question still remained. Why? Why wasn’t it enough?

“I needed time,” she answered simply. “You needed space. We needed to miss each other.”

“I did miss you. I still miss you.”

“I’ve missed you too, you must know that.”

“I think I’ve changed Lenn,” Ashton said, eyebrows furrowing at his self contemplation. “For the better. Because of you. But for me.”

“It’s easy to say that. Not so easy to prove it.”

Ashton’s hands played at the floor, fingertips digging into linoleum without resolve. Fallen art scattered the gallery floor; he’d torn the pieces off the walls and left them behind. There was an urge inside of him hitting a boiling point. They laid face down, Lennox and her assumption correct. He hadn’t been able to face his art without seeing their words. Headlines in bold print. Reviews in italics. Seething red words filling gallery air and tampering with Ashton’s mind. In one swift movement he stood, collected a canvas with a city he’d never seen painted in streaks of blue, and drove his knee through it.

The art dropped to the floor, corners ricocheting until it landed face up; ripped through and damaged beyond repair. An elated breath escaped Ashton, a haze of carelessness capturing him. Lennox gaped at him; jaw gone slack and eyes wide. She was apprehensive at first, standing slowly on wobbly legs and taking a moment for herself before moving to Ashton.

“What does that prove?”

“That I’m capable of letting go,” Ashton said around a shrug. “Letting go of critics. The past. Galleries. Fear.” Fear of commitment.

Lennox let her gaze drop to the floor and broken art; took in the ripped canvas and swept a look back up to Ashton. Her lips pursed and hands came up to glide over Ashton’s shoulders. He stood still; body alight with uncertainty at her touch.

“I hope you don’t let go of everything from your past.”

Ashton shook his head silently as her hands dropped. In a brash movement he bent back to the floor, grabbed the still open wine and downed what was left. Liquid courage filled him with unrestricted heat and fiery passion. He let the bottle drop to the floor, almost expecting it to break—shards of glass glinting in streams of moonlight an image burning through his mind. In that moment he craved the feel of a paintbrush in his hand, wanted to mix colors to capture the momentary picture breezing through his thoughts. Instead of breaking it merely dropped with a thud and rolled away. His next venture was toward another piece, one he had painted with the hopes of appeasing the naysayers. His art was always too much of this or not enough of that. He bellowed out a sarcastic laugh.

“This one was too abstract; it swallows the meaning,” he grumbled, paraphrasing a review that kept him up much too long, and tore through the fabric with an unforgiving swipe of nails.

“Ashton,” Lennox called, voice filled with warning. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Why would I ever regret this?”

“You’re destroying your art—destroying pieces of yourself.”

“These aren’t me. Not anymore. Maybe they never were.”

He tossed the piece to the ground with the other ruined painting. He slid to the next and held it at an arm’s length from him. He remembered why he painted it; he sought the unattainable. Tried to make it personal for everyone. Instead of marigolds twining through a country fence he stroked the canvas with rose petals falling into the night. He failed to realize how impersonal that truly made it.

“You do this one,” Ashton suggested around a slight slur. Lennox drank less than him, the split of two bottles of wine uneven. She still stood with wobbling legs and hazy eyes.

“I can’t. They’re not mine to destroy,” she said with sure words but a lilting voice.

Ashton rolled his eyes fondly, threw back his shoulders and let out an exasperated sigh. He clutched it a bit tighter, knuckles going white. He let it fall to the ground once more. Drove his foot down on top of it and heard the puncture.

“It’s cathartic,” he offered again, gaze trailing towards dozens of fallen pieces. “It’s not like I don’t have the prints still. I’m destroying the originals… because they’re not original.”

They were created and curated, tended to the likes of everyone but Ashton.

Lennox bit her lip and wobbled to a canvas with tiger eyes reflecting silhouettes. She paused for a moment, catching Ashton’s eye as if to ask for permission. He tilted his head into a nod and went about procuring another piece. Silence mixed into the night.

Until a vibrant rip of canvas cut through.

Ashton turned to see Lennox and a shredded canvas merely held together by its bars. A smile broke across Ashton’s face and he hit the next canvas against the wall; breaking the bars and breaking himself free of the past. He was breathless at the prospect of it all. Destruction had never been so artistic; demise had never been so poetic. Drunken laughter poured from Ashton, breathy and unsure giggles accompanied from Lennox. Ashton stumbled over to her, took her hand in his and let the art drop.

“I’m sorry about the past.”

Lennox nodded, giggles cut short. “I’m sorry too. I wish we could just forget.”

Ashton’s hand trailed up her bare arm, fingers lightly crossing collarbone and deciding to roam up to cup her chin. He wasn’t sure what brought him inching closer to her; the wine, a long lost craving for bittersweet or the tempting mixture of both. “Let’s not forget all of it.”

Ashton remembered the first night they spent together. It had come after a casual date; a stroll through the park under moonlight where children’s chalk decorated the sidewalks. Lennox had spun on tiptoes with a loose hold on Ashton’s hand, velvet skirt twirling with her motion. Ashton offered to walk her home and Lennox didn’t hesitate in accepting. She invited him up and in for a cup of coffee and even though the night was growing old and caffeine under the stars would keep Ashton awake until the sun made an ascent into the sky he didn’t hesitate either. It was easy that first night, gentle kisses creating solace never sought before. It was a night made of lurid lighting and soft sighs, of painting purple on collarbones and pulse points.

He didn’t want to forget sunlight dazzling across her skin on all the mornings he stayed, art in ethereal yet human forms, running down hallways, uncontained passion and nights in each other’s arms. He wanted to keep those memories. Save them as mementoes of the past that he could pull out and pour over on cold nights. He did want to forget some things. He could live without the haunting memories of stony gazes and choking on insecurities and doubts. He’d happily let go of his reservations of love. He’d erase the commitment issues that plagued his every waking moment and consequently tore them apart; just two paper dolls left in piles of pieces only the other could put back together.

Lennox was just a breath away, painted lips patient and inviting. They fed off each other’s movement, moving in slowly with tilted heads and hearts that felt askew at something not so new but vast and terrifying nonetheless. The press of their lips was familiar and shocking all the same, they tasted of wine and forlorn nights that kept them both awake and wondering. Ashton felt her every inch against him, body falling into a known state of lax passion. They were comfortable with each other, knew their every move. It didn’t take Ashton by surprise that Lennox slightly gasped at the graze of his teeth against her lower lip or that she welcomed him in further. Pulling apart was second nature in a long lost but always remembered way. They were breathless and certain they were floating, if not from the kiss then surely from the taste of wine still burning through them.

“I never want to forget that,” Lennox amended and Ashton smirked at her flushed complexion and dazed eyes. He saw the sleepless gray painted under them, the hollower cheekbones—her usually full face slimmed and cut with shadows.

“I could never forget that or you,” Ashton agreed with a subtle nod of his head.

They fell into a descent of silence. Only beating hearts and a cracked and ticking clock sounding into an otherwise quiet night. The city slept around them, their world intimate and detailed. Two silhouettes painted by streamlines of moonlight, separated only by a past worth forgiving but never forgetting. Ashton went bashful and put a hand to the back of his neck, he was heated and spiraling after the kiss scattered pieces of reality back to him. He took in the destroyed canvases and let laughter bubble out of him in an uncontrolled manner once more. He was in disbelief. He’d done what he never thought he could. He had let go and held on all at the same time. He dropped frayed and unneeded pieces of his past and kept a tight grip on those that mattered.

“You’re drunk,” Lennox pointed out, letting Ashton’s laughter echo around the empty gallery.

Her voice and resolve to stay grounded was faltering. Ashton felt paper thin and caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. He stumbled over to the half wall that separated portions of the gallery. Gripped the oak that capped the wall and turned back to Lennox who had followed after him; let their bodies entangle and thrive off each other’s laughter. One hand tucked hair behind her ear just to watch it sweep back into place. Ashton shook his head and Lennox captured his hand, brought it down with her and peered up at him with a mischievous and knowing smile.

“I’m so drunk,” Ashton agreed, and in a breathless whirlwind of admission continued with his candor. “And still in love with you.”

If the alcohol hadn’t bolstered his confidence and given him new life he may not have said it. He couldn’t remember saying it for the first time. He let wonder and guilt eat away at rolling and disconnected memories. Had he never said it before he was certain he had always meant it and felt it. There was no way he couldn’t have. All he knew was wild pulses and the feel of cotton sheets and her supple skin captivating his everything and creating something Ashton should have cherished for forever and then an extra day.

“I’m drunk too but I’m going to remember that,” Lennox promised.

Ashton hoped she would.

Ashton hoped that maybe she would feel it back. Say it back. But she stayed quiet and merely fell closer into the messy hold they had on each other. Her face pressed into his shoulder and hands gripped the leather jacket that donned his body. The tortuous yet deserving part was that Ashton could hear her voice saying I love you but it wasn’t soft and earnest. It was pained and panicked, a last attempt and a plea. Ashton let his heart hammer with newfound hope he might hear those words again; different context and connotation. Different circumstances. Different response tumbling from his lips.

“I’ll walk you home,” Ashton offered, feeling confident enough in himself to wander familiar streets and not let her go. Lennox nodded her approval against his shoulder and made to move with him, his hand on her lower back as they left destroyed art and broken hearts behind.

She wouldn’t fade into moonlight. Not again. At least... not tonight.

***

Ashton stood in the wreckage of the previous night. Shredded canvases and broken bars littering the white tile floor without remorse. He felt an incredulous sense of freedom fleeting through him. It settled low in his stomach, washed through his mind and left a sigh escaping his lips. He felt detached as he wandered past ruined art and remembered hearts colliding back together, even if only for a moment. The night had brought Lennox back to him in whispers and the morning resided shouts in his mind with a yearning need for more. The day had bled away through an ache in his head and uncertainty thrumming through his veins. He recalled her lips on his, supple and sweet and a reminder of times when bodies created art in futile attempts to fill voids.

A few steps into the wreckage left Ashton laughing humorlessly, a dry whip of a chuckle leaving him. He rubbed his hands on his face as a groan surpassed the laughter and his head began spinning. He didn’t have time to linger in the cavernous doubt his mind was now concocting. A knock on the door jarred him back into reality and sent him into immediate action. It took expelling effort to undo the chain locks and push open the heavy metal door; Ashton having locked himself in as an attempt to reconcile with the previous night. Streetlights and Lennox greeted him, a subtle upturn of familiar lips and shining dark eyes an easy way of saying hello.

“Lenn,” Ashton breathed out in disbelief. It didn’t matter how many times they came back to each other, he would never been sure it would happen again.

“I saw the lights were on,” she began, standing with a wobbling knee and uncertain eyes just outside the gallery walls. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No!” Ashton said suddenly, voice loud and mind startled. He moved aside to let her in. “It’s fine.”

She moved inside with timid steps, much as Ashton had earlier. He felt cautious when he first entered, as if the gallery was made of glass and stepping inside could cause it to break. Lennox took much the same approach, took a moment to scan the floor and then look back to Ashton. Her eyebrows furrowed and her hand came up so she might bite at her nails. Ashton grabbed for it, let her fixate her nerves on his hand instead.

“I can’t believe we did that,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Ashton shook his head profusely. “I’m not.”

Her fingers pressed into the back of his hand in a gentle hold. There was a beat of pause between them in which neither was sure what to say. Two nights had built more second chances than Ashton could have hoped for; they also built harboring silences with waves of the unknown crashing and pulling them under.

“They were good pieces, Ash.”

“And now they’re a good chance to start new.”

Lennox looked at him curiously, waiting for him to explain what a new start might entail. He couldn’t paint that picture for her mind, he could hardly conjure up an image of something new in his own mind. All he knew was that he needed something else.

“Maybe I’ll get a desk job,” he chided, sarcasm rolling off his tongue in a scalding way. “Suit and tie from nine to five.”

Lennox rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath of frustration and let Ashton’s hand drop. He waited for her honesty; craved the moments of candor he could still get out of her. He could tell she was filtering her thoughts and deciding what and how much to say. No matter how much their walls had crumbled last night there was still a thin veil of resistance forged from months of separation.

“There’s so much more you could do,” she decided on, letting herself walk away from him and closer to the piles of canvases littering the floor. “This place could become everything you want.”

Ashton tilted his head, stepped up to her and gently reached a hand out to her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ease into his touch. She stood still and contemplative. Until she became a whirlwind sweeping around the gallery, a silent storm breezing through her thoughts. Ashton didn’t ask, let her move about the piles of broken canvases and pull up to a stop at the half wall.

“You could make this place the gallery you’ve always wanted to paint for,” she said—attempting again to explain her flurry of thoughts.

Ashton swallowed down a lump in his throat and crossed his arms. It was a tough feeling to explain that suddenly consumed him. It wasn’t regret and it wasn’t a feeling of failure, but it walked thin lines towards them and left him wobbling with uncertainty. He had tried that, he had built a gallery made from white tile dreams and a yearning to feel the winds of freedom at his back as he stood at an easel. He had learned quickly that freedom came at a cost, it wasn’t winds of freedom at his back, it was critics and buyers breathing down his neck. It was spotlights and fame that left a bitter and sour taste in his mouth.

“I’ve tried,” Ashton began, watching as Lennox spun back to him, eyes alert and unmoving from his gaze. “It always came back to me. It was my name attached to reviews that called my pieces lackluster and uninspiring. It was my face the buyers and critics knew. I couldn’t escape it. Starting over would be starting the same.”

Lennox sighed and kicked a canvas out of her way as she moved back to him. Her sleeves hung lower than her wrists, fingers pressing into her sweater and palms as she bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Ashton could tell she was losing herself in a way to find him. To find him a solution and all the scattered bits of himself that broke with bars of canvases the previous night. Her dark eyes gleamed and suddenly lit up; a spark in the night caught by flares of fluorescents.

“Why did you decide to move your art to the streets?” She pondered with a knowing voice. She wanted him to spell it out—not for her, but for himself.

“Anonymity. You were right. I wanted to make art without inhibitions or spotlights. That’s what the streets and the nights give me.”

“So keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Make an alias, paint for you under his name. Don’t wander the gallery when you have shows. Stay anonymous.”

The spark in her eyes spread a slow and warm fire of determination through Ashton’s body. He could feel the heat building in his stomach, flickering up to his heart and filling him with doubts. Lennox had offered him a world where fame wouldn’t chase him and judgement wouldn’t follow. Yet, he wondered, would it all still feel the same with a fake name and faceless artistry.

He let her suggestion tumble through his thoughts as he mindlessly reached for her hand and felt their pasts finding paths back to each other once more. The previous night had spun them into familiar embraces and lips that tasted the same after months of being strangers. He wasn’t sure where they stood with each other, but standing by each other in that moment was enough.

It was enough to bring him back to the night he realized they were more than casual but he was less than courageous enough to admit it. Lennox wore his shirt, climbed back into bed and filled the void in Ashton’s heart as she settled into his arms. They stayed up that night, whispered words billowing into the breeze drifting through an open window.

“Can I show you?” Ashton asked, fragmented thoughts escaping in desperate attempts to be understood. “Can I show you why I abandoned this place? I think—I think you need to see it and feel it to understand.”

Lennox nodded and let him gently coax her to a white door at the end of the gallery. It stood strong and padlocked, much like the entrance door had been. Ashton undid the lock without much trouble and took in a breath before stepping through to a makeshift studio; he had it arranged in case inspiration struck. He flicked on the light and let the studio come alive once more. Mediums of all sorts laid around. He had one in mind that he needed to show Lennox all that he meant and all the reasons he had for leaving canvases and easels behind.

He led her behind him as they came upon cool metal cans that started his ventures on the streets. He grabbed a couple and marched with sure steps to the back door. The night air was cold and brisk, the light sweater Lennox had on not enough to ward off the breeze. But Ashton ran hot when she ran cold, he set the spray paint down and slid his leather jacket off, offered it to her wordlessly and watched as she sunk into its warmth as she had done many times before.

“Ash? What are we doing out here?” She finally asked as Ashton bent down to retrieve the cans.

He gave them swift shakes, heard the metal ball inside rattling around and stirring the paint. A lengthy stone wall stood bare, the outside of Ashton’s gallery untouched and left lonely. The inside felt much the same even when filled with art and people.

“Gonna show you,” he said and uncapped the spray paint, decisive hand moving towards the stone.

Pink cut across gray in striking lines as Ashton pressed the nozzle down and let art free upon the outside world. Lennox took a few steps back as Ashton continued to bombard the wall with color; mind slipping into a blissful state of freedom as worries of judgement ceased to exist. He felt detached and as if he was floating above darkened concrete. With just a few more moments and switching colors for added sprays of paint Ashton decided he was done. Dropped the can beside the other and turned to Lennox who let her gaze flicker between Ashton and the wall.

It was a simple outline but it was born with more passion than completed pieces Ashton had agonized over for months. Ashton didn’t break away from looking at Lennox, let his stare linger as she licked her lips and let her teeth catch; subconsciously recreating the simple linework on the wall. Ashton could tell she still didn’t understand, that observation wouldn’t be enough to sway her into the feeling of freedom. He picked up the cans once more and offered them over her way with a smirk.

“You try.”

Lennox was apprehensive as Ashton handed her the can of paint; it was white. She shook her head, tried to offer it back and sunk further into the warmth of Ashton’s jacket.

“I’ve never used spray paint before Ash,” she explained and turned back to the wall before looking around into the night. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Ashton let a bellow of laughter out at her timid words. She quirked an eyebrow and waited for his tirade of laughs to die down.

“I own the damn building Lenn, I can do whatever I want to it.”

His hand covered hers that held the paint, guided her towards the wall and stood behind her. He held her close, not daring or wanting to break away as she began painting the wall; right next to Ashton’s piece. Her hand wasn’t steady or sure, having never used such a medium leaving her quite the stranger. But she persisted and picked up as her art began coming to life. Ashton hoped she was beginning to understand all that he simply couldn’t explain. It wasn’t quite the same as painting pieces where the public would roam and notice them. It wasn’t the same but it was close enough to his truths. It was unfiltered and unbothered art. It had no strings attached and no worries left on canvases. It was wild and free to be whatever it and he wanted.

Lennox finished, can dropping to her side and body shifting to turn towards Ashton and closer into him and his ever present hold. A breath of elation left her as she gazed back up at the wall, head pressed to his shoulder. Ashton knew he had succeeded in explaining the inexplicable—showing Lennox a conundrum in action. He hoped she understood now. That maybe by seeing and doing she’d grasp that flying feeling that cut through Ashton on nights he went unnoticed. Ashton was caught up in a reverie; simply staring down at Lennox and remembering what it was like to hold her all night. He finally broke away from the past and took a look at her art on his wall; a simple series of dots and dashes. It took Ashton a moment to recognize.

“Free.”

“Your art could still be free, you could have both you know.”

Ashton sighed. Maybe she was right. He just wasn’t sure how to accomplish such a feat. He wasn’t sure it would truly feel free if his mind always searched for bars of criticism and cages of judgement to trap himself within. Ashton let his hold on her tighten, feeling her sink back into his touch like time had never had a hold on them or had created craterous distance that felt like death drops to leap past.

“Maybe,” he decided on, leaving his hope vague and fight for everything he dreamed of to the night.

He walked Lennox home once again. All the way to her building and up the two flights of stairs. They held hands the entire way, something so simplistic making Ashton’s heartbeat erratic and wild. She handed his jacket back to him, pieces of his paper doll and heart staying with her. He said goodbye at the door, kissing her gently and longing for more.

***

Ashton stood outside the art museum doors, the lights were off and the crowds of the day had dispersed. Lennox always stayed late; crowded in her office with paperwork and always in search of new art for exhibits yet to exist. He wondered what it was that kept her this time, if it was mundane tasks or exciting new pieces found on a moment’s notice. He remembered the way she would go to him in flurries of exhilarated joy; the grin capturing her face that couldn’t break and the tumbling of words rushing from pink lips. He wondered if maybe he would be able to relive that with her tonight, if the walls they had begun to crumble were sufficiently torn down and ready to be surpassed.

He waited a few more minutes, restless foot tapping into the stone below, back pressed to the rail that led up and down the staircase. He crossed his arms over his chest and took in a deep breath, only for it to catch as the doors opened suddenly. Lennox stepped through, breathtaking as ever. Her eyes widened in surprise as she adjusted her reading glasses and promptly took them off; hooking them into the neckline of her black dress.

“How long have you been waiting out here?”

Ashton shrugged, downplaying the amount of time. The movement caused his jacket to shift and the local paper he had shoved into the inner pocket to crumple. Lennox caught the noise and let her gaze linger to the page spilling from leather.

“You read the paper this morning?” Ashton questioned, completely avoiding her inquiry. That amount of time was irrelevant. It was the here and now that mattered to him.

“Just my horoscope,” she laughed and took a small jump down one step; offering her hand out to Ashton who didn’t hesitate to reciprocate and lace their fingers together as they descended the stairs and began a slow walk along the curb.

The walls were beyond crumbled; they were abandoned and forgotten.

“You’re missing out,” Ashton replied and used his other hand to pull a loose page of the paper out of his jacket.

He’d read it at his breakfast bar, noon time cereal and coffee curing late night haziness and exhaustion. Several pages in had him stopping short, awe and disbelief cutting through him at a picture and headline proving familiar. His gallery was splashed across a quarter of a page; pink lips and coded freedom photographed in new morning light.

Lennox rolled her eyes playfully. “On what? The comics or the critics?”

Ashton smirked lightheartedly; those two sections of her newspaper usually missing—tucked into Ashton’s firm grip.

“You missed out on us,” Ashton quickly said and handed her the page, delicate hands taking hold of praise in black and white.

Lennox stopped, curious gaze and uncontained pull bringing Ashton to a stop with her. He leaned in closer, head dipping low to reread words he was sure he had memorized.

“Freedom calls to a closed gallery, anonymous art brings life to abandoned bricks,” Lennox muttered the print.

Ashton beamed down at her and at the paper, satisfaction cutting through him in timid bursts. He wasn’t sure it was what he wanted when he took to the streets; had convinced himself that he’d rather be an unknown shadow in the night than a man under a spotlight and inquisition. Talking with Lennox, reading the paper, endless self reflection; it all convinced him that maybe he could find a middle ground.

“That’s great, Ash,” she finally said, tearing her eyes off the page to look up at him. “But I thought your art wasn’t meant for reviews anymore.”

“No one knows it’s mine,” Ashton offered with a shrug as they started walking again. “I think you could be right. I think I could make the gallery everything I want it to be. Maybe I can find freedom within art.”

Lennox only smiled, Ashton knew she bit back an I told you so and coaxed him to further explain with curious eyes.

“I need to show you.”

She didn’t question him or falter as he led her along, just kept their hands held and walked on with easy steps. The streets were lined with fallen leaves, lamp posts creating halos of light that cut up the dark night. Ashton could almost convince himself time had never separated them. They both knew they would never forget the morning that left them scattered and torn apart. They had traded harsh words, insecurities biting at both. Fear of commitment plagued Ashton and fear of uncertainty drowned Lennox. She had said three words and Ashton had not, he had not said them until wine and destroyed art pulled them back together. She had not said them back that night. She said she wouldn’t forget. They had both agreed to forgive. Forgive themselves and each other.

The way to Ashton’s explanation wasn’t long. They pulled up to another abandoned building. Windows were shattered and the inside was empty. No furniture or light graced the inside of the building. But the building was not bare. The inside walls were painted with murals of spray paint, lively colors and immaculate work covered crumbling walls and breathed beauty into a desolate destination. Lennox peered in through one of the broken windows as Ashton gestured, held hand breaking but being replaced with a loose hold on the small of her back.

“Graffiti,” Lennox noted, voice dipping as she turned back to Ashton. “Art.”

Ashton nodded. “This is what I want the gallery to be.”

He hoped Lennox would understand. He wasn’t sure he knew how to put the rest into words.

“You want to keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Bring street art to the fine art world?” Lennox guessed. She wasn’t wrong, but she also wasn’t quite right.

“I want to create a gallery for the unsung artists. Become one of them and make them bigger. Make them a world where their art isn’t ‘vandalism’ or ‘graffiti’. I want to rival galleries with ‘fine art’ and museums with classics. I want people to pay attention to the art and not the artists.”

Lennox smirked. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you to do all along?”

“Guess I needed to see it in bold print before I could understand it,” Ashton replied. “I’ve never been one for subtlety.”

It had been a problem. His inability to drown out bold print. His overwhelming need to cater to reviews. Lennox had always been there; offering her own words that slipped past Ashton as if she had never said them at all. He chased after the wrong things; changed for the wrong people. He began to understand that a day too late. Now he chased a second chance with the right person, determined to not let go this time.

Lennox pressed closer into Ashton’s touch, weight catching one foot more than the other, hip dipping into Ashton’s side and hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. Ashton was swept up in the familiar position, craved for her to be even closer.

“I always loved that about you.”

Ashton froze, blood running cold as Lennox scrunched up her nose. Breath left his body and doubt consumed his mind. Split seconds felt like long lifetimes. His fingers curled into his palms. Body statuesque.

“Still do.”

There was a palpable moment of tension as Ashton remembered his drunken confession and her tipsy promise. He knew she remembered, she never broke a promise. Her eyes told tales of remembrance; of just nights pasts and of months ago. The beauty and the pain of their relationship was etched in her irises, painted in dark circles under her eyes and batted back to Ashton in a flurry of unsure blinks. She licked her lips, swallowed and let her hand wander up so it traced his jawline. Ashton reveled in her touch, goosebumps dancing along bare skin; not for the cold night but for the delicate touch of nimble fingers tracing his jaw and settling atop his shoulders once more. It’d only been seconds yet the breath that escaped him was a heaving sigh of relief as his mind caught up to his body.

“I meant it, you know,” Ashton finally said. He felt weak in the knees as his mind raced to keep in time with his pulse.

“I know,” she whispered back, eyes soft and demeanor easy.

Lennox lifted herself to the tops of her toes, placed a gentle and chaste kiss to Ashton’s lips and let herself fall away from him before they could completely fall back into each other. She found a grip on his sleeve; had a grip on his heart since the day they met, and let a small smile grace her face. Ashton stood still, a little winded and confused, a little bit of everything stirring into one becoming too much.

He was elated at their close proximity, felt her under his skin in a wondrous way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving for months. He remembered the good and the bad. The walks home on cool nights, the connections they made without words, and the spinning miscommunications that boiled and burned under the surface too long for it not to break.

“Walk me home?” She asked and he couldn’t deny himself the simple pleasure.

He had no expectations as she took his arm. He felt as though they’d wiped the slate clean with forgiveness from the previous night. His jacket swallowed her frame and warded off the chill but he still pulled her closer; knowing she could never get warm enough. Cold hands and tip of her nose used to press into his heated skin as snow fell outside a city window. They had been picture perfect in a lot of ways—yet broken and abandoned like the canvases on the gallery floor.

They wandered back to her familiar building; familiar feelings blossoming once more in their chests. They were gentle and caring, they did their best to nurture and care for lives that began to intertwine; flowers of different stems weaving into beating hearts. Ashton walked Lennox all the way up to her door, hesitated and pushed back nervous energy daring to consume him. He swallowed thickly, a beautiful hum of excitement and uncertainty melding together, capturing his insides and stirring his mind into uncontainable what ifs.

Her hand reached for the doorknob as words ran rampant but unsaid through Ashton’s thoughts.

“I’ll see you…” Ashton began and bit his lip. “Tomorrow?” He settled for.

One word held entire universes of uncertain hope.

Lennox nodded.

One motion kept cathedrals of faith standing strong in Ashton’s heart.

Lennox furrowed her brows, lips pursed in contemplation. “Do you wanna come in? Have a cup of coffee or something?”

Ashton nodded—the screaming yes inside his chest contained behind the forcibly casual nod. There was nothing more he wanted in that moment than to be reimmersed in a world that he craved to have back; to be bestowed another chance to dim the shortcomings and shine light on the love that could have been. That was but never had the chance to live.

The past came tumbling back to them in unlocked doors, sugared decaf and staying up until tomorrow came around. It was reminiscent of how they began; of two souls clashing and blending, different hues making a color never seen before. It was explicitly crafted for two hearts painted with the same brush. Ashton remembered himself in a familiar hold, in sheets printed with marigolds and frosted window boxes glaring the truth back at him in flashes of regret. He couldn’t change the past but he could create a better future.

They stumbled through her apartment, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud and not chancing a look back. Ashton felt the warmth of the coffee mug burn into his palms as he gripped it and kept his eyes on hers; they were dark in the dim lighting of her kitchen, but they were subtle and filled with emotions that ran streamlines of easiness through Ashton’s heart. It was an elusive easiness, there in the moment and undecided if it would be gone with the moon. She led Ashton beyond the kitchen. Beyond Ashton’s insecurities and doubts; beyond a past that was smudged with regrets and to a place of solace when his relationship with art became tumultuous.

It was all too easy and familiar to fall back into each other. Their pattern was intricately forged and as delicate as a beating heart. The tension between them was palpable and riding waves of broken breaths dancing in lurid light. Fingertips trailed along bare skin and raised goosebumps, lips parted and hands gripped at sheets no longer decorated with marigolds. Things had changed and yet Ashton and Lennox stayed ever the same; tiny fractures of doubt splintered their way through the crumbled wall connection as the night faded and the sun fought to shine past a foggy morning sky. Except three words still burned fervently and honestly through Ashton—doubt dulling with that realization. Lennox was still sleeping as Ashton shifted up, sat up straight with his back against the headboard. Before he could say anything a mumbled five more minutes filled the new morning silence and curved a familiar smile back onto Ashton’s face.

Their time together had inspired many things within Ashton. It had created an ability to let go and hold on. It curated lost love and lit dull sparks back to life. His passion was reignited and ready to paint a new life. He was ready to try again; the notion of anonymity falling free and casually in his chest as his fingers ached to hold a paint brush. He slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Lennox as she had fallen back into slumber after her adorable plea for more time with her dreams. He traced a lone finger over her cheekbone and leaned down to kiss her forehead, hovering just a moment longer in their world before stepping back to reality.

Ashton bid Lennox farewell with a silent escape. With just one look back at her tangled in the past he then set his sights ahead and walked out the door to be met by frosted glass window boxes with wilted marigolds. His fingers brushed the dying petals, an ironic twist of liveliness springing him forward as each new night he spent with Lennox played through his mind. He would never have guessed anonymous chalk lines and regret would have brought her back to him. He couldn’t fathom that three words unsaid for so long could be a force so strong inside him. He remembered the jolt of bitterness that had him stepping in front of her image; the way her sweet eyes had softened the blows of the past and let him take his guard down. There was one more night he wished to live with her. One more opportunity to hear three words.

***

The gallery was astonishing; renovated and created new with dark wood floors and not an inch of bare wall to be seen. Ashton had worked tirelessly to create a new world within old walls and once abandoned hopes. He had left the nights to himself; only seeing Lennox under the sun—fleeting escapes with surprise as his explanation. Lennox hadn’t questioned him. For as much as they miscommunicated in the past and left questions unanswered they could also communicate with words unspoken. She knew the surprise was important. She could tell by the spark in Ashton’s eyes and the pitch of his voice heightening as he gave her clues. Ashton figured she knew what he was doing; he was never one for subtlety after all. It was her idea that sparked the flame—he wanted it to spread like wildfire.

He stood back from the work he had poured into the renovation, took a moment to gather his thoughts and train his eye around the entirely open gallery. No more did a half wall separate the building. It was open and inviting; street art and work of the unknown filled the walls. Night time gatherings had accumulated bursts of inspiration and endless colors that melded into something extraordinary. Ashton took a moment to stand tall with pride, eyes endlessly sweeping the born new gallery. It was more than he could have hoped for, it felt alive in the night and served to sever the past so easily. No longer did he feel like he was drowning in words of critics; no longer did he care to know their thoughts. They only thought that mattered were of Lennox and by Lennox.

Anticipation built in Ashton’s chest; it felt light and warm, ready to set wildfires that could burn away critical ink and leave scattered pieces of ash turned to art. He ran a hand through his hair, a delicate smile taking a stronghold over his features; he still could not believe he had attained what seemed impossible. A knock on the new door jarred him from the pride filled reverie. He moved to answer it, chains and locks long forgotten. Lennox stood on the other side, as she had a number of times during the gallery’s renovation. Ashton always stepped out quickly and shut the door before she could get a peek inside.

“You’re really set on this being a surprise, aren’t you?” She questioned as she took his hand without waiting for an invitation; knowing it was open—waiting for her whenever she wanted.

Ashton squeezed her hand, grinned and shrugged as they began walking home. “It feels like it needs to be a surprise.”

Ashton felt a strong desire to keep the gallery under wraps. He wanted to see her take it all in in one moment; hoped pride would dance across her features. He wanted her to fall in love with the gallery; to fall back in love with him. He spent his days building what could have been; spent his nights rebuilding what once was. They found old solace that tugged on familiar heart strings during nights spent together once more. Ashton recognized glimmers of love shining with new morning sun across her as he let her sleep in and made to leave for the gallery. There were no more mumbled five more minutes as he had found a way to slip out of bed without jostling her; he had perfected the morning routine. Leaving her with a gentle kiss on the forehead and as always, another look back before leaving with the bedroom door open as she liked.

“I hate waiting, just tell me,” she begged, eyes gone soft and lower lip jutted out to accentuate her plea, hands caught in a slight swinging motion between them.

Ashton stopped short, Lennox stopping against his side at the sudden lack of movement. He turned to her, captured gazes with her easily and shook his head.

“You’ve never liked surprises, have you?”

Lennox laughed and her grip on Ashton’s hand loosened, her plea vanishing into the crisp and cool air. She’d always been a master of disguises yet open and vulnerable; a contrived contradiction that could show a lifetime of emotions and take them all away in an instant.

“They’re never worth the suspense.”

Ashton’s chest tightened at those words; an imminent feeling of possible failure dropping weight on him—crushing and suffocating him. He hadn’t thought of it not living up to expectations. And it would have consumed him if Lennox hadn’t squeezed his hand and batted her eyelashes at him.

“But you’re different. It’s everything you’ve been working for; everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re worth the suspense and the wait.”

And just like that—with faith and honesty in every soft spoken word—the pressure lifted and Ashton could breathe evenly once more. He knew her words were true and the word choice was decisive and thought over. He was worth the wait. It instilled good faith that three different words might be said again. With every flicker of faith and hope and renewed love that was once snuffed out but free to simmer he prayed she might say those words in a gallery rebuilt. In a place where she could see the changes; not the art or new doors or torn down walls, but the change of heart and open door and crumbled walls they fought so hard and so long for. He wanted to say those words and hear those words said back on a night when she could be proud of him.

There was no hesitation as they came upon her building. There was no awkward uncertainty or goodbye that left them wondering if they'd see each other again. Ashton knew he would wake up to her; messy hair, pouted lips and a need to sleep in keeping her under the covers. Mornings were everything; she was the morning.

***

Soft music played as a backing track to the evening. Ashton’s nervous hands fidgeted against his deep red suit; the intricate and golden masquerade mask placed on his face weighed down by anxiety. Artists of all backgrounds and styles roamed free, anonymity granting such a luxury. Words meant little when critics were one and the same, disguised and as anonymous as the aliases the artists used. It wasn’t the fear of harsh reviews or not selling well that sat heavy in Ashton’s heart. It was the overwhelming and sincere need to take pride in the night. To finally feel as though his art and passion was worth crumbling walls and waging wars. It’d been a long time coming; years of struggle and heartache, months of slinking through the shadows of the streets when all he felt was defeated.

Ashton rocked back on his heels, swept a hand through his hair and smiled at people passing by; the looks of awe unable to be concealed by the masks they wore. Ashton’s heart lightened at the gleaming eyes taking in bold colors and the excitement that crackled in the air. It was electric. Though his gaze wandered as patrons took in the renovated space and redefining art there was only one place his mind could seem to stay. Lennox. He had slipped the invitation under her door, calligraphy swooped in gold calling her to the grand opening. He knew she would have gotten it as he spent the last few nights and mornings in the gallery rather than her bed.

He knew he could recognize her in a crowd; see past a mask and know her. Moments passed, music filtering past the worry that dared to build in his chest. But a tap on his shoulder from behind had him spinning; caught in a wonderful whirlwind as she stood before him. Her hair was piled on her head but loose curls framed her face and the silver mask that complimented the dark blue of her dress. Ashton beamed. She had found him first.

“I didn’t see you come in,” he explained, knowing she’d read between the lines and understand that he would have gone to her if he had.

“I knew I’d find you,” she said, voice soft against the crowd but beating hard and fast with Ashton’s heart. “I know you.”

Ashton could not help the grin that curved across his lips or that his hands reached out to settle on her waist and bring her closer. She was easy to persuade into his hold, her own arms winding around him and fingertips gracing the tops of his shoulders as she smiled too. A moment of quiet settled between them in which the music and chatter of people became drowned out. Ashton could swear he could hear and feel his heart beating in his ears and stomach; pounding with anticipation at three words rather than anxiety about not hearing them.

“I hoped you got the invitation.”

Lennox beamed, bit her lip for just a moment before it sprang free and her words settled accomplishment in Ashton’s bloodstream. “I did. But the museum sent me too. Something about needing to scout for a local and modern exhibit.”

“They’re interested?”

“Ever since you painted the side of the building and made it into the paper. They raved about it. And suddenly this gallery was reopening with a whole new premise of anonymity; taking street art and showing that it’s more than graffiti. You’ve always had a voice and stories to tell with your art. Now you’re giving that chance to the unheard. You really made an impact.”

Ashton held gazes with Lennox; let her words sink in and take hold of his heart, build a home out of crumbled stone and chipped pieces of their past. But this time they built walls together and invited each other in.

“It’s because of you. You inspired it all. Finished what I started. Made me realize I didn’t have to completely abandon the past to start new. You sparked the freedom to try.”

Lennox let her hands wander, let them settle on Ashton’s jawline and then sweep through his hair. She came back to him, delicate fingers removing the mask adorned on his face. Only for a moment. Just for them.

“I’m proud of you,” she said as she put the mask back in place with a gentle touch.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ashton asked, one of his hands leaving her waist to capture her hand; fingers entwined together like they hadn’t missed a beat.

“It’s your grand opening. Don’t you want to be here?”

“It’s the art that matters to me, remember? I do recall a wise woman once telling me not to wander the gallery during shows.”

A grin split across her face; one that thrummed Ashton’s heart beat with hope and admiration. He hoped she would leave with him, go back to a place they now both considered home. He hoped that this time they would stay together.

“But who’ll be here to take orders and lock up?” She asked; eyelashes batting and nose twitching as she considered his offer.

“Calum—he’s a street artist; trust him the most. I know he can handle it.”

Ashton did not need to say another word, Lennox was convinced and willing to leave. Until she stopped short.

“I do need to scout…”

Ashton pulled Lennox into him; familiar hold putting her doubts to rest. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know; show you all the art,” he began and stopped to place a kiss to her lips. “In the morning.”

With a heads up to Calum that Ashton was leaving for the night and the gallery was in his hands they left with heart racing wildly in time with each other and life lines on held hands becoming one. They came upon her apartment door and stumbled through the threshold like so many times before. But those times felt like fractured pieces of lives they hardly knew anymore. This time was different and optimistic. This time the morning came and their future was certain.

This time when the newspaper lay on the breakfast bar Ashton didn’t mind the words printed. He left the screams of headlines and critics behind. Set his sights on marigolds left to wither in a window box and picked up a pen and paper to revise chalk lines that felt long forgotten. Her image was born under the moon on a night when Ashton wanted to slink through the shadows and go unnoticed. His art had faded into the night as they left the past behind and he walked her home.

Lennox came out of the bedroom, arms raised in a stretch and mouth open in a yawn as her tired eyes took in Ashton at the breakfast bar, hunched over a scrap piece of paper with a pen fervently scratching away. She came to hover over him. Took in her image once more and wrapped her arms around him from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder and Ashton dropped the pen, turned to pull her into his lap and let her eyes flit to the paper that reminded them of the distance they never wanted to feel again.

“Mornin’, Lenn,” Ashton greeted, voice gravelly as it was the first use of the morning. He had left Lennox to sleep, he was out the bedroom door with just a kiss to the forehead once more.

“That’s the same as the chalk piece,” she murmured, hands reaching for the page. “It’s me, right?”

Ashton nodded, tried to suppress a grin and failed. “Always.”

“And that night we got drunk at the gallery…” she began, voice trailing off as she got caught in a flurry of thoughts. “Do you remember what you said?”

Ashton nodded again.

“Did you mean it?”

“Always,” he responded once more; the one word holding more meaning than what could ever be imaginable.

Lennox paused for a moment. Let her gaze drift back and forth between Ashton’s late night turned early morning art and hazel eyes. Ashton bit back the trepidation that wanted to build in his chest. The fear of not knowing what she would say next was quelled by the softness of her eyes and the smile that made her beam. His smile back was instinctual. The fear melted away.

She finally said those three words he’d been yearning to hear again for months.

“I love you.”

Those words spun him back to a time he thought he wanted his art to go unnoticed. Back to nights where his heart secretly hoped and yearned for more. She brought him back to love; restored his ability to believe in his art, himself, and love. It only took a number of nights of Lennox noticing him to put pieces of their world back together.

Ashton took in the glory of spending a morning with her in his embrace and placed a kiss to her temple.

“I love you,” he responded without hesitation.

He was now eternally grateful for all of those noticed nights.

***

This story began back in June, it took on many lives during the journey of writing. I truly hope you enjoyed, I would love to hear your thoughts <3 If you’d like to be tagged in future one shots, just send me an ask! :)

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