#all the scars are from... a lot worse. all the bones - i usually only saw them like this when i was a lot worse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seabass17 · 3 years

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All that’s left | Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader

A/n: So, this is... a different reader in comparison from the one in the first part but I kinda like it? Anyway, Im considering making a third part and im thinking it'll contain some smut. I used google translator so please don't judge me. Tell me what you think. Happy reading.

All that's left pt. 1

Warnings: angst, mentions of scars, swearing, implied smut?

Word count: 3.263

Summary: After moving from her life in New York, away from the Avengers and him, she finds happiness and a life that she actually enjoys, but that seems to last little when she spots the familiar jet on the roof of the building she lives in. Is she ready to face them? To face him?

*Three months later*

The warm air surrounding my body made me take a deep breath and unconsciously smile. I was happy, I was free, I was whole. I was with my neighbor drinking coffee in our usual spot, which was a cafe near the main street of the place that I decided was going to become my new home.

“Продолжай рассказывать мне о своем боссе, который сводит тебя с ума” (Keep on telling me about your boss who drives you crazy) Andrei said making me laugh and shake my head.

“Не о чем говорить, он просто засранец, который дает мне слишком много работы и заставляет меня плакать” (Nothing to talk about, he's just an asshole who gives me too much work and makes me want to cry) I laughed. I had met Andrei a week after I moved in and there was an immediate connection. No, it wasn’t in a romantic one, god no, we were just really good friends that had a lot in common.

“Now now, that was not what i saw the other day when i went to pick you up from work” He said with a playful smirk plastered on his light brown face. I gasped, a fake indignant expression on my face while my hand went to my chest. He laughed loudly. “Don’t play that card, I saw you!” he added

“I don’t know what you are talking about” I said, trying to fight the smile that tried to come out but failing miserably, we both laughed.

He and I had become quite close in the little time that we had known each other. He was an American with a Russian name. He explained that his mother was from the states while his father was a russian spy, they fell in love against all odds and eventually, Andrei was brought to this world. When he was fifteen his father died and he and his mom went to America, where he finished high school and surprisingly, entered the military. He did two tours before he decided that he had enough and returned to Russia. Hence why he could speak both Russian and English fluently. As for me, I told him that I was in some sort of organization that worked for the government, and that’s why I knew russian. He believed me, thank God, I didn’t want to talk about how I was part of the Avengers and why I left. Obviously I will tell him when the time is right and I know that he can be fully trusted.

“Oh, come on Ames, are you going to tell me that you don’t like him one bit? Not in the slightest?” he asked, smiling and I shook my head. He stayed silent for a second and stared at me, like he was considering whether he should ask me something or keep quiet. “Is it because of him?” he finally asked, watching me closely to see my reaction. I felt my stomach twist at the mention of him. Of course it was because of him, because of them, I couldn’t afford getting hurt and betrayed one more time. Andrei didn’t know his name, or theirs for that matter, so I smiled weakly and nodded.

“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid but… I just can’t afford getting hurt, not again, not anymore” I said looking at my hands.

“I understand, believe me I do” he said, his hand reaching out to hold mine. I looked up to find his brown eyes looking for mine, I saw nothing but genuine love -the friendly kind- in them. I smiled and squeezed his hand. He was going to say something but his phone rang; a notification. He withdrew his hand to look at his phone and the moment he did, people around us started getting up and running in the same direction. I looked at him confused to find him frowning at his phone.

“What is it?” i asked.

“The Avengers are here…” He said and my heart skipped a beat and my body went rigid. Andrei noticed. “What 's wrong?”. Well, there’s no use keeping him from the truth anymore.

“So, remember when I told you that I worked for an organization for the government? Okay don’t freak out and hate me but, here it goes” I took a deep breath. “That organization was called The Red Room were they trained me from a very young age to be a perfect cold-blooded killer, years later i escaped and was on the run until i got a new identification, name, address, new everything and then joined the avengers to amend the wrongs I made in the past. To my luck, it didn’t go great because it ended up breaking me the same way The Red Room did, so I left to find a fresh start and came here where I met you. Please don’t hate me” I concluded in one breath. Andrei was silent with a straight face, which was hard to read, and eventually after a few seconds that felt like an eternity and shrugged his shoulders. WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN.

“Believe it or not, I've heard worse” he simply said

“Worse than finding out that your best friend is a train killer and former avenger?” i asked incredulously and he tilted his head and smirked

“US Agent mother and Russian spy father” He said. I laughed and he followed right after. “So, I'm guessing we are running away?” he asked. Say what now?

“We?” I asked, almost in shock to which he simply nodded, “You don’t think im just gonna let you go like that, please, is not that easy to get rid of me” he snorted. “And I'm supposing Amelia is not your real name either, given the fact that you ran off,” he added. Damn, he is good.

“Y/n, y/n y/l/n” I said and he slowly smiled

“Well y/n, nice to meet you, my name is Andrei Petrova” he said, extending his hand, i repeated his action with the same smile. “I’ve got to say, I like the name y/n more than Amelia '' he added and laughed. We were brought back to the matter at hand when the screaming of the people were getting louder. I snapped my head up and saw the familiar jet on the roof of the building where I was living.

“Here’s what we are going to do, I’m going to my apartment and buy us some time while you go get a car and,” i handed him my card “you are going to get all the money from my bank account. I will meet you in front of the cafe that’s two blocks away from my place”

“Are you going to be okay?” He asked with clear worry in his eyes. I smiled and nodded

“Yes, I promised. Now go” I said before he got up and ran. I sighed and went to my apartment. Was I really going to do this? After months, was I ready to face them, already knowing the truth? Well, guess I'm going to find out.

Once in the building I decided to programmed the lights to go out in 50 minutes and then I went to the elevator, wanting to appear as normal as possible even though I felt like my heart was going to explode from how fast it was beating inside my rib cage. When the elevator stopped at my floor I walked until I was standing in front of my door. I didn’t need to wait and confirm, I knew they knew I was here, now there’s only one thing left to do. But before I did anything, the door creaked open.

*10 hours earlier*

Bucky paced from one side to the other, finding himself incapable of staying put. Natasha sat silently on her chair, Tony was in the front with his head in between his hands, Steve was resting on the side of the wall looking at the floor, Bruce was just standing there holding his chin analyzing everyone in the room. Sam sat on the couch looking through his phone, Vision was sitting next to Wanda on the other couch, while Clint and Thor were sitting on the other chairs. Peter had some school stuff to deal with like the teenager that he was. They’ve been looking for her for the past three months, and about a week ago, a picture was found of someone that looked exactly like her, all except her hair that was a bit shorter and the color was different, but other than that, it was practically her.

Not wanting to get their hopes -or rather enthusiasm- up, they decided to look deeper and found out that the picture was taken a month ago in the city of Magadan located in Russia. They found out that before three months, the name Amelia Agapov, didn’t exist. The more they looked into it, the more they were convinced that it was her.

“The mission report from Agent Carter arrived, should i put it on the screen?” the voice of the AI filled the room. The team had been waiting for that report for days, the nerves of the question that lingered in the air ‘was it her?’ being present for that time only grew stronger as Stark asked FRIDAY to project the report on the screen.

Pictures were shown, most of them were about this woman buying in the market, having coffee with a guy, but there was one, where her face was looking straight into the lens of the camera, and it was that picture that left the people in the room absolutely rigid. It was her.

“We found her…” Tony said in a whisper. Everybody kept their gaze on the picture on the big screen. After months looking for her, they finally had found her. To everyone, it was like someone just discovered something new, a kind of relief and anxiety all at the same time.

“Suit up, we’re going to get her” Steve said to the group, but see, it was the choice of words from Cap that Bucky found unsettling.

“Get her? Like she is some kind of criminal?” he said, looking at his best friend dead in the eye. Steve opened his mouth to say something but Tony beat him to it.

“She was trained by The Red Room to be an assassin, we can expect nothing more from her '' He said, trying to calm Bucky down, but instead it only caused him to get angrier, and not only him.

“So was I” Natasha said, her voice low that could scare anyone to the bone if they weren’t so used to her.

"It's different" Tony said

“How is it different?” Wanda said this time, “It wasn’t when you practically recluded me after I helped Ultron and tried to kill you all” she added.

Tony sighed and looked down, realizing that he might be overreacting.

“Let’s just get suit up and get on with it” Steve said, cutting the rather awkward silence that filled the room.

The avengers were suit up and on the quinjet in less that forty-five minutes, and they were in Madagan in nine hours, it took them an hour to find her building, and once they found it, Clint landed the jet on the roof and they all got out and looked for her apartment. Funny enough, it was the same number as the one she used to live in New York; 108. They waited for what seemed an eternity until they heard footsteps just outside the door. Suddenly, the air felt thick with anticipation, but Bucky couldn’t wait any longer so he crossed the living room in two steps and opened the door. She was standing there. Silence took over the entire apartment until she broke it.

“Well, are you going to move so that I can get inside my goddamn apartment Barnes?” she said expectantly. Bucky realized that he had been staring at her since he opened the door. Her hair was different, more wavy and a shade or two lighter. He moved to the side and she was able to see the rest of the team. This was going to be one hell of an evening.

Breathe. In… and out…

It was hard. Fuck. Okay i can do this.

“Well isn’t this nice. All the team back together again!” I said with sarcasm dripping from every letter.

“What the hell did we ever do to you?” Steve said firmly.

“Damn, getting straight into it. That’s okay” i shrugged as I went to my room but the sound of the blasters of Tony's suit stopped me.

“Stop, don’t take another step” He said, lifting his hands and I smiled.

“Really? Well unfortunately i have to change, so i’ll leave the door open if it makes you comfortable” i said as i continued to walk to my room, and like I said, i left the door open.

“Y-you don’t have to do that, you can…” Wanda said but trailed off. I had taken my shirt off; my scars were shown.

“So, Steve” I broke the silence as I put on a black shirt, “the thing that you did wasn’t as bad as tin man over there, but you still let Hydra take me the day we took out the helicaries” i added. His face got pale and started shaking his head.

“What? No, you made it out safe, you-” He started saying but i interrupted him

“You sure? Who do you think stopped Rumlow when he tried to interfere with the exchange of the chip when you were in the helicarrier with Bucky?” He started thinking for a moment until he realized what I said fell into place. “Yeah, I took one hell of a beating, and if that wasn’t enough, I fell to the water. I fell thirty floors down, and I alone got myself out, because I didn't have anyone to cover me or have my back” i concluded.

“Your scars…” Tony said this time and i turned to him

“Yeah, thanks to you Mr. Stark” i said and he looked at me. “Doctor said that 74% of my body is covered with scars, along with one or two burns”

“You were that girl in The Red Room” Natasha said, causing me to turn my head to look at her and I smiled cynically, “You are Eliza” she finished.

“Давно не виделись с Натальей” (Long time no see Natalia) i said and she looked at me in pure surprise in her faced. That’s something coming from the famous Black Widow.

“What about the rest of us y/n?” Sam said this time, redirecting my attention from Natasha to the rest of the group. Thor was standing there holding his hammer, Bruce was next to the fridge, Clint was by the sink, Wanda was with Vision beside the kitchen table and Bucky was by the door. They were all looking at me. I took a look at the clock, I have to leave in less than thirty minutes.

“Long story short, Clint, Bruce, Sam, Wanda and Vision are the ones that didn’t do anything, so just chill out, you are still on my good side” I smiled and waved my hand.

“Hold on, but what did I do?” Thor asked and I looked at him.

“God it really is unfair how such a little thing can cause such a big problem. The first time you came down to earth, met Jane, bla bla bla… when her stuff was under custody of shield, and you took that notebook; they blamed me. I know it may seem weird because, how? Thing is, I was undercover at that time inside Shield, so when the notebook disappeared, guess who was the one that got beaten for it. I couldn’t move from the pain.”

Thor was standing completely still.

“Lady y/n…”

“How is it possible? I was there and never saw you” Clint interrupted Thor.

“It was before the avengers, i was on the run and a girl's gotta eat. Don’t worry, I never gave them anything. Got the money and then killed them, they were nobodies” I shrugged off.

“So, that’s all you needed to know, so if you please leave my…” I said but then he interrupted me.

“No” I would be lying if I said it didn’t send shivers down my spine at his tone, and I hate even more that he noticed it. “You’re missing one doll” Well fuck me

I turned to see him and he was walking painfully slow towards me and I was praying for my legs to not give out.

“Barnes” I simply said, thanking God and all the saints that it didn’t come out as a whimper. I took a look at the clock once more. I have to leave. Now. “Such a shame, wish you had fought for us, I would have gone through hell and back for you, Buck” his eyes were looking straight to my own and I felt like he was staring at my bare soul. In a way, he was. I smiled and I saw behind my back that the team was looking at us, we’ve never been this close, not in public anyway. I standed on my tiptoes and reached for his right ear, he instinctively reached down so it was a bit easier for me.

“If you want to know, you’ll have to find me first дорогой” (Sweetheart) I whisper. Next thing, the light went out just like I programmed it to and I slid beside Bucky to reach out to the door and to the hall. I could hear the team screaming ‘what the hell just happened’. I ran to the emergency stairs, and once out I could still feel him behind me, getting close. I went into an alley, having to detour, knowing that he eventually was going to catch up to me and I couldn't have him follow where I was really going. A few seconds later, I felt him caging me to the wall on the alley, both of us breathing heavily. His flesh hand went to my throat and his metal one rested on the wall.

“Given a different occasion, I would have loved this, don’t get me wrong, I still love how you…”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked huskily and I smiled.

“I told you, you’ll have to wait until you find me again. Alone.” i said

“Come on Barnes, do you really think that the charade of being your personal fuck toy would last forever?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t like that, i…” he said but trailed off. The pain in my chest starting and clenching my heart.

“There it is…” i said lowly, the hurt in my voice evident, “listen, i’d love to keep talking about how you used me, but like i said,” i got close to his face, my nose touching his, “find me to found out” after that, I raised my knee kicking him right in between his legs.

He let out a pained groan and fell to the floor, causing his grip in my neck to give out. I took advantage and ran. Two blocks away, I saw Andrei. When he saw me running to him, he immediately got in the car and turned the engine on, then I got in.

“Drive, fast” it was the first thing i said

“Where?” he asked while we took off. I smiled and looked at him

“You’ll see”

Taglist

@silentkiller2374 @vikingqueenlove @girlfriday007 @supraveng

#avengers #bucky x reader #steve x bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst #steve rogers #natasha romonova #tony stark #the red room #wanda maximoff #marvel #imagines #hydra

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ushiwakaout · 4 years

Text

Metal arm! Izuku Midoriya

Genre: Nsfw || porn with plot

⚠️ Warnings: MHA Manga spoilers + leaks || assumption theory

Words:

Fem! Reader

Characters have been aged up

Okay Let me get this out of the way... DEKU LOST HIS ARM AND IT HAS BEEN REPLACED WITH A METAL ONE! OKAY?! THAT IS MY THEORY and it probably will happen or we find out that deku’s actual quirk has been regeneration this whole time bc his body been threw so much to the point where he should be dead- it’s not just only UAs cute little nurse he might have a quirk that just regenerates his bones and he never knew bc deku never broke a bone until OFA.

Okay let’s assume this most recent arc is over.

Shigaraki has been defeated and gigantica has been taken down

Everyone is okay, alive and hospitalized.

If you’re injured its probably because you got pushed away from grand torino who protected you from protecting bakugo,

it was the situation where you bare hugged him and yall went tumbling into the gravel, now you have a lot of scars and gashes on your back

You def. passed out when you ran up to Izuku and his fucking arm was missing, he freaked out too bc black whip created like an alter arm and passed out too when he saw that his arm was missing

put in the same room to rest, it probably takes you a few days to get up from your hospital bed due to your injuries, def had a dislocated shoulder after protecting bakugou

You don’t blame him and hes like “GOOD, YOU’RE DUMB ASS GOT IN THE WAY, IT’S YOUR FAULT” low key grateful

Out of all the students, Izuku took the longest to get out of the hospital but by the time he has discharged a metal arm was ready for him at his dorm (you’ll have to thank hatsume later)

you’re obviously there with him when it’s just lounging on his bed with instructions on how to put it on

“You’re lucky it’s your left arm bc it would have been pretty bad if you lost the right”

He just looks at you and is like “Really y/n? I lost an arm! I think that pretty bad!” pouty baby when you say “it could be worse?”

You put it on him and the tech crawls onto his skin and attaches itself, you look at the instructions and pull on his shirt, “Take it off.”

boy get red red, but you roll you eyes while he’s muttering off words and you just take off his shirt while he’s muttering,

you connect a while to the back of his elbow and then to a certain section on his neck where hatsume instructed

Izuku is still muttering nothing that the metal arm is now moving how it usually would if he was muttering

you bonk him on the head and he’s like >< 3 >< “Why’d you hit me y/n?!”

he’s rubbing his head with the metal arm and the boy doesn’t even fucking realize it so you legit have to have it in front of him and hes like “OH 😲 WHEN DID THAT GET THERE?!”

“You’re lucky you’re cute Zuku.”

While he’s getting used to it there’s a few malfunctions

Say when you guys are cuddling, you’ll feel his left arm start to fondle your chest, he can’t feel what he’s gripping but he knows he’s gripping something, he really do be thinking it’s your arm.

You’re blushing like crazy and you’re like “Um Zuku... are- Do you know what you’re doing right now?”

He’s kinda sleepy so he kinda hums and looks over your shoulder to see what he’s been caressing

HE WILL THOW HIMSELF OUT OF YOUR BED OR HIS BED AND GET ON HIS KNEES AND APOLOGIZE LIKE CRAZY probably will start crying for forgiveness

it happens several times before he’s able to control it

once you guys get older- say you’re over with UA (graduated) and you guys have free time and you’re making out, he obviously loses his train of thought of controlling his arm

it roams from gipping your butt to holding your neck

Izuku gets flustered and mutters a few sorrys while pulling away but you stop him. “Why don’t you let it go free for tonight... I- I’m actually curious.”

He almost blows a fuse just looking at you wrap his metal fingers around your neck again.

You DO NOT regret it

you’re naked at this point on his lap

His metal arm has always been a turn on, and now more than ever

He’s making you ride his thigh while his metal fingers wrap around your pretty little neck, pulling you towards his kisses while his right hand is holding your hip, moving you when it seems like you would stop

When he pulls away from the kiss, your lips are plum are red with a string of your hot saliva. You’re eyes are glazed over and you look at him with a pout

“You’re so pretty riding my thigh princess, but I think you’ve had enough.”

When he pick you up with his left arm, you whine- you’re pussy feeling sore from grinding on his thigh

He lays you on the bed, you’re brain is already mush bc you’ve cummed on his thigh already and you’re high has calmed down

But he’s obviously not gonna stop there

He laid you down on the bed for a reason and you haven’t even noticed that he’s already in-between your thighs

you’re body twitches when his tongue flicks you’re sensitive bud

you let out a whine when he reaches out with his metal arm to pinch your breast. the feeling is cold but you like it.

the atmosphere is quiet bc Izuku is focused on making you cum, and you’re already kinda out of it

the only noise you can hear is the way his fingers slick inside you, curling their way onto your g-spot and making your body twitch.

A light moan escaped your lips, reaching out for a first full of his green hair.

His lips suck on your clit, his breath is hot a his tongue swirls around for your arousal.

His metal arms isn’t on your chest anymore but pressing down of your tummy while he fingers you. he wants you to feel how deep his fingers are. He wants you to know where his fingers reach when you’re at the peak of orgasm but he doesn’t let you cum

and when he’s watching you come down from your denied orgasm, he’s pumping his cock slowly with his metal arm and it just makes you so horny again

you’re begging him to let you suck his cock and he obviously lets you, he couldn’t deny his princess

his metal arm reaches for the back of your head to grab a fist full of hair and he makes you deep throat his cock while tears brim in your eyes when you look up at him

he pulls you back because he doesn’t want to cum in your mouth so he pulls you up and he sits down at the edge of the bed, in front of the mirror

he makes you sit on his cock, but your not facing him, your facing the mirror and his hands are under your knees so he can sink you down onto his cock while you watch

a/n: GOD DUKENWJAISAISUSUSGJAUSHSHSUXWUWU I WANT TO SIT ON HIS COCK SO BAD HES SO HOR GOD DAMNIT UGHA HE WOULD BE SO GENTEL AND TO DEMANDING WHILE FUCKINF GAH DAMNIT

kisses any part of your skin that he can reach while he’s fucking you

“One more orgasm, come on baby, you can do it...”

“That’s my good girl, you love my cock don’t you?”

“Say you love me baby girl.”

“I love seeing you stupid all over my cock baby, you’re so good for me, so fucking good for me.”

OVERALL METAL ARM IZUKU IS HOT AS HELL AND I WANT HIM TO RAIL ME THANK YOU

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lucky-katebishop · 3 years

Text

What I Read in September 2021

It's been a stagnant month, but I did find a couple favorites :) as usual, composed of mainly Harry Potter fics but there's a spare Modern Family fic in there and a couple crossovers. I think I read about 27-28 fics :)

Harry Potter

Family Relations by OxfordOctopus

Plot: In which Harry realizes that not even he's exempt from how interconnected magical families are.

Characters: Harry, Pavarti, Hermione, Ron

Relationships: Hermione & Harry & Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: Desi Potter Family; Desi Harry; Hogwarts third year; red-haired Harry Potter

*complete*

Talking to Thestrals by OxfordOctopus

Plot: In a world where Voldemort well and truly died in ‘81, where there are no Horcruxes, where Harry is sequestered off by a man in a flying motorcycle when he's six, and where the only legacy the most feared Dark Lord left behind was his politics and a heavily scarred child, nobody quite realizes that Harry isn’t okay. Nobody but the leathery creatures at the lake, and the girl who looks at them.

Characters: Harry, Luna

Relationships: Harry & Luna

Warnings: anxiety, dissociation, suicidal thoughts, bullying, implied/referenced child abuse, child neglect

Tags: Sirius Black Criticism; Hogwarts second year; Sirius Black Never Went to Azkaban; AU - No Voldemort;

My Notes: Now, I love Sirius just as much as the next girl, but this is such an interesting look at a man raising a kid when he wasn’t ready and the consequences of that (I relate a tad too strongly)

*complete*

Slytherin Politics by OxfordOctopus

Plot: Abused children don't respond well to power plays.

Characters: Harry, Draco, Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence

Tags: violence, broken bones, Slytherin Harry, bullying

My Notes: Harry is so truly terrifying in this fic, it’s wonderful

*complete*

rotten on the inside by cassiopeia721

Plot: Harry's boggart isn't Voldemort, or even a dementor. It's something much worse.

Characters: Harry, Snape, Hermione, Ron

Relationships: Hermione & Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: Hogwarts third year; boggarts; angst; protective Hermione; Hermione is a Good Friend

*complete*

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell by IamShadow21

Plot: Questions asked, questions unasked, secrets told and secrets kept, trust, devotion, empathy and love. Ron and Harry's friendship, from that first day on the Hogwarts Express, right through until after the Battle. Can be read as a friendship fic, or a ship fic. It's open to interpretation.

Characters: Harry, Ron, Fred, George, Hermione, Arthur

Relationships: Harry/Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: canon compliant; canon-typical violence; friendship, hurt/comfort; protective Ron; Protective Fred; Protective George; gen or pre-slash; platonic cuddling; POV Ron

My Notes: now this could be read as pre-slash, as a relationship, or just good friends, but I am so completely head over heels in love with the idea of Harry and Ron! Best friends to lovers!

*complete*

Best Served Cold by enchantedsleeper

Plot: “C’mon, Freddie,” George says suddenly, sotto voce. “Sooner the four of us get out of here, the better.” It hadn’t been the right moment, as they were exploring the Dursleys’ comfortable house in the dead of night, to plant a well-timed trick or a trap and risk blowing the whole operation – and getting Harry into even more trouble with his sadistic relatives. Better just to get Harry out and away from that place. But two years later, Fred and George got their chance for revenge.

Characters: Harry, Fred, George, Ron, Arthur

Relationships: Harry & Ron; Harry & George & Fred

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: Book 4; Harry is an honorary Weasley

*complete*

east, west, home’s best by taizi

Plot: You can never have too many brothers, Ron decides, for the very first time in his life. And there's always room in the Burrow for another Weasley, even if only an honorary one.

Characters: Harry, George, Ron, Fred

Relationships: Harry & Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: Chamber of Secrets; families of choice

*complete*

live for today, hope for tomorrow by Vennat

Plot: Professors are Hogwarts are a little more observant and a little less likely to allow their students to be in harms way. OR A canon rewrite starting from book two, featuring friendship, angst, and a severe lack of oblivious characters.

Characters: Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Luna, Fred, George, Snape, Draco

Relationships: Hermione & Harry & Ron; Harry & George & Fred; Harry & Ginny; Luna & The Golden Trio; Harry & Snape; Draco & Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; PTSD; panic attacks; blood; vomit; injury; food issues; depression

Tags: friendship; Harry has a saving people thing; mentor Snape; BAMF Harry; Smart Harry; canon rewrite; angst; Dumbledore bashing; Book 2; Harry is a Good Friend; Harry is Bad at Feelings

*complete* [part of a series; hasn’t been updated since 2020]

The Closest Distance Between Two People by StartledStarfish

Plot: In Harry's third year, no dementors boarded the Hogwarts Express in search of Sirius Black. Remus Lupin, the new defense professor, slept the whole way there. He did not wake to cast a patronus. Harry never passed out. Never heard his mother scream. Never saw the flash of green light. Never felt the unspeakable cold drain all the happiness out of him. So when Harry’s turn came to face the boggart, his greatest fear could not be a dementor. Harry blinked and looked up into the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

Characters: Harry, Ron, Remus, Dumbledore, Vernon, McGonagall

Relationships: Harry & Ron; Harry & Remus

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; childhood trauma, child neglect

Tags: boggarts, dementors, Dursley Family Bashing; Dumbledore Bashing; healing; angst with a happy ending; Ron makes sure nobody’s sad for long; friendship; laughter

*complete*

Grey Space by noaacat *favorite*

Plot: In 1991, Harry Potter begins his time at Stonewall High, unaware that he is anything more than a boy prone to freakish accidents. When he turns fourteen, he will receive a letter that will change his life. He will learn he is Harry Potter, and be invited into a world where belonging is his birthright. Until then, he stumbles on, two steps forward and one step back, out of the cupboard and into the life he was never meant to have.

Characters: Harry, The Dursleys, Dumbledore, lots of muggle OCs

Relationships: none

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; implied/referenced homophobia; child abuse; child neglect

Tags: AU: Hogwarts Starts Late

My Notes: This one! Is so good! The worldbuilding alone is amazing and the author really did make me immersed in the small sleepy town of Little Whinging. Please, if you read any fic on this list, read this one! It’s so good! Instant favorite!

*complete*

Iron by belleslettres

Plot: Draco also has a penchant for shirts with fiddly collars and cuffs and will not even entertain the notion of going anywhere looking like anything less than perfection. But Harry, who will do almost anything for Draco, refuses to iron them. “My aunt used to make me do all the ironing,” Harry says. “I hated it.”

Characters: Harry, Draco

Relationships: Draco/Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: fluff and angst; post-war; Epilogue what Epilogue; fluff; domestic fluff

*complete*

All That Stands in its Path by thebiwholived

Plot: "An old soul, people might say, and Molly has never quite been sure what such a person would look like, until the day her family meets the Boy Who Lived in a dingy train station on the way to school." Molly Weasley's perspective on the summer Harry Potter comes to stay.

Characters: Harry, Molly, Weasley Family

Relationships: Harry & Molly Weasley

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: canon compliant; book 2

*complete*

To See More Clearly by JellyShark

Plot: Harry didn't make it out of Privet Drive after blowing up Aunt Marge. He is alone, locked away, forgotten. To make things worse, his magic is changing, morphing into something unknown and terrifying. Harry returns to Hogwarts a changed boy, unable to hide the effects of his time with the Dursleys. His Third Year dawns, bringing with it a man who feels like home, a Hufflepuff Prefect, and a dog who reminds Harry of a time when he was loved.

Characters: Harry, Remus, Ron, Snape, Sirius, Hermione, Luna, Cedric, Neville, McGonagall

Relationships: Sirius/Remus; pre Cedric/Harry; Remus & Harry; Hermione & Ron & Harry; Cedric & Harry; Sirius & Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: Harry Needs a Hug; Harry is an Empath; Smart Harry; Magically Powerful Harry; Mentor Remus; flawed but well-meaning Dumbledore; book 3; book 4; Snape gets worse before he gets better; angst; hurt/comfort

*incomplete* [last updated August 2021]

Holidays by diogxnes

Plot: While his housemates discuss the upcoming holidays, Harry cannot help but think of how he never experienced a real Christmas with the Dursleys. Ron notices.

Characters: Harry, Ron, Lavender Brown, Seamus Finnigan

Relationships: Harry & Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: book 1; missing scene; canon compliant; emotional hurt/comfort; hurt/comfort; Ron Weasley is a Good Friend

*complete*

Closing In by silver_fish

Plot: Harry supposes he’ll never know how they learned about the cupboard under the stairs. He also supposes he’ll never know how they managed to make him so afraid of it, all these years later.

Characters: Harry, Hermione, Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, claustrophobia, implied/referenced torture, codependency, trauma, panic attacks, PTSD, therapy

Tags: post-war; hurt/comfort; touch-starved; guilt; Harry centric; false memories

My Notes: This one made me emotionally exhausted but it’s written super well

*complete*

Adjustments by Velvet_Riptide

Plot: With the Second Wizarding War over, Sirius is more than excited to put everything behind him and raise Harry as his own. However, he and Remus begin to notice odd and troubling behaviors from Harry. Without answers from the source, Sirius turns to Harry's previous guardians--Molly and Arthur Weasley--and learns Harry is still making adjustments from his time with the Dursley's.

Characters: Harry, Sirius, Remus, Molly, Arthur, Hermione, Ron

Relationships: Sirius/Remus; Hermione/Ron; Remus & Harry; Sirius & Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; childhood trauma; PTSD

Tags: hurt/comfort; coparenting; Harry lived in the Burrow for several years with the Weasleys before moving to 12 Grimmauld Place;

*complete*

Two Things by TheDivineComedian

Plot: Harry is only four years old and the Dursleys are already mean.

Characters: Harry, Petunia, Vernon, Dudley, imaginary Lily, imaginary James

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

*complete*

How to be happy by TheDivineComedian

Plot: The Patronus charm requires a happy memory. Harry Potter doesn't have many, and the Dementors get Sirius, after all. But the story is far from over.

Characters: Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione

Relationships: Harry & Sirius; Harry & Remus; Remus & Sirius

Warnings: major character death; implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: creepy; heartwarming; dementors; Hogwarts third year

My Notes: this one is a fucking doozy good lord (the tags say heartwarming but w h e r e)

*complete*

Knowledge is a Rose by Magi_Silverwolf

Plot: When Harry discovered that he had a name, he clung to that information and all that it entailed. After learning more information about his past, nothing and everything changed.

Characters: Harry

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; physical abuse; verbal abuse; mental abuse

Tags: emotional hurt; identity issues

*complete*

No Love for the Wicked by VigilanteVampire4311

Plot: Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived. The Golden Boy. The Chosen One. But it turns out when you run head first into an unknown magical artifact and end up in a void, none of that matters. Now he's in a different time with familiar strangers who just can't seem to understand the new transfer student, Harrison Miller. With a Defense teacher he can't let his guard down for a second around, the Marauders hounding the 'mysterious' new Slytherin, and his housemates who cannot fathom a muggleborn being among them, Harry has to wonder whether fate hates him or if he is really a trouble-making freak like the Dursleys always said.

Characters: Harry, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Regulus, Snape, Tom Riddle, Pomfrey

Relationships: Harry & James; Harry & Lily; Sirius & Harry; Remus & Harry; Regulus & Harry; Harry & Tom Riddle; Pomfrey & Harry

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence; implied/referenced child abuse; possessive behavior; depression; non-consensual touching

Tags: The Veil; Slytherin Harry; Marauders are kinda assholes; Tom Riddle is not Voldemort yet; Severus is so done; alternate universe; angst; hurt/comfort; bullying; time travel; Marauders Era

My Notes: so far with 7 chapters in, we haven’t yet gotten to Harry interacting with anyone from the past but it’s still written really well

*incomplete* [last updated September 2021]

The snake in the daffodils by SpicyReyes *favorite*

Plot: Harry follows Sirius through the Veil of Death, and stumbles out on the other side of the Mirror of Erised, under a strange spell and stranded in an unfamiliar Hogwarts.

Characters: Harry, Remus, Regulus, Harry, Ron, James, Lily, Sirius

Relationships: Regulus/James; Sirius/Remus; Draco/Harry

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence; discussions of suicide; discussions of self-harm; suicidal ideation; implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: universe jumping; Hogwarts fifth year; misunderstandings; miscommunication; basically everyone thinks harry wants to die but he is actually just hella confused

My Notes: so, so good! And if you like this one I recommend The Devil’s White Knight which is really similar in concept

*incomplete* [last updated 2020]

been waiting a lifetime (to be with you) by justprompts

Plot: The next time he woke, Potter was shaking him awake. Just, just not the right one. He had hazel eyes for one, and class. This was not Harry Potter. This was - Well, he had just woken up and who accepts the delightfully altering time-related facts of life right as they wake up?

Characters: Harry, Dumbledore; Peter Pettigrew; Prewett Twins; Marlene McKinnon; Sirius; Remus; Lily; James; Draco; Alice & Frank Longbottom; Regulus; Draco

Relationships: Draco/Harry; James/Lily; Sirius/Remus; Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadows; Alice/Frank Longbottom; Regulus & Sirius; Regulus & Draco

Tags: time travel fix-it; Marauders Era; Horcrux hunting; everyone lives/nobody dies; master of death Harry; light-hearted; POV multiple; Harry doesn’t need to be dark/evil to be master of death; irregular and slow updates; mutual pining

*incomplete* [last updated May 2021]

The Gospel Truth by twentysevensummers

Plot: When Harry arrives at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with a black eye, he has more trouble than expected keeping the truth from Sirius.

Characters: Harry, Sirius, Remus

Relationships: Sirius & Harry

Warnings: referenced/implied child abuse; child neglect

Tags: book 5; hurt/comfort; angst; Harry needs a hug; good godparent Sirius Black; number 12 grimmauld place

*complete*

o children, lift up your voice by orphan_account

Plot: "i don't know if they could've put a flap in the door of the cupboard, now that i think about it," harry laughs nervously. "dunno if it would've fit onto it. since it's smaller than the bedroom door." hermione and ron's heads both shoot up. "what?" ron asks. "excuse me?" hermione says.

Characters: Harry, Ron, Hermione

Relationships: Hermione & Harry & Ron

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: friendship; slight canon divergence; character study; second war with Voldemort; physical affection; lots of hugs

My Notes: this one is so good and if you can get past the fact that the author doesn’t capitalize anything, you’re good to go (although it was difficult to get past that at first for myself)

*complete*

Muggle Management by LadyWinterlight, NerdyKat

Plot: What happens if Hermione notices signs of abuse in Harry during first year? The Wizarding World may not have laws against it, but the Muggle World certainly does...

Characters: Harry, Hermione, Mrs Granger, Mr. Granger

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: family

*complete*

Harry Potter & Other Fandoms

Masked Men and Where to Find Them by tinyrose65

Fandoms: Harry Potter & Daredevil & MCU

Plot: Harry Potter moved to Hell's Kitchen because she wanted a fresh start: time away from the spotlight, where she could focus on being the best Healer she could be. Trust the unconscious man in her dumpster to go and complicate things.

Characters: Harry, Matt Murdock

Relationships: Harry/Matt; past Harry/Draco

Warnings: past domestic abuse; implied/referenced child abuse

Tags: female!Harry

My Notes: this is the first in a series and the second one is also incomplete but they’re both very good and the second one has Jessica Jones!

*incomplete* [last updated 2016]

Magic and Masks by Akoia

Fandoms: Harry Potter & DC Comics

Plot: Harry Potter is anything but normal, thank you very much, he just didn't hold such nonsense as that. Follow him on his adventures through the Wizarding world and muggle world as he struggles to understand who he is, and fight the destiny that's been chosen for him.

Characters: Harry; Dick Grayson; Jason Todd; Bruce Wayne; Alfred Pennyworth; the Dursleys

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse; canon typical violence

Tags: fluff and angst

My Notes: this is a series with six parts!

*incomplete* [last updated 2020]

Modern Family

Breaking & Entering: (The Start Of) A Love Story by dollsome

Plot: "Oh my God," Mitchell says, "this is insane." It is, for the record. It is actually ... insane.

Characters: Mitchell, Cameron

Relationships: Mitchell Pritchett/Cameron Tucker

Warnings: none

Tags: none

*completed*

#harry potter #hogwarts #harry james potter #fanfic recs #my posts #fanfiction #fanfiction recommendations #fic recs #the marauders #modern family #the golden trio #drarry #wolfstar #dc comics #batman #daredevil #marvel #mcu #my recs

25 notes · View notes

isis-astarte-diana · 3 years

Text

tooth and nail

Prompt: @koiwokatarushijin wanted cheetah!Missy with 16: “I won’t apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you’re taken.” and 64: “I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.” and, as a bonus, 76: “You know I’m holding back from fucking you over this kitchen counter, don’t push your luck.”

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Some blood. Painful penetration. Cheetah!Missy has a big barbed girlcock and I have no self restraint.

Word Count: 3986

NB: I started this, I liked it, it ran away from me, I stared at it a lot, I finished it. It’s longer than it should be. Significantly longer.

“Keep still.”

Missy’s voice is soft, but the arch of her brow leaves very little room for argument. In the simulated morning of the TARDIS kitchen she looks as beautiful as you’ve ever seen her. With the unbuttoned violet housecoat covering her thin chemise and her dark hair slowly wrestling its way out of last night’s braid, she somehow manages to embody a very human sort of domesticity, even while she inspects the wound on your shoulder with eyes shining a decidedly feline shade of amber. She traces the stinging indent of her teeth with the tip of one short, sharp fingernail, igniting the bite in scalding pain that makes you flinch. She tuts.

“Sorry,” you mumble shyly, at the sound of her displeasure. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the countertop you’re sitting on. “I just- it really hurts.”

She makes a sympathetic noise that sounds uncomfortably close to the chirrup of a hunting housecat. Alongside the elliptical slits of her pupils and the elongated threat of her canines, it turns the pitying look she gives you into something uncanny, something that hovers in that space between frightening and soothing and arousing. It’s a space over which Missy is the sole presider.

“It feels worse than it is,” she explains, as if that’s supposed to bring you comfort. “It probably won’t even scar.”

“Probably won’t,” you echo, sceptically. “So it might?”

“Well, we can always hope.” She leans in to nuzzle at your throat, her breath warm and quivering with a predator’s purr. The noise sends a shiver down your spine. Idly, you reach up to pet her hair, and her volume increases significantly. You can’t help but smile.

“I won’t apologise for marking you,” she murmurs, and runs the flat of her tongue across the wound. It burns exquisitely. You squirm, whimpering a little, only to feel her hands on your thighs, holding you still. “Everybody should know that you’re mine.”

Missy has always been possessive with her things, of which you take pride of place, but her recent relapse with the virus has only exacerbated that behaviour. She seldom leaves your side for more than a few minutes. Even the maintenance of her TARDIS, something she would usually dedicate entire sleepless days to, almost fell by the wayside until you’d insisted that you didn’t mind accompanying her while she did it. There are piles of blankets and pillows placed strategically throughout the ship, now, courtesy of her new nesting instinct, for you to settle in and watch her working, and she has a tendency to pause frequently in her tasks in order to cross the room and assess your wellbeing.

You can’t say you object.

She’s certainly never been neglectful of your needs, even at her most distracted or dastardly, but this development has come as a pleasant surprise. Typically, she has an almost pathologically long attention span, but the effects of the virus have given her a unique and incorruptible focus on you. She’ll put aside her latest endeavours to make sure you’re fed and watered, will accompany you to bed and stay while you sleep even if she herself stays awake to read. It probably should feel suffocating, but, somehow, it never does.

“I like being yours,” you confess, scratching lightly at her scalp. She kneads the soft flesh of your thighs, just below the hem of your pyjama shorts, her talon-sharp nails pricking you with every squeeze. It’s an affectionate sort of pain. “I wouldn’t mind a scar, it’s just- what if you change your mind?”

“About what?” She licks the bite wound again, gentler now, and shivers with satisfaction at the taste of blood. The sting weakens your voice.

“About me?”

Missy freezes. The purring and the kneading stop abruptly, her spine stiffening as she slowly extricates herself from your neck. The tenderness in her eyes makes your heart clench. You hadn’t meant for the question to sound so melancholy, and now that you’ve spoken you feel abashed for it, turning away as if to hide your face from her. She slips a hand under your jaw, coaxing you back with the careful threat of her fingernails scraping your cheek.

“I wouldn’t want anybody else.” She smiles, the curve of her lips too gentle for the fangs it exposes. “Nobody else could make me feel like you do.”

You flush with delight. “You’re just being nice,” you tease, raising an eyebrow so that she knows you’re not upset, and her answering laugh is like velvet.

“I’ve never been nice in my life, dear.” Her fingers trail down your neck, spiralling back to stroke over the bite. “This looks lovely on you.”

It looks a mess - or it did, earlier, when you saw it in the mirror while you were brushing your teeth. Her strong jaws have left a deep, livid bruise that spans wide across your shoulder, the bite mark itself half scabbed and half raw, beading lazily with fresh blood. Still, you can’t deny enjoying the thought of being branded as hers, or the way that her obvious appreciation of it laps at your belly with desire. “Do you really think so?”

Her eyes flick back to you, pupils blown, and she bares her teeth at the question. She squeezes your thigh hard enough to make you jolt. “I think I’m doing remarkably well to hold back from taking you here on the kitchen counter.”

This is another effect of the virus that you’re not about to object to.

Missy is hedonistic, by nature, and always has been, but there’s something compulsive about her libido now. The pursuit of pleasure is no longer a hobby for her but an obsession. You certainly had no complaints, before - she would take you with indulgence, your body and its workings a source of boundless fascination, your pleasure or your suffering a thing to be relished - but there is something to be said for being needed. This primal drive to claim and possess and breed is a delightful novelty. It thrills you to see her composure slip so far. Where tooth and nail had been a constant threat, they’re now something of an inevitability, something beyond her control. The depth of last night’s bite is a blazing testament to that.

Sheepishly, you whisper, “you don’t have to hold back. I mean- if you don’t want to.”

“I think perhaps I’d better.” Even as she speaks, you can hear her voice darkening, her fingers beginning to resume their rough kneading of your thigh. She drops her other hand between your legs to cup you through your shorts. The faintest pressure from her fingers against the lips of your cunt makes you wince at the ache there. Her eyes soften. “You’re still sore.”

“Well- yeah,” you admit, with a self-conscious bite of your lip. Hooking your leg around her, you pull her closer with a heel at the base of her spine. She makes no attempt to stop you. The change in position lets you grind into her palm, pleasure sweet and soothing to the swollen flesh. She purrs, squeezing down gently to increase the friction for you, and you can’t bite back a gasp. “I just- I thought, maybe…”

“You thought what?” Missy cocks her head, crooking her fingers to stroke over your clitoris through the fabric. Your whimper earns you another dagger-pointed smile. She ducks her head to kiss along your jaw, tightening her grip on your thigh. “Did you want mummy to kiss it better?”

The desperate noise you make must be answer enough.

Her strength is alarming when she forgets it; it seems to take her no effort at all to pull your hips right to the edge of the countertop, so suddenly that you let out a little yelp in surprise and pain and have to grab the counter to keep from falling hard onto your back. You can already feel a bruise blooming under her fingers from the force. Given her propensity for leaving marks - and the grin that wavers between smug and apologetic - you suspect that it’s not an accident, but when she catches your mouth in a hungry kiss you forgive her immediately.

Her insistent weight slowly presses you to lean back, offering up your throat for her lips. She wastes no time in working her way down it, nuzzling at the softness of your breasts and belly through your shirt until her nose brushes the ticklish skin above your waistband. You let yourself lie flat across the counter, mostly to free up a hand so that you can stroke her hair, and she rewards you by nipping at your hip bone.

“I can smell myself on you.” It’s almost a growl, her voice raw with desire. “I’m all over you. Inside you.” You jolt upright with a cry when she presses her open mouth to your shorts, her breath hot through the fabric. Your hand goes white knuckled on the edge of the countertop for support. She lifts her eyes to you, almost black with the dilation of her pupils, and scrapes you, gently, with her teeth. It doesn’t hurt - in fact, it feels wonderful, the shock of pleasure stealing your breath - but you recognise the warning and settle back down, closing your eyes against the lights on the ceiling. Her tongue drags flat and scalding over the seam once you do, and she purrs so aggressively that you can feel the dull vibration. Pulling off to ease your shorts down, she adds, “you taste of me, too.”

“I do?” You lift your hips to assist her, and she drags her fingernails down the lengths of your legs as she removes your pyjama bottoms, leaving thin lines of stinging heat in her wake. You quiver under her touch. “From- from last night?”

“From always.”

Her fingertips pass ticklish over your bare foot when she unhooks the fabric from around your ankles, and she lifts your heel to press a kiss to the sole. It makes you squeak. “Is that a good thing?”

Missy laughs, warmly, flicking her tongue across your arch so that you gasp. She all but slings your leg around her shoulder as she sinks to her knees. Her first breath against your naked cunt is a reverent sigh. “What do you think?”

You don’t think much of anything at all.

Her tongue sliding between your labia is enough to have you short-circuiting, conscious of very little besides the fluid, velvet heat of her. You retain just enough awareness to hold onto the counter beneath you in order to avoid pulling her hair. The briefest pass over your clitoris makes your hips jerk, and she loops her arms around your thighs to spread you wider and keep you in place. Firmer, now, the pressure glides back down, through a delicate furrow of flesh where you can feel both the rough of her taste buds and the impossibly smooth muscle underneath. When she takes this fold into her mouth and touches it - just touches it - with her teeth you have to clap a hand over your mouth to muffle the squeal.

The reverberation of her satisfied purring doesn’t help matters.

At first, you think she must be doing it on purpose, knowing how it would feel for you, but there are none of the smug chuckles or glances that usually accompany such behaviour. When her tongue strokes the lips of your cunt, still sore and swollen from last night’s activities, and her pitch increases sharply it dawns on you that the noise is involuntary. The realisation that she could derive such obvious pleasure from this renders you almost as weak as the sudden intrusion of her tongue.

Your back arches from the countertop immediately. Missy drags you back down, pressing herself deeper. Kissing you better may have been a misnomer - she’s hot, flexing muscle inside of you, serving mostly to remind you of how raw you are - but you can hardly bring yourself to be upset about the voracity with which she seeks out the taste of herself within you. Your muscles squeeze tight around her squirming tongue. Another escalation in her purrs, coupled with the way her fingers sink into the flesh of your thighs to knead at it, is proof enough that she appreciates her work.

Indeed, she seems content to stay like this for quite a while. Despite her earlier words, there’s nothing urgent about the way she devours you. You lose track of how long she spends working you over with her mouth, stroking unhurried pleasure into you, coaxing out whines and gasps and so much slick that you can feel it running down towards your tailbone. Her teeth catch you, now and then, and flood you with cold adrenaline each time, but never do you any harm.

Her nails are another matter entirely.

Every slow squeeze of your thighs comes with needling pain. It’s not vicious - far from it - but the insistent clawing always follows the same path, carving into you to mark where her fingers have passed. The scratches are blazing hot and stinging with blood. It hurts enough to bring tears to your eyes, but the steady rhythm of squeeze, claw, release is almost meditative, and you lose yourself in it with ease. Dragging your hips over the edge of the kitchen counter, she pulls you down into the lazy pattern of her hands and mouth and breath.

When, at last, Missy fastens her lips fully to your clitoris, the violence of your orgasm hits you like lightning; you’d forgotten that this could only ever end in flames.

By the time you’ve recovered from the trauma enough to lift your head she’s already released you. She laps at the slick that puddles in the dimples of your thighs. Breathless, still whimpering, twitching just above her tongue, you reach down to pet her hair. With a little chirrup of surprise she turns her attention to cleaning away your blood.

It can’t be sanitary - she’ll wash these cuts properly later, with damp cotton wool soaked in something that burns like salt, purring to comfort your cries - and it stings as much as it soothes. You flinch away from the liquid pain. She holds tighter to your hips, following your retreat even as you scrabble back along the counter, rising from her knees to pursue you. Her low snarl makes you fall still. You know better than to ignore a warning, verbal or otherwise; more importantly, you know better than to snatch meat from the jaws of a lion.

It’s easy to forget, in the calmer moments, quite how savage she can be.

The kitchen lights reflect neon in the vast, dark pits of her pupils when she looks up at you. Her face is wet from nose to chin and faintly smudged with copper. Your eyes lock, for a moment, and a particular kind of stillness settles over the both of you, like the heavy heat before a thunderstorm or the silent shock before a scream. You know full well that any movement now is a provocation. Your arms tremble from the effort of holding yourself still at this half-upright angle, your thighs quivering with the aftershocks of your orgasm, but you can’t stop yourself from squeaking like a captured mouse and, apparently, that’s all the invitation she needs.

Missy yanks you back to the edge of the countertop before you can draw breath to cry out. Naked, now, from the waist down, the pain is startling; friction burns red hot between marble and soft skin, her grip on your hips bruising right down to the bone. The sudden onslaught of her strength turns you cold with primal fright. Weakened by the shock, there’s nothing to do but cling to her for stability, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and your legs around her waist. Her chemise rucks up between your bellies. The heavy brocade of her housecoat irritates the cuts on your thighs, a stinging torment that threatens to loosen the tears clinging to your lashes, until her cock slides between your lips and your body comes alive with an altogether different sort of alarm.

Her barbed shaft slicking through your labia sets you alight. Every tiny spine is a fine point of delicious agony, countless of them clustered together like the bristles of a brush, raking over your delicate flesh. When the head of her cock strokes over your clitoris it feels like the prickle of a dozen needles. The jolt of pleasure makes you choke. It’s too much of everything - too sharp, too sweet, too soon after having come already. Your hips give a stuttering roll into hers, torn between the reflex to pull away and the maddening urge to rut against her.

Fortunately, the choice isn’t yours to make.

Broad, blunt pressure at the lips of your cunt has you stiffening in her arms. You’re wet enough to take her - you must be; you can feel your own slick puddling beneath you on the counter - but you know that it won’t be easy. However pliant the orgasm might have left you, however well she might have opened you with her tongue, nothing can ease the tight pinch of something too big slowly spreading you apart. You tuck your face against her shoulder to hide the trembling grimace of your mouth and draw a long, unsteady breath, willing yourself to relax.

It doesn’t help. It never does.

The first thrust is a hot knife in your belly. Your cunt burns in furious protest at being stretched so wide so quickly, and your whole body clenches in a futile attempt to force her out. Gasping, you flinch away, but she boxes you in with a hand braced behind you on the countertop.

"It's alright, it's alright." Missy rests her forehead against yours, the words a scalding rasp across your face. You taste your own blood and cunt on her breath. She rolls her hips, pulling you tight against her when you whine and try to squirm away. Her lips curl back from her teeth in warning. "Relax. Take it for me."

She's quivering with restraint. You can see it in her eyes, hear it in the low growls that tug at the end of every laboured breath. Under your shaking hands, the muscles in her shoulders are tight as coiled springs. Her taloned fingers dig into your back as she fights the instinct to hold you still, to pin you down and take as she pleases. Something like adoration swells in your chest.

You don’t want her to stop - you asked for this, needed this, would have gotten on your knees to beg for it if you’d had to - but you don’t have the strength that she does. You have no more control over your tears or your protests than you do the helpless, spasming muscles of your cunt. All you can do is trust her to know what you’re pleading for. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” The rough of her tongue drags over your cheek, tasting the salt there. Your eyes drift shut when she starts to purr again. You can feel yourself slackening, moving limp as a ragdoll as she hoists your leg higher over her hip to open you wider, and she slips deeper inside you with a slow, slick sting. Your face twists in pain, but you dig your heel into her back to welcome her. Her strained gasp cools the shell of your ear. “That’s it. Good girl.”

You mewl pitifully at the praise. Clinging to her, you shift your hips in an attempt to accommodate the stretch better, working fruitlessly to find a position that might make this feel more comfortable. You succeed only in pulling off far enough to ignite the tender walls of your cunt with friction as her barbed cock grasps at you from within. The burn leaves you blinking back a flood of fresh tears. “Missy-”

“I know. I know, dear.” From the tightness of her voice you can tell that she’s reaching her limit. Soon, soon, like it or not, her need will win out, and she’ll be as powerless as you are against it. You take some comfort from that; comfort, too, in the way she lets her head fall against your shoulder, loose curls of dark hair tickling your neck while she laps at the bite wound there.

It helps - it does help, a bit - to have some other hot wet pain to distract you when she finally starts to move.

Any further pleas die in your throat. No matter how familiar it is, you never seem to get used to the feeling of being rubbed raw by those tiny, needling spines. Missy snarls into the curve of your neck, some of the tension draining from her body as she gives herself over to the pleasure of taking you. You scrabble mindlessly at her shoulders, your every breath a sob.

“My sweet human.” Her claws rake over your thigh to stop your futile struggling. You sink into the pain, relaxing against her chest, letting yourself be torn apart in her grasp. She purrs with satisfaction. “You take me so well.”

The angle isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough. You can’t pretend it doesn’t come as a relief not to have her buried inside you to the hilt. Even so, you can feel her almost unpleasantly deep, pressure clenching beneath and behind your navel each time she fills you. The helpless, jerking motions of her hips push you higher, closer, but you won’t be able to come from this alone. The pleasure itself is an ordeal. Your cunt pulses with it, squeezing her barbed cock like a fistful of stinging nettles, turning every wave of bliss to hot ashes.

If you weren’t so exhausted already, you might slip a hand between your bodies to stroke yourself. If she weren’t so worked up from tasting you, Missy might do the same. As it is, neither of you can think far enough to loosen your arms from around the other, tied together tooth and nail in your own separate agonies.

Mercifully, she doesn’t last long.

“Come on,” you whisper, shakily, when you feel her grip tightening on your thigh. She shudders at the sound of your voice. Your fingers pluck at her hair, cradling her to you, legs locked around her to pull her deeper. You urge her on with tearful, choking desperation. “Come for me, Missy. Please, please. For me. Just for me. I want- I need-”

When she breaks, she snaps like a steel cable.

Her hips jolt forwards with force that steals your breath. She spills inside you, holding you still to make you take it, her teeth drawing fresh blood from the wound on your shoulder as she comes. Pain strangles your shriek into a silent cry. For a long, long moment you’re conscious of nothing but the roar of your own heartbeat in your ears and the twitching, spasming muscles where your bodies join.

The first slow stroke of her tongue across your shoulder makes you flinch. Missy coos, softly, and nuzzles at you, her unsteady breaths hot on your skin. “Might scar now.”

Your sniffles turn the words into a weak accusation. “You did that on purpose.”

“Naturally.” Slowly, so slowly, she loosens her grip on you, easing back until she can press her forehead to yours once more. Her eyes have brightened to their usual shade of yellow. “How could I resist, when you wear it so well?”

Your face flushes with delight. Sounding rather less disgruntled than you’d hoped, you mutter, “you know, most people just buy their girlfriends jewellery.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” She trails her fingers across your clavicle. You shiver at the touch, and at the sight of her licking your blood from her teeth. “I think you’d look rather fetching with a pearl necklace.”

#mine #nsfwork #request #cheetah!missy #Cheetah!Master #missy x reader #gomez!master x reader #Missy is a feral catgirl I am not taking questions at this time

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duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 28)

Notes: Happy Sunday every one. Thanks for last week's comments. They were so lovely and I love to hear from you all!This chapter is the one lots of you have been waiting for... not smut, but THE conversation. I hope you enjoy it... And sorry about the typos in this chapter, I can't look at this chapter any more! I'll try and scan over it tomorrow...Lastly, just a head's up that I might not be able to post next Sunday. Work is super busy this coming week and I haven't yet started the chapter. I'll try my best, though :)

Oh, and for those of you who ask every week, I post Sunday evening UK time between 7-10PM. I will rarely change and if it’s late, it’s because I’m still working on it :)

Also, sorry, there should be italics in some places but I am done editing so Tumblr will get what copy and paste has done!

Twenty-Eight Cassian POV

Lorrian and Cassian walked silently down the hall, following the servant who was scurrying in front of them. The sound of their footsteps rang around the hallway in an echo that was almost haunting, and if it wasn't for the meeting that has just adjourned—the Rite meeting which that was whirring around in his mind—Cassian would be contemplating how quickly he could organise their departure despite the wishes of his High Lord.

As distracted as Cassian was, he had still committed every corridor to memory. Every twist and turn as the house tunnelled into mountain rock. Up the wide staircase, right, second left, first right, next left…

Deeper and deeper they moved into the mountain. No doubt to ensure that the General and Colonel felt as uneasy as possible. No Illyrian liked being unable to escape through a window and step straight into the skies, and from what Cassian could tell, there would be no windows or doors that led them straight out into the heavens. Only endless crystalline rock and shadow.

Lord Marsh’s property always had been unusual in that way. Even though it was positioned on the wide ledge of the mountain pass, suspended high in the sky above the rest of the Ironcrest camp, the house did not stop when it hit the mountain wall. Instead, it tunnelled inside of it, providing a lodgings that was a vast, confusing labyrinth that was too easy to get lost in.

It was why Cassian had been so loathe to stay the night. To stay any longer than necessary.

Cassian could only thank the Cauldron that Rhys and Feyre’s presence had not been required. Neither of them deserved to be trapped inside a mountain again. Cassian supposed he could count his lucky stars that their presence had not been necessary. Would not be able to bear their anguish, even if they did their best to conceal it.

“Your rooms,” the servant announced suddenly, with a bow that was so deep Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if the male’s nose had scraped the floor.

They had reached the end of the hallway, and in front of them was a heavy wooden door set into an arch.

Even through rock and stone, Cassian could sense Nesta. Knew she was located somewhere to the left with Frawley, thanks to that magnetic pull which never seemed to cease, even just for a moment. That was the one thing Nesta hadn’t been able to stop. She could constrict their bond as much as she liked—could freeze him out so nothing could travel up and down their twisted tether—but it didn’t stop him from being able to sense her. It was as if he was hyper alert to where she was. His body moved when hers did. His heart did its best to beat in tandem with hers. And when they were near, everything in him had a tendency to relax, as if he no longer had to worry.

Cassian didn’t know if Nesta felt the same. Would never know, given that they did not discuss their fate at all.

Lorrian bid goodbye to the servant as Cassian stepped through the door and into a hallway that was equally as dark. Two doors flanked the short, cramped hallway and Cassian took the immediate left, pushing the door that was ajar so it creaked wide open.

Unlike the rest of Marsh’s residence, the room was cast in a light that was almost unforgiving, betraying the dark ominous furniture and the gloomy crystalline rock thanks to bobbing faelights which Frawley had magicked to illuminate the room. To his left, fire raged silently in the grate, and ahead of him, in a huge stone bay straight ahead of him, sat Nesta.

The carved out rock was fashioned as if it were a window—an irony, given how deep underground they were—and Nesta’s back rested against the far left-hand wall. Her knees were bent, and her long legs, which were hidden beneath her skirts, stretched across expanse of the ledge. She was facing Frawley, who was sitting on the huge Illyrian bed which took up most of the floor space.

Cassian just had time to catch Nesta’s unfettered expression—the tight, bracketed mouth and the downward pull of her brows— before it was wiped clean.

“What happened?” she demanded, as Cassian cast a shield which threw the whole suite into an impenetrable sound bubble.

Her eyes bore into his, and across the surface, silver roiled like liquid mercury. Despite her careful expression, he felt her worry and Cassian wondered just how much he had accidentally hurtled down their shared bond whilst he sat in that meeting to have her so concerned.

“They’ve cancelled the Blood Rite,” Lorrian announced grimly, from where he had entered the room behind Cassian.

Nesta’s eyes snapped to Lorrian. Confusion twisted across her features, but she did not say anything.

“That,” Frawley said after a moment’s pause, “is very clever.”

Begrudgingly, Cassian nodded. Because it had been clever. None of them had seen it coming. The Solstice luncheon, which invited all of the nobility across Illyria, had been enough to ward away any suspicion when it came to the lordlings presence. Rite representatives were chosen privately by each camp, so there was no way that Cassian could have known that the lordlings who had recently met with Kallon planned to fill many of the positions. Nor had it crossed Cassian’s mind that the Rite meeting might have been pulled forward only for it to be cancelled, especially given how steadfast and stubborn Illyrians were when it came to tradition.

But, even if Cassian had asked Az to find out what representatives had been chosen for the Rite that year, they never could have predicted that Kallon intended to instate a hiatus on the most important ritual in Illyria’s long history—a political manoeuvre that would make the Night Court look even worse than it already did.

“How did he get the lords to agree to it?” Frawley asked, as she watched her husband sink down into a chair that sat in the right hand corner of the room next to a dark, looming wardrobe that only served to make the room feel even more cramped. “Those princes will usually be damned if they listen to a word the other says.”

“The Rite representatives,” Cassian announced with a heavy sigh, wishing he too would give in to the temptation to sink down and sit somewhere. Next to Nesta, ideally. “All of them were lordlings who met with Kallon all those months ago. And the worst thing about it all is that Lorrian and I swayed the vote in Kallon’s favour. He played us and we walked straight into his damn den. It made us look as if we were agreeing with him for the sake of politics, rather than because we thought it ourselves.”

Which was the irony of the situation, Cassian thought to himself grimly. Cassian had been worried for a long time about the unnecessary loss of further lives due to the Blood Rite. Had been losing sleep over it, just as his nightmares continued to plague him whenever he did succumb to the clutches of the unconscious. There was already so much ash of flesh and bone on Cassian’s hands from when he had deserted his legion for desperate screams. And now… he was existing on stolen time—a time which had been bought by a female who at the end of it all, had not accepted his heart.

“Every word of Kallon’s appeal resonated with the Lords,” Lorrian told Nesta and Frawley as he ran his hands over his face… over his dark, close-cropped hair and the nicked scars on his scalp. “He played upon the sentiment that is already festering inside so many of the Fae in Illyria. That the Night Court uses our warriors for their own gain in war but does not care about them in the interim.”

“And then Kallon presented them with the damn sword,” Cassian growled, clenching his fists at the memory.

Frawley’s eyes gleamed so brightly her irises turned glacial blue and amber. “You saw it up close?” she asked, leaning forward so eagerly from where she was sitting on the mattress that she near folded in half. “And what did you feel?”

“Ancient magic,” Lorrian replied grimly, even as his wife continue to stare at Cassian. “My own magic spiked at the sight of it. It was…” he broke off and shook his head, “It was odd. All of the lords could feel it, I am sure of it. Not one of them disputed that it was Enalius’s.”

Cassian remembered the way his siphons had throbbed and the ruby star over his chest had pulsed so fiercely it felt like a second heart—as if it were answering a silent call that even he couldn't hear. Only Nesta’s power had made Cassian feel like that before. It didn’t matter if it was silver fire or healing light, Nesta’s magic called to him, chanting and moaning until he thought he might combust from it.

But Cassian did not say any of that. Had barely dared to admit it to himself, let alone voice it out loud. So, instead, he flared his siphons and rummaged through the travel bag which appeared on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

His fingers found the book without having to search for it, his callouses brushing against soft brown leather. He pulled out Heroicis, the gold-lettering on the cover shimmering as he flipped it open to peel back the delicate pages.

It was easy to find the illustration of the sword. Cassian had stared at the drawing so many times the book wanted to be opened to that page.

He placed the book down on the vanity. “It looked exactly like that,” he announced wearily, waving a hand to the illustration. “Except the jewel is missing.”

The rustle of clothing sounded as three Fae moved towards him. Cassian did not turn but he scented all three of them. Lorrian’s gentle rush of heat and sandalwood. Frawley’s damp forest earth after rain and air streaked with fire smoke. And then Nesta. She had drawn up to his left, but he would have known where she was in a room without scent or sight. Yet, he allowed himself the privilege of scenting her all the same, as that rush of her became sharper and more focussed, like a blade narrowing to an essential point: jasmine and vanilla and Nesta.

Rivalling most Fae in height, Nesta’s head barely reached his shoulder. Cassian desperately wanted to wind his arm around her and pull her close, but out of the public eye they were no longer pretending. He didn’t want to push the boundaries that were already so brittle. Would not disrespect Nesta by overstepping the mark. Not unless she indicated she wanted it otherwise.

So, Cassian pushed away the stark vision of him moulding her to his body, or the way he had bowed earlier to press his lips to her knuckles. Tried not to ponder over the temptation of brushing his lips over her cheek by the end of their visit…

“I did not expect a General to carry epic poetry,” Frawley drawled in amusement, but there was an edge to her voice that told Cassian she was holding something back.

Lorrian snickered at his wife and did what Cassian had yearned to do to Nesta—he dropped a kiss to the top of her white head. The Colonel had used his siphons to peel back his armour as soon as the door had closed behind them. With it, his arm had disappeared, and the Colonel looked more like himself.

“Well, witch,” Cassian demanded with forced lightness, “is this an accurate depiction?”

“It is the only illustration I have ever seen that is correct,” Frawley said simply, her head cocked to the side so the white of her hair fell in an impossibly straight stream. The strands shimmered pearlescent in the light. The colour was almost otherworldly.

“Did you find anything out from the females?” Lorrian asked. He was rubbing over the stub of his limp, as if it was causing him phantom pain, his expression drawn tight.

The change of subject wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed. Cassian knew why Lorrian was asking. If they found anything incriminating against Kallon or the Ironcrest clan, it would aid them in stifling the rebellion that at this point seemed inevitable.

A fierce flare of pain wrangled through Cassian’s gut and his head snapped to Nesta, but she was staring fixedly at the book.

Lorrian had also turned sharply to Nesta, his eyes wide. His hand dropped from where he had been trying to ease the pain from his arm and his expression, although surprised, was free of any discomfort.

“Thank you,” Lorrian said quietly.

There was a pause that stretched out too long. All of them were silent, but Nesta dipped her chin without turning her head.

“The females didn’t speak beyond polite conversation,” Frawley began, steering all of their attention from Nesta. “But I did mention the kerit attacks on the widows camps.”

“Did you pick up any emotion?” Cassian asked Nesta.

“Yes,” Nesta replied, but her shrug dismissed the notion that she may have felt anything prominent. “Fear, disgust, anger towards the attacks. Most of it low level.”

Cassian frowned. “I suppose the attacks have not hit Ironcrest. They have not experienced the damage first hand.”

“There was a spike of horror and despair,” Nesta told him. “From someone. But I couldn't place it. It came from behind me and by the time I had turned the emotion had gone.”

Cassian stared down at Nesta. “Did you scent it? The insignia behind the emotion?”

Nesta shook her head. “All of the scents were jumbled. I got a flash of something, but I couldn’t—” Nesta stopped abruptly and her beautiful face twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. “If I sensed it again, I might recognise it, but—”

Already Cassian knew she was punishing herself. He refrained from putting a hand on her shoulder in silent reassurance.

“Even a Fae with years of practice would find it difficult to associate the source of an emotion in a crowded room,” Frawley said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if she too knew that Nesta would not stop the self-blame. That it would rage internally until it consumed her. “You do not have eyes in the back of your head.”

“And from Kallon?” Cassian asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer, and that he wasn’t going to like it.

They all watched Nesta’s lips tighten into a thin line. Eventually, she said, “He likes my power.”

Cassian knew that expression. Knew from the way everything had gone very quiet that she had frozen him out so he would not know how the promise in those yellow eyes had turned triggered Nesta’s trauma.

But the problem was that Cassian had learnt to notice the slightest change in Nesta’s expression. Had catalogued every movement in the four months they had lived together, even when he didn’t know what it meant.

Frawley’s brown eye flicked to Cassian. Even behind the brisk facade, Cassian could tell she was worried about Nesta. Cassian wondered what they had spoken about whilst he and Lorrian had been gone. “What time is this dreaded dinner?” she asked.

“In an hour,” Cassian grimaced.

“And do you think the princeling will be carrying the sword with him, now he has confirmed the rumours?”

Lorrian grunted a laugh. Cassian wondered if he, too, was thinking of the way Kallon’s eyes had gleamed triumphant. How tempting it had been to smack the princeling around the face. “I think we can count on it.”

***

An hour later, the same servant escorted the four of them down the warren corridors to dinner.

Both Lorrian and Cassian had discarded their full-scaled armour for tunics layered with a stainless steel cuirass over the top. That, coupled with plates and fingerless leather gauntlets on both of their hands, allowed Cassian and Lorrian to showcase their siphons. The light-weight pieces of armour were made of the usual Illyrian scales, and whilst the armour was more ornamental than for the purpose of fighting, Rhys had worked his magic so it was as indestructible as carbon steel, if not more.

Lorrian’s right arm was back and glowing. Cassian understood why his friend wanted to face the vultures with all of his limbs, but he wished he could take Lorrian’s shame away. He supposed there was nothing to be done but to hope that time led to acceptance. Already Lorrian had come a long way. Had even started training with Cassian without his arm, learning to wield a sword with his left-hand should the occasion every call for it.

It was that willingness to adapt that reminded Cassian why Lorrian was an exceptional warrior. Why he would conquer where others would fail. The Colonel would be prepared for every scenario. Would know how to balance his body with and without a limb.

Opponents would not expect it. It would give Lorrian the upper hand in battle, rather than showcasing a weakness that anyone who knew about his limb would expect.

It meant that if Lorrian’s siphons ever became drained, that he could still fight.

Nesta and Frawley had also changed for dinner, even though the witch had grumbled at having to dress up for company she would rather obliterate from Prythian. Unsurprisingly, Nesta had only grown more divine with a change of clothes, but she had barely spared him a glance as she looped her hand through his arm.

Which, Cassian thought, had been just as well, because he had not been able to stop his eyes from darkening and his wings from rustling at the sheer sight of her.

Now, Nesta held onto him as they followed the backs of Lorrian and Frawley from where they walked in front of them. The two of them had fallen slightly behind, most likely because of their hesitancy to fling themselves back in the path of the vultures that were Marsh and Kallon.

And, Cassian admitted, because he had purposefully shortened his stride so he could glance surreptitiously at Nesta—at the dark, deep forest green of her long-sleeved dress, which had actually stopped Cassian’s heart and made his breath catch in his throat. Something which he knew Lorrian had clocked but had decided not to mention— thank the Cauldron.

The top half of the velvet material wrapped around Nesta’s every curve, before it billowed out softly at the hips into an A-line skirt. At her chest—which was bared rather than hidden away—the silver chain of the pyrite necklace fell tauntingly below the v-neckline.

Cassian thanked his lucky stars and the Gods combined that he could not glimpse her cleavage.

“Want to go home yet?” Cassian murmured, breaking their silence.

They had barely spoken since the luncheon and certainly not alone. Nesta had not commented when she had emerged from their bedroom. Had not mentioned the single bed that had taunted him when he had first entered to change.

Cassian had ensured they were not in the room at the same time. Was actually terrified to close himself into such a small and cramped space with her.

The way in which Nesta did not look up at him as he spoke told Cassian that she was very far away. Her huffed breath was practically inaudible, and she had an almost unreachable air about her that told him that for some reason, her trauma had caught up with her.

So, Cassian did what he did best. He decided to rile her.

“You’re going to have to lower your shields,” he warned her.

The slightest of frowns graced Nesta’s expression as they came to the end of a corridor and entered the vast landing that graced the first floor. Here, the flagstone floor was layered with a carpet runner that was dappled in brown and white, like the feathers of a hawk-crested eagle. “I’m aware,” Nesta clipped, that chin of hers raising as her back straightened.

Cassian brought a hand up to cover hers. Anything to get her to look at him. “You can stay in the room if you’d prefer,” he said quietly.

Those tempting lips thinned into a straight line. She turned her head away from him, so he could only see the intricate braid that weaved a halo around her head. “No, I can’t,” Nesta replied shortly.

She was not wrong. Cassian would not leave her deep in the mountain where he could not protect her. Even if that meant taking her to a place where her trauma would intensify.

He hated himself for it.

“I won’t let him harm you. I won’t let them touch you.” The words came out fiercer than he had intended, even if his voice was a low rumble.

There must have been enough urgency in his voice, because finally Nesta twisted her head to look up at him. Those eyes were a little less hollow. “I know,” she replied simply. Her eyes slid to a spot past his head. “I might harm them, though.”

A dark, please laugh issued from his throat, even as he wished that mercury would slide over the frosty blue of her irises. Nesta had issues summoning her magic when she succumbed to the numbness, and Cassian did not want her in this Gods damned awful place without her power at her disposable.

“I look forward to seeing it,” he responded smoothly, but his heart fell as she turned away from him again.

Desperation clawed at his insides—at the bond which was constricted by ice—that the next words left him without contemplating the gravity of them. “Are you wearing that dress to taunt me, Nesta?”

Nesta’s eyes snapped to his so quickly that everything in him jolted. A dim light throbbed in the depth of her gaze. “Excuse me?”

“This dress,” he said in a low confession, “has become my favourite thing.”

An unamused snort, even as a glimmer of embarrassment forced its way down their bond. It was fleeting and barely there, but Cassian felt it. Grasped for it. “Your favourite thing is chocolate.”

“My favourite thing is you,” he corrected, scarcely believing his loose tongue. He made his eyes glint playfully. “Chocolate is a close second.”

“In fact,” he mused after a moment’s pause. “The two together—”

“In your dreams,” Nesta snapped, her words coming out so sharply and with such aggression that both Frawley and Lorrian’s heads whipped round to stare at them.

Cassian grinned wolfishly, watching Lorrian shake his head at the obvious fire in Nesta’s eyes. The fire that Cassian was doing everything to rally.

Both of his friends had noticed Nesta turn silent in the hour before dinner, but neither of them had uttered a word. They understood the peaks and troughs—the challenges of life when things became too hard.

“That comeback again, sweetheart? I’d have thought you’d have something more original by now.”

“You are insufferable,” Nesta clipped. And at her hands… a wisp of that mist.

“Do you not like being complimented” Cassian taunted, stifling the way his blood soared at the faint pink that stained her cheeks—another blessed reaction.

Together they descended the elaborately wide staircase, moving slowly to accommodate for Nesta’s skirts. Usually, Cassian had no time for impractical attire, but he had long learnt that Nesta could wear whatever she liked and he would accommodate it, no matter how ill-thought-out.

Nesta’s grip on his arm tightened into a death grip.

She was not looking at him again. Deliberately avoiding his gaze, even as his eyes did not once stray from her face, his legs carrying him blindly as he furiously scanned her for expression.

Finally, Nesta said with a quiet that did not lack in intensity, “A compliment isn’t true if it’s designed to be a distraction.”

Cassian huffed a breath of laughter. Of course, she had seen right through him. Yet…

He dared to lean towards her, to close the distance between them so he could murmur into her elegantly tipped ear. “It was a distraction,” he confessed honestly as they turned down the corridor that led off to the right-hand side of the foyer, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, does it?”

Blue, smoky eyes latched onto his, Nesta’s chin tilting upwards to meet his gaze. It was a torturous form of bliss, the movement bringing her face far too close to his. She stared at him and he stared right back, even as his heart thumped hard against his ribcage.

He lowered his head further. Watched Nesta’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he closed the distance between them. She had stilled completely, halting them just outside of the dining room.

This time he allowed his lips to ghost her ear. Let the Illyrian roll of his tongue and savoured her suppressed shiver. The spark of something which wound itself around his ribcage. “After you, amore.”

Cassian made himself wink as he straightened up, as if he were entirely unaffected by her proximity.

And then he steered her into the dining room.

***

Dinner was worse than Cassian had anticipated, and by the time the four of them arrived back at their suite, none of them were bothering to hide their exhaustion. The door had barely shut behind them when Frawley brusquely announced that the sword which had been showcased at the dinner was undoubtedly Enalius’s, before she disappeared into her room with Lorrian following closely behind.

The first thing Cassian had done upon entering he and Nesta’s shared room was to flop onto the bed. Dealing with Lord Marsh was trying at the best of times, but tackling Lord Marsh, Kallon and the other arrogant lords, as well as the drama that came with it… Cassian had been fighting a headache all day and the pressure was now a keen, insistent throb behind his eyes.

That, coupled with a tense dinner that had slowly chipped away at his pain threshold, had Cassian desperately wanting to slide beneath the sheets and succumb to sleep.

To Cassian’s surprise, Marsh had not been present at dinner, and from the way that Kallon sat unfazed at the head of the table, Cassian gathered that it was not an unusual occurrence.

Kallon had held audience with an ease that had rivalled Rhys when he was playing cruel High Lord during a visit to the Hewn City, and apart from the shadows of servants lining the walls, no other lords and ladies had been present at dinner. It had been a surprising move. Cassian had expected Kallon to parade and taunt in front of the watchful eyes of the Illyrian nobility, who would no doubt disappear later to whisper into others ears…

But, instead, it had only been the five of them. That had been enough to tell Cassian that whilst Kallon might have no qualms in wielding words as vicious as Nesta’s, he also did not believe he could control the tongues of those he was dining with. That he knew that despite the sword that lay gleaming on the gilded cushion further down the table, that they his company had the capability of maiming him if they saw fit. Something which Kallon could not afford given his victory earlier that afternoon.

This fear came to a conclusion halfway through their main course, when Kallon deigned to insinuate that females were not designed to wield a sword.

“Are you saying,” Nesta asked with a deathly sort of calm that had Cassian tensing, “that you do not deem females worthy of protecting themselves?”

“I think that the Night Court should protect the entirety of its court so the females don’t have to worry about protecting themselves,” Kallon had responded swiftly, his sharp knife slicing into his bloody steak as if it were nothing but butter.

“What you are saying,” Frawley corrected, her voice brusque and hard, “is that you do not see females as having any other purpose than bearing younglings.”

“Is that not their purpose?” Kallon had challenged. He paused, surveying all of their faces with a grim sort of satisfaction, before he had pressed on, “Is that not what is needed for a race who has lost more males in this war than it has seen in hundreds of years?”

“A female’s worth is not found in their ability to reproduce,” Nesta had responded coolly. Her voice, Cassian had noticed, had dipped into the deathly sort of calm that usually preceded an outburst of flame. “In fact, I have not met one male in Illyria who is more worthy of learning how to wield a weapon than the females in Illyria’s camps.”

“And does that sense of worth extend to the males around this table?” Kallon had replied, his yellow eyes gleaming at a sudden opportunity. Like the rest of the residence, the dining room had been dimly lit, illuminated by faint faelight and the fire that raged in the hearth. It meant that shadows had crept across the walls and table as Kallon leant forward to where Nesta was sitting at his right. “I assume not, given your tendency to fuck anything that moves.”

The sentence was as abrupt as a slap to the face, but Nesta did not move. Did not give any indication that the princeling’s words had hit home, even as Cassian’s gut had wrenched.

“It is funny,” Nesta had mused icily, her voice as cold as the fiercest Illyrian winter, “that you should try to shame me, especially given that if I was a male, I am sure you would be praising me for such a consistent pursuit of pleasure.”

Carefully, Nesta had set down her goblet, her eyes boring into the princeling’s with such intensity that Cassian had been surprised that the male hadn’t burst into flame.

Other than Frawley’s snort of agreement, nobody had dared to move. Time had passed. Time in which Cassian vowed to remain steadfast to his silent promise that he should not interference unless it was absolutely necessary. Even as Kallon did not back down.

Together, they had all watched the princeling settle back into his chair with the relaxed sort of ease that had Cassian wanting to castrate him. “Perhaps then, I should surprise you by showing you my room in case you fancy pursuing some real pleasure later—”

“That is —” Cassian had started to snarled, banging a fist on the table just as Lorrian had growled, the sound a low, deep warning—

And that was when the entire room had glowed silver, the magic snapping around the room with such ferocity that it was like a whip cracking against bare skin.

When Nesta’s magic dropped—when Cassian’s blood had reduced to a simmer rather than boiling—Cassian realised that exercising her magic had been the perfect excuse for Nesta to silence the fire that had been crackling fiercely in the grate behind them. The fire from which Cassian had spent the entirety of the meal trying to shield her from as best as possible, his wing curled protectively around the back of her chair.

Even so, the showcase of Nesta’s power had been startling and undeniably effective. As Nesta’s temper had flared, that silver fire had ignited in the grate, swallowing the orange flames as mist wreathed up her arms, eddying around her at such speed that it began to seep across the table towards Kallon.

And the whole time Kallon’s eyes had gleamed. Not with fear, but with the kind of awe that Cassian felt when he’d first witnessed how magnificent Nesta was.

It had taken everything in Cassian not to leap across the table and rip the princeling’s head from his body. From the way Frawley was gripping Lorrian, it had seemed as if his friend felt the exact same way.

But to Cassian’s surprise, Nesta had only let out a low, cruel laugh which had sliced through any of Cassian’s intention to intervene.

Instead, he had watched, riveted as those eyes of pure mercury raked up and down Kallon’s body with a look of unbridled disgust. And when Nesta had spoken, her voice was as terrifying as the promise of death, “I would never deign to lower myself by sharing a bed with you,” she told Kallon, “and I certainly hope that no other female has been forced to endure it.”

Infuriatingly, Kallon had only let out a musical laugh rather than a snarled retort. “And I suppose you would rather pair yourself with a male who has nothing to give you—not a title or a name, only the promise of a cheap necklace. Perhaps that is why you seem to have no true inclination to secure your future with him.”

Then, Kallon had slowly dragged his eyes to Cassian. “I would have thought your role in leading the Night Court’s armies would pay better than that, General. But I suppose you can’t take the bastard out of the slums.”

It had been at that point that Nesta had found Cassian’s hand under the table. It had been the most careful of movements—unnoticeable to anybody but them. The clasp of her fingers around his and the easing of the pain and fury in his gut had been the only thing that had stopped him from either beating Kallon to a pulp or leaving the meal in a rage.

Both of which would only have allowed Kallon to emerge triumphant… So, they had eaten in the sort of tense silence, speared sporadically with the odd ferocious comment. And at the end of the table, that damned sword had lain on the gilded cushion, gleaming magnificently in the firelight, calling to Cassian’s power in a way that pulled at his skin…

Now, recollecting the monstrosity of the evening, Cassian wanted to ward away the feeling of unworthiness that still lay bitter on his tongue. There was also a sense of foreboding that he could not shake. A terrible knowledge that whatever he and Nesta had constructed between them was something false rather than true.

There were so many cracks they had hastily tried to ignore. So many past actions that had been pushed to the background rather than being acknowledged.

Cassian didn’t know what would happen if they were addressed. If it would fling the two of them so far back into the past that it would shatter the present.

Yet… it seemed inevitable. A hulking, looming presence that clung to them like a shadow.

But for now… Cassian wanted lightness. He wanted to know that he and Nesta were ok. So he waved a hand tiredly at the room, and said, “Sorry we have to share.”

“It’s fine,” Nesta replied finally, as if she had been so far away it had taken her a while to rope herself back to reality.

Cracking open an eye, Cassian watched her close the bedroom door behind her. She had closed their bond as soon as they had left the dinner table. Cassian did not know if it was a deliberate move to shut him out, or just an attempt to sever any emotion. He knew she must be feeling raw. Lowering one’s shields did that, especially for Nesta, who felt more than everyone else. Azriel had warned him of that. Had confirmed what Cassian and Feyre had always thought. That Nesta’s gift expanded outside of the power she had clawed from the Cauldron. Something which had always existed inside of her but which had been magnified further when she was Made.

“I wouldn’t want my own room here,” Nesta elaborated when she caught him studying her.

Cassian watched Nesta’s ever perceptive eyes scan the room: the simple, whitewashed walls and the pine furniture. The room was of moderate size, although Cassian would wager that it wasn’t Lord Marsh’s biggest guest room. That silent rebuff hadn't gone unnoticed — not that Cassian cared. He had endured far worse conditions, after all.

Most of the floor space was taken up by the Illyrian bed, which was big enough for two sets of wings. Now, Nesta hovered beside it as if she were unsure what to do next. It was the most awkward he had ever seen her.

“By all means,” he drawled tiredly, waving to the other side of the mattress. He folded the wing that he had spread onto the other side—her side—of the bed, “I can sleep on the floor. Just...give me a moment.”

Ignoring his invitation, Nesta floated over to the dressing table instead. Propping his head under a bent arm, Cassian watched her as she started to slowly take the pins out of her hair.

For a long while, the clink of metal on wood was the only noise that filled the room, and Cassian was just about to ask Nesta how many gods damned pins she used, when she started to slowly unspool the hair from the top of her head. Jaw slightly slack, Cassian watched in awe as Nesta parted the thick strands of the braid with well-practiced hands. When she was finished, she began to brush it out, until the light brown strands shimmered gold in the faelight and the teeth no longer snagged on knows.

Cassian wondered if any male had ever seen her do this: the simple act of getting ready for bed. He hoped not. There was something intimate about watching Nesta let her hair down, as if every pin that came out of her head removed a little bit of that mask, revealing a younger, softer version of the hot-headed hellcat he usually had to contend with.

“You’re staring.”

The words clipped through the silence, as sharp as a cutting knife.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t a softer version, after all.

Cassian’s eyes slid to Nesta’s in the mirror. In the dim faelight, the blue of her irises had given way to a stormy, mesmerising grey. He made his lips pout, even as he imagined running his fingers through the soft strands. “Your hair looks prettier than mine.”

The faintest of smiles tugged at Nesta’s lips. It was slightly wicked, the only warning she gave him before she tossed him the ivory-handled brush.

Cassian’s hand snapped up, catching the brush inches from his face, his eyes never straying from hers.

His grin was triumphant and when Nesta rolled her eyes at him, the gesture so uncharacteristically playful, satisfaction burned through every pore, every fibre of his being.

How far they had come.

“Then brush it, you stupid brute. I won’t deny that it needs it.”

Cassian laughed throatily—the first true laugh he had let loose that day. “I thought you liked my rugged looks?”

A soft, unimpressed snort. “A wholly made up notion.”

He watched Nesta rummage through her travel bag and pull out a white cotton nightdress and some toiletries, before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He brushed his hair whilst the water ran and then peeled off his clothes, baring his skin to the chill air.

The glare Nesta sent him when she reemerged would have sent a lesser male scarpering. It made him wonder how any of the males she had bedded had even made it home with her in the first place. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, which only emphasised the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton. She was still wearing the pyrite, and the metal shone mockingly against her creamy skin��silver flecked with gold.

The sight of it so close to her cleavage had him biting back a groan.

Mother Above, he had to get a grip if they were going to sharing a room all night.

“You can’t wear night clothes like a normal person?” Nesta hissed at him.

With a taunting grin, Cassian rested a hand on a hip, highlighting his tight undershorts. He refrained from flaring his wings—largely because the space did not accommodate for it. “I usually sleep nude sweetheart, which would you prefer?”

And then, not waiting for her to start on him, he headed straight for the bathroom, making sure their skin brushed as he passed.

To his delight, Nesta’s angry snarl chased him until he closed the bathroom door firmly behind him.

When he reappeared five minutes later, Nesta was already under the covers with her nose buried in a book. Silent, silver flames licking fiercely up the chimney from the open fire grate. The heat was fiercely warm and very welcome, especially given that this deep underground, there was little warmth to be found. The heat sunk deliciously into his skin, and Cassian flared his wings slightly to fight the goosebumps that were scattered across the sensitive membrane.

Since Nesta had lit the torch at the widows funeral, she had taken to lighting the fires throughout the house, and Cassian had become so used to the glow of silver flames in every fire grate around the house that he barely bat an eyelid.

It warmed him, though, to see the house alight with silver and warmth. To see Nesta unafraid and relaxed. To see her sit near the fire, rather than as far away from it as possible.

“I didn’t see you sneak a book into the bag,” Cassian commented, as he pulled a blanket from the wardrobe and pulled on some loose pants. He had been teasing her before about sleeping in his undershorts. He’d mainly wanted to pull a reaction from her, to see how she would respond to his bare skin.

Her hiss had been satisfying enough. Not that Cassian hadn’t hoped for more. A too long glance, or even better, a blush.

Nesta didn’t glance up at Cassian as she turned the page. “You should know better than to think I’d travel without a book.”

He watched her eyes move across the page, utterly absorbed. Her long hair fell over her face and unconsciously she tucked the strand behind an elegantly arched ear. A signature move of hers, however unconscious, that he had yet to name. It was fast becoming one of his favourites.

Nodding, Cassian reached for the pillows on his side of the bed to distract himself from looking at her. Her next words made him pause.

“Just stick to your side.”

Nesta did not look up. She gave none of her focus to him yet she must have been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her after a moment.

A flip of a page. “There’s no room for your wings down there.”

She was right. It was a tight enough squeeze for his body let alone the wings on his back, and the blanket would do little to protect him from the cold flagstone floor. Cassian had endured far worse of course, but the thought of tucking his wings in that tight all night... well, he’d suffer for it tomorrow. And even though he knew sleeping an arms length away from her would be torture of a different kind...

“Thank you,” he conceded softly.

No acknowledgement, yet… this was progress. Only months ago, Nesta would have made him sleep on the cold just to watch him suffer.

A contented groan escaped him as the mattress moulded to his sore back. He rolled onto his side, flaring his wings to settle behind him and examined her.

The faded paperback Nesta was reading was well-worn. Many of the pages were dog-eared and Cassian knew that he’d seen her curled up with it before. He craned his neck in an attempt to try and read the title on the spine. He would bet good money it was a love story. No, he would bet his entire wealth that it was a love story.

It was quick, but he caught Nesta’s darting glance. It was enough for him to break the silence.

“Why do you read romance novels?”

A burning question Cassian had wanted to ask her more times than he could count. On both hands.

Not that he didn’t have his own theory on that.

“Why do you read books about war?” Nesta countered.

A slow, taunting smile. “I asked you first, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why can’t I read them?”

Cassian bit back a growl of frustration. “You can read whatever you like. What I mean is why do you enjoy reading romance novels so much?”

Nesta bookmarked her page with a scarlet ribbon—a gesture at odds with the earmarked pages—and placed it on the nightstand with a sigh. “I revoke my offer, you can sleep on the floor.”

“But what about my poor wings,” he whined.

“Feyre’s right, you really are Illyrian babies.”

Cassian scowled. “I’m full of testosterone, thank you very much.”

Nesta snorted. “Rumour has it that Azriel has the largest wingspan.”

The soft snarl that tore out of Cassian’s mouth surprised even him. He hadn’t made the noise deliberately, it had been completely unconscious, just as much as the next words out of his mouth. “Would you like me to prove you wrong, Nesta?”

His voice had turned low and husky without his bidding, as if it had done so purely on instinct. Maybe allowing himself to get in the same bed as Nesta had been a mistake. The scent of her was enough to cloud his judgement and this close... He could have his mouth on hers in seconds.

“I’d like anything but, actually,” Nesta clipped, completely unfazed by his act of dominance. “Besides, males seem to forget that it’s style over substance.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Cassian leant towards her. He arched an eyebrow at her, his expression cocksure. Somehow, his headache had completely vanished. “Lucky for you, I have both.”

Nesta’s groan was one of long suffering. She reached to undo the clasp of the chain around her neck.

“Don’t take it off.”

Nesta’s head snapped round to his, his sudden command at odds with their banter. He held up his hands, the two ruby siphons glinting from where they sat firmly on the leather straps.

“We’re in that much danger?” she asked.

Cassian sunk back down onto his side, “I’m not taking any chances, and... I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re not wearing it.”

Nesta’s lips parted slightly but her hands slowly withdrew from her neck. The stone glinted briefly against Nesta’s skin and then she extinguished the lights.

The soft flicker of silver that glowed from the hearth was the only reprieve from the darkness that fell across the room. Cassian wondered if flames would go out when Nesta fell asleep or if they would keep on burning.

The sheets rustled as Nesta got comfortable. In the following silence, Cassian could make out the reassuring thump of her heart. It wrapped around his own, the feeling a comfort until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed.

“He’s horrible,” Nesta said suddenly into the darkness.

“Marsh?” Cassian asked, but he knew who she meant. Wasn’t sure why he didn’t say it out loud.

“Him too, but I meant Kallon.”

Cassian grunted in agreement. Then, he dared to say, “He’s taken a liking to you.”

Revulsion forced its way down their constricted bond and into his gut.

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know her expression was hard. “He’s a pig-headed Illyrian brute.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at Cassian’s mouth, despite the subject. “I thought I was a pig-headed Illyrian brute?”

“Then I’ll have to rework my insults for you in light of recent events.”

Cassian barked another true laugh. Would Nesta ever stop surprising him? He suspected that if they were to spend a lifetime together, he would never grow bored. Would never be tempted to look in another female’s direction.

“I feel both triumphant and expectant,” he confided, before he sobered. “You didn’t have to defend me, earlier. I’m used to the comments. It doesn’t matter what I do, but my race will always see me as a bastard first and a General second. Being coupled with you is not something they will ever believe I deserve.”

More rustling of the sheets as Nesta turned onto her side to face him. Through the shadows, Cassian’s Fae eyesight could make out Nesta’s eyes staring directly at him. Even in the muted light, they were mesmerising. “I had a pretence to upkeep,” she replied shortly, as if that explained everything. But then her voice became so quiet that his ears strained to hear her. “You’re worth more than them.”

Usually, Cassian would have teased Nesta for voicing something so groundbreaking, but in this room—in this shared bed—the words dissolved on his tongue. He was momentarily speechless, so much so that the silence became awkward and weighted. His family had attempted to address his insecurities before, but it had never been enough to quash the beliefs that had been drummed into him from a young age. Cassian, too proud to succumb to the seriousness of the conversation, had brushed his family off until they left him well alone.

Azriel was the only one who truly understood; it was why he had never seen himself worthy enough to pursue Mor.

By the time Cassian summoned the courage to open his mouth, Nesta was already speaking, “How do they know about the war?”

The question made his heart stop. Not just because Nesta had mentioned a subject they usually stayed well clear of, but because, for the first time, she was addressing what had happened between them on the battlefield.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, ignoring the way his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. “By the time the healer had mended my wings everyone was talking about it. I think a conversation must have been overhead by a healer.” He paused, hoping Nesta might speak again. When she didn't, he added, “I was… very angry when I found out.” He palmed a hand over his face to try and soothe away the nerves that were humming agitatedly inside of him. He had done his best to ignore the whisperings behind his back.

It hadn’t been hard at first. The aftermath of the war had taken all of his attention. He had barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone digest the gravity of what others had found out. Not that he had gotten the gist of it in drabs: the entirety of the Night Court knew of how they had defended one another; how Nesta had been willing to die with Cassian when she could have run.

They did not know what he had promised. That he had kissed her, even though they were calling it the greatest love story in centuries. Cassian would never forget how Nesta had lain over him when she’d had the chance to run, and the urgency to her voice—the way it had cracked—as she had said; I can’t.

It was those two words which hounded Cassian the most, because even now, he did not know whether Nesta had said that because she hadn’t wanted to leave him, or because she had no choice.

“I assumed it was my sister and her loose mouth.”

Nesta’s words startled Cassian, bringing him back to the dark room rather than the muddy battlefield where his body was broken but his heart was full and aching. And in truth, Cassian had expected Nesta to draw a line under the conversation by ignoring him and feigning sleep, the next morning a fresh page where they need not bring up the previous night’s discussion.

Despite the dark, Cassian nodded, even though he was unsure as to whether Nesta could see it.

He had considered the same about Feyre. Not on purpose, of course, but by mistake. Feyre had been a witness. The original witness. “One thing I’ve learnt growing up Fae is that there are eyes and ears everywhere,” Cassian said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer having my business kept to myself.”

Cassian knew Nesta was fiercely private, far more than him. Was it that invasion coupled with the monumental pressure that came with being spoken about by Fae and humans alike, as they whispered about the greatest love story in Prythian—the lowly bastard and the human Made Fae—that had been the final straw for her? Or had it been the death and destruction which had slammed the door shut on something as naive and fanciful as love?

The desperation to know—to understand—was so fierce that Cassian could not stop himself from asking what he had never dared, “Is that why you wanted nothing to do with me?”

A long, stony silence that eventually began to simmer with anger. Cassian did not know if it was the audacity of him having asked or for bringing unwanted memories to the surface.

Finally, Nesta clipped, “I wanted nothing to do with someone who treated me as second best.”

The icy dismissal in Nesta’s tone had goosebumps rising on Cassian’s bare arms. Recently their conversations had been a torturous, delicious heat rather than frosty, but this delivery… it made Cassian feel as if he had stepped back into the past.

They were going there then. A conversation Cassian never dreamed they would have. Yet here they were... and suddenly he was so terrified it would ruin everything he wished it would stop, even as he asked in a low voice, “In what capacity?”

Snapped words like the crack of a whip. “In every capacity. Let me go to sleep.”

“Nesta,” Cassian pressed, not caring that it was dangerous. Desperate to try and understand why they were not together when his entire body was begging him to close the distance. He knew she must feel it too. Hoped that she did. That it was not just a wishful fantasy on his part. Cassian had always thought their chemistry undeniable. It was what scared him.

It never went away, the wanting.

“What do you mean second best?” he urged.

“The fact that you do not know shows how stupid you are,” Nesta replied coldly, turning away from him, signalling that the conversation was over. Through the shadowy dark, Cassian could make out the slope of her shoulder and the outline of her curvaceous side. The spill of her hair, a tempting drape across the pillow.

He curbed most of the desperation that wanted to creep into his voice. “You are speaking of Mor.”

An abrupt snort of confirmation.

“Mor is my family,” Cassian said carefully, even though he knew his words would not convince Nesta.

“Your dynamic is not familial.”

“Not at the start, no,” Cassian admitted, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. To give himself distance. Because he could not bear to stare at her turned back as she tried to shut him out. “We slept together once when we were very young. It has never been repeated.” He blew out a long breath as he ran a hand over his face, trying to smooth over his pained expression. “She used me to lose her maidenhead. I don’t know how much you know, but Mor was mutilated by her family for it—she was dumped in the Autumn court with a note nailed to her womb for her betrothed to find her. It collapsed her marriage proposal and I have been responsible for that mutilation every day since, not least for driving a wedge between me and my brother.”

As he trailed off, the blankets moved and to his surprise, Nesta’s shoulder dipped slightly towards him. He’d clearly piqued her interest. “You mean Azriel.”

“Yes,” Cassian admitted bitterly. “I slept with Mor because I was a jealous prick and Az was besotted with her. His diverted attention made me feel like I had lost my brother and I thought it would make him move on.” Loosing another sigh, Cassian rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his palms. “I grew up alone, so when I moved in with Rhysand’s mother and Azriel joined us… he and Rhys were the closest I had ever had to a real family. When we were a three, it was the first time I remembered being truly happy. Mor threatened that, so I did what I thought would remedy it. I was a naive, arrogant prick and bedding Mor is a regret that I have lived with ever since.”

Pausing, Cassian took in a deep breath. He’d never voiced any of this out loud before. It had always been something he and his family did not discuss out in the open, not until recently with Mor, anyway. And he had not gone into so much depth.

He hoped that Nesta understood what it had meant for him to be happy for the first time, when before that he had been miserable and alone. Nesta herself had confessed to Frawley that she did not know when she had last felt joy, but then Cassian had felt it the other day, the sensation so wonderful in her stomach he felt as if he had been knocked of breath. He had flown to find her, followed that tether between them that was more visceral than he had ever felt it, before he realised that this was not his moment to experience. So he had turned around in the skies, headed back home, waited to see Nesta later. Her face had been flushed and she was dirty from a day of helping in the widows camp… but her face, it was free of that mask. With it, her expression was less severe and the light in her eyes made her irises a shade lighter. It was the most beautiful thing Cassian had ever seen. And when she had seen him, she had smiled without thinking. As if he, too, brought her joy.

It had been a quiet smile. Secret. His.

But where could Cassian even start to begin explaining the mess of the love triangle between Mor, Az and himself? Of the guilt he felt for a few minutes of pleasure which nearly costed Mor her life.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I felt so much guilt over what I had done—over what happened to Mor and for betraying Azriel like that—I spent the next five hundred years doing everything I could to make things easier between them. Azriel doesn’t think he is worthy of Mor and Mor isn’t interested. So I stepped in when I could… I eased the tension. I let Mor use me as a buffer and it just… it became a bad habit. We fell into an unusual friendship. Mor can be very protective of me.” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I can see how things were misconstrued. I think about it a lot, Nesta. I think about it all the time.”

Only silence met his confession.

“Things won’t be like that anymore,” he pressed on. Because he needed Nesta to understand that Mor was not in the equation—that she never had been—even though he was sure he and Nesta would never be anything but two Fae forced into close quarters. “Mor has finally been honest with Azriel.”

No reply. Nesta had turned preternaturally still again, as if she weren’t breathing.

“Nesta?"

“What.”

It was only one word but it was more vicious than anything she had said to him in months.

He felt his blood heat as he propped himself up onto an elbow. “Are you going to say anything or are you going to ignore me and pretend this conversation never happened?”

Nesta’s body moved slightly beneath the sheets as her muscles seized up. “I don’t think any of it matters now, so it’s not relevant.”

“It has always been relevant to me.” Cassian’s voice came out as a low hiss, his self-control snapping as his vulnerability became too much to bear. He threw a protective bubble around the room, sound proofing them inside. For the sake of their pretence, he couldn't have Fae ears overhearing their conversation. And… he could not bear Lorrian and Frawley overhearing something so painful. “You terrify me, Nesta, because I have never been so fucking captivated by anyone in the whole five hundred years I have been alive. From the very start you were different and it scared the shit out of me. My entire family knew it, too. I’m not a fan of everyone knowing my business, either, believe it or not, and they witnessed you putting me down at every step.”

Nesta’s snort was so cold that his entire blood heated fire. He was thankful for the dark to conceal how red his face has turned. He wanted to throttle her at the same time as he wanted to press her into the mattress and slant his mouth on hers. To show her that even now he only wanted her. That Mor meant nothing. Hadn’t for centuries. That he’d royally fucked up in so many ways that he didn’t even know how to start apologising.

“If you cared so much, perhaps you would not drop my hand when your friend enters the scene or gift her lingerie whilst I am in the same room. You are disgusting,” she spat.

Then, Nesta was facing him again with such sudden speed that Cassian braced himself for an attack, but Nesta only propped herself up onto an elbow. Her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder, the flare of silver from her fingertips lighting the room with a sudden brightness.

“You asked why I read romance novels,” Nesta said, her voice having dropped suddenly into a quiet fervour that was no less chilling. “I read them because I was engaged to a boy who turned out to be cruel and I have watched a five hundred year old male discard and ignore me as he pleased. I would rather read about love than be in it. After all, I recall you saying that I was not worthy of love.”

“Sweetheart—” Cassian croaked. The blood had drained from his face and he knew that if he were to look in the mirror all he would see was a haunted ghost of himself. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that. You were so empty. I couldn’t reach you and so I lied. I thought you’d get angry at me, but instead you just walked away.”

“You are not unloveable,” he told her fiercely, when she remained silent and so fiercely sad his heart clenched. He had not known that she was engaged to that human filth. “You are the exact opposite. If anything—”

He stopped abruptly. Took stock. Her light was still glowing around them, illuminating the room in an ethereal mist which he would have considered beautiful if the two of them hadn’t been consumed by such agony.

“You’re not unloveable,” he insisted vehemently, after a moment’s pause. “And love doesn’t work like that. You can’t choose not to love, sweetheart. You know—”

“We decide how we act on it, that’s what matters,” Nesta interrupted, that mist sparking momentarily into flame before it was eaten by shadow.

And that was the crux of it. The truth behind the words—the calculated response that told Cassian that Nesta had thought of this over and over again. He would not change her mind when it came to him, because it all boiled down to her ability to choose. And he was not a choice. He had been thrust upon her. They were history rather than present. Would always be that way, it seemed.

Cassian fell onto his back as the gravity of the realisation crushed him with such force that for a moment, he felt as if he was choking.

“It was wrong of me to do those things,” Cassian said quietly, forcing out the hoarse words through the tightness in his windpipes as a result of the crushing disappointment. “All of it was wrong of me. I know that, Nesta. You may think I’m old but around you I find myself a teenager. On Solstice last year I didn’t know how to deal with the situation so I ignored you before you could do it to me and then regretted it later. I hoped you would speak to me. I hoped—”

That you would change your mind. That you would want to be with me. That you would stop fucking all those males. That you would forgive me.

But Cassian did not say those things. Instead, he said, “Look, we just need to pretend to be together for one more day and then you don’t have to think about being tied to anyone ever again.”

Silence.

That as all he needed to move. Logic told him that he should stay put—that he should remain calm and rational rather than affected—but the pain was too much and he found himself sitting up and pushing off the covers. He needed distance. In this room all he could scent was her—jasmine and vanilla—and it hurt, to be so close and know that he could not comfort her without the knowledge that she’d set him alight.

Cassian had thought he’d drawn a line under it all. Thought he’d accepted that he was content to co-habit with her and resist the undeniable pull between them for the rest of his days. But they had taken such big steps forward recently. Had thought things had continually shifted until all it boiled down to was their connection, which ran far deeper than twists of rope and a damn Cauldron.

At times, Cassian had even thought Nesta had wanted him to touch her. Had almost leant in to him. Walked close, stayed close.

Snorting, he discarded the memories, angry at himself for having wished for something that he had tried to put to rest.

“Where are you going?” Nesta’s words were sharp. The fanciful part of him detected alarm, but Cassian pushed it away. He knew better.

“To sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Again, Nesta moved with that extraordinary speed that Cassian should have accounted for. He had seen her in the sparring ring, had witnessed her move so fast that she was almost a blur. Only he could move that fast.

A mist-wreathed hand closed around his wrist with a strength that had his heart beating in his mouth and his siphons flaring. “Stay.”

Cassian ran a shaking palm over his face, pressing the heel of it to his eyes, hoping the pain of it would ground him. “I can’t,” he lied.

“You can,” Nesta said shortly, but there was a quiet plea lacing her voice. “You will.”

When Cassian didn’t move, Nesta tugged on his arm, urging him to join her back on the mattress. “Please,” she breathed, and this time Cassian did detect panic, as if Nesta had not bothered to conceal it. “I don’t want to fight with you. You’re the only—”

To Cassian’s dismay, Nesta broke off as her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her words were barely audible—small, “I like my life at the moment. I’ve never liked it before.”

Something cracked inside of Cassian, the sound internal and akin to the smashing of china.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Nesta continued. “I don’t want to have to move back to Velaris. I want to stay with you where I feel safe.”

Her expression cracked. The tight line to her mouth trembled and a frown twisted across her features. A tear slid down her cheek. “I said awful things to you,” she admitted.

“Yes,” Cassian conceded with a sad, tremulous smile, because even now he did not want her to hurt. “And I said awful things to you.”

“I wanted you to leave me alone. You scared me.”

“I know,” he replied. Because he understood what she meant. How even though his blood sang when she was near, he was equal parts terrified. “You scared me, too.”

“I needed to make you leave.”

“I know,” he repeated again. Because he knew that, too. Knew she had purposefully driven him away. She had wanted to hurt and be consumed with trauma. To finally feel nothing. To make sure the those she cared for were safe from her.

A broken sob had Cassian cupping Nesta’s face before he could help himself. Her skin was unbelievably soft against his calloused palms. He brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. “Nesta,” he breathed, waiting until she looked at him, until blue and hazel clicked into place. “I want you to stay with me. You never have to move back to Velaris, not if you don’t want to.”

Nesta did not reply. Did not move away. He bowed his head until his forehead was resting against hers, wanting her to know that he was sincere. That he wanted her to stay not because that’s what she needed to hear, but because he didn’t know what life would be like without her in it.

“I like living with you,” he told her again, because he knew somehow that she didn’t believe it. “I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Then he pulled her to him. She didn’t resist, her body pliant as he wrapped his arms around her. Cassian could feel Nesta’s heart, the sound pattering to meet his, as she wound her arms around his bare waist.

Her furled fists rested lightly against his skin, the pressure welcome and wonderful as she finally held him back.

“So, you won’t sleep on the floor?”

Such a small voice. Vulnerable and trusting. A voice she didn’t use with anyone but him.

“No,” Cassian assured her, knowing that staying was something he would never refuse. Something he couldn’t. “I won’t sleep on the floor.”

When he lay on the edge of his pillow closest to hers, Nesta settled beside him. She found his hand beneath the blankets, her fingers threading through his.

The initiated contact had his blood thrumming and he resisted the urge to pull Nesta back to him and wrap her in his arms.

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

Cassian listened to Nesta’s breathing as it became even; the slow, relaxed beat of her heart. The sound of his, thumping in tandem. Watched her eyelids flutter shut and her features soften. Felt how her fingers remained entwined with his.

“We would have crashed and burned. I would have dragged you down.”

Quiet, sleepy words. A confession, really, and Cassian stilled in surprise at the honesty that was not spat or wringing with deadly venom, but level. And if Cassian allowed himself to be rational, he knew that Nesta was right. Despite the thorny, overgrown path they were trampling down, it had all been necessary. Trauma, internal conflicts, self-doubt, complicated relationships… there were so many things that the both of them had needed to face before they could be truly content. What was it Cassian had said to Rhys when his brother had asked about his happiness? I’m working on it. He still was, but with Nesta beside him, still holding tight to his hand, Cassian found the world a little brighter, despite the shadowy future that lay ahead of them—a shape that had not yet taken form.

So, Cassian allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. “Maybe I’d like to be set alight.”

A soft snort. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

Then, Nesta’s fingers squeezed his. Soft breath travelled across the pillow to caress his cheek. “Goodnight, Cassian.”

He wondered how many times Nesta had actually said his name without being in mortal danger or when she had needed to get his attention. His name sounded intimate on her lips, a whisper of a prayer across the void that he hoped was narrowing between them.

In his mind, Cassian raised her hand again to press a kiss to her knuckles, even as he merely tightened his hold on hers.

It was in that moment of calm that Cassian vowed that he would change Nesta’s mind. That he would spend this gifted time showing Nesta that they might be strung together but that he had chosen her, if she would have him.

In the flickering silver light, Cassian felt Nesta began to slip into unconscious. Felt her fingers loosen their grip on his, but he held on tight, and said, “Goodnight, Nesta.”

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @san-y-a-blog

#embersandlightfic #nessianfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #acotar fanfic #acotar #acosf

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ask-them-bois · 3 years

Text

Of Monsters and Matriarchs, pt 2/3

pt.1

TW: PTSD flashback, attempted mugging

TLDR: Deadscar heads for the desert. A new troll arrives.

Ishran cinched the strap on his bag and stood, swinging the pack onto his shoulder. He picked up his war hammer, sliding it into its holster between the bag and his back. Finally, he tied up his hair, made sure his campfire was out completely, and set out.

He’d been camped on the outskirts of the city for several nights, but now, mere hours after the meeting with Musrio and the other ancestors, it was time to leave. He made for the trackscuttler station, remembering the Decaying’s directions.

He stepped up onto the platform and looked around; the station was empty, as far as he could tell. No one was even in the ticket booth, the lights all dark. He found an old board that listed the trackscuttlers’ arrival times, but all of them were marked the same way: “Canceled.”

It was abandoned, he realized. Trackscuttlers were still a popular mode of transportation all over Alternia, and he idly wondered what would cause the station to shut down. Perhaps a better one had been built elsewhere.

Regardless, he put his curiosity aside; the inquiry of why a station was powered down was not his mission. Finally, he located a map of the tracks, in a case that stood in the middle of the station. It depicted most of the continent he was currently on, and it was easy to locate the desert; the landmass he resided on only had one, albeit a rather large one.

If Lucina wasn’t there, then he’d have to head overseas. First things first, though- he located the tracks that wound through the desert. There was only one track, and someone had scribbled over part of it in red marker.

Undeterred, Ishran followed the trail to the station he was currently at; it stood to the west of the desert, which meant he had to head east. Satisfied, he turned to survey the tracks by the station. They pointed north and south, but following the northern one would eventually take him the correct way.

A squeak of a shoe behind him was his only warning as a knifepoint was suddenly pressed to his shoulder.

“Give me everything in the bag, geezer, or I’ll gut you like an oink-beast.”

Ishran didn’t move for a moment, before he finally turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder.

Behind him, their only knife left pressed against the oliveblood’s skin, looking rather gaunt and messy, was none other than Fayroe Fallen.

The young fuchsia’s eyes were bloodshot, their undersides dark from lack of sleep. His fins were wilted, horns bare of jewelry; he’d either hidden them or sold them. He was covered in bruises and scrapes, his clothes worse for wear than ever before.

Outwardly, Ishran didn’t react at first, but his thinkpan was flashing warning lights as wailing sirens went off, unbidden memories whirling through his mind as he stared at those horns.

Pain, pain, pain- shackles, bolts embedded in his wrists, chains beating his back, dragging him like a dog, the coliseum, his hammer, smashing through skin and muscle and bone. Breaking, breaking, scars and bleeding and no rest. Beast and troll crying out, the deafening cheers as his knuckled crumpled bone like faygo cans-

The whirring, chittering, subsonic roar of the drones. His hammer screaming off of carapace, chitinous armor flying across sand, sparks from the contact and then- pain. Naught but pain, struggling to breathe, burning lungs and broken ribs and PAIN-

When he snapped back to himself, Ishran found himself knelt on the prince’s chest, the knife spinning across the floor and his hands on the kid’s throat, teeth bared. Fayroe had his arms up to shield himself, as if expecting a beating.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, please-! I didn’t mean it, please don’t kill me!” The seadweller’s wails suddenly cut through the ringing in his ears. They sounded terrified and desperate, sobs hitching in their chest.

Ishran stared down at the sniveling fuchsia, his hands lax around their neck as he tried to mentally catch up with what just happened.

“Please, I didn’t mean it- I’m j- j- just so h- hungry- I w- wasn’t going to hurt you!” Fayroe continued to babble, covering his face with his arms.

The oliveblood managed to lurch to his feet and stumble away. He leaned on the map case with one hand, his blood-pumper hammering in his chest. Adrenaline was screaming through him, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time. He couldn’t breathe properly, he almost felt sick, but he managed to suck in a shaky breath.

“Who… are… you.” He spoke through clenched teeth. Behind him, the sniveling stopped abruptly.

“Wh- what?”

“You’re Enforcer’s spawn.”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, his voice shaky but even.

“I’m- I was just- I am-”

“Out with it, boy.” Ishran snapped.

“I was sleeping!” Fayroe shouted, his voice echoing around the empty station.

“… Here?”

“Yeah?”

“… Why?” Ishran wasn’t sure why he was asking. He didn’t even want to know, but the talking was making the buzzing in his skin fade. He turned to face Fayroe again, and saw the young troll had sat up, eyes huge in the gloom.

“Why do you care? Who are you?” They sniffed.

“I do not care. I am Ishran.” Deadscar stated bluntly, “Now answer my question.”

“I don’t take orders from lowbloods.”

Ishran’s brows settled low, and he turned away. “Fine.” He headed for the tracks.

“Wh- you’re leaving?”

“I have places to be.”

He heard Fayroe scramble to their feet. “Wait!”

He stopped.

“… Where… where are you going?” The fuchsia asked, trying to sound casual.

“Why should I tell you?”

“W- well- because you’re the Deadscar, aren’t you? Fath- Godric, talked about you a lot.” Oh, Ishran didn’t like that. There was a beat of silence, in which Fayroe was probably expecting a response. When that didn’t happen, he continued. “Take me with you.”

“I do not take orders from highbloods.”

“Wh- yes you do! You have to!”

“No.”

“But- but- but that’s-”

Ishran turned around to look at the descendant again. “I take orders from no one, boy, especially not the successor of the Enforcer.”

At that, Fayroe laughed bitterly, catching him off guard. “Successor? Not anymore, I’m not. Descendant, sure, but no successor.” He scuffed one foot against the platform. “… I got chased out. That’s why I was sleeping in here.”

They were interrupted as their stomach let out a feeble, yet loud gurgle, and they put their hand on their stomach. Their fins, somehow, drooped further.

“You are hungry.”

“I don’t have any money. I’ve got nothing but my hop-beast.” Fayroe huffed, shuffling his feet some more. “Godric saw to that.” Ishran looked around for said hop-beast, but Fayroe shook his head. “I left her with… erm… a friend. Or I guess, a former acquaintance, an engineer, who I made take her for a while. But she’s all I got.”

“Then we understand each other.” Ishran said, unmoved. Fayroe looked up, puzzled. “All that you see on my back is all I have anymore.”

“Oh…” An awkward pause fell. Tired of lingering, Ishran turned away again. “Wait- where are you going?” Fayroe called.

“To the desert.”

“Take me with you!”

Sighing, Ishran turned back once more. “Why?”

“I… I can be useful! I’m good at this survival stuff- I’ve lasted this long! It’s been…” They quickly ticked on their fingers, “Five weeks? Six?” They frowned, before looking back up. “Regardless, I can rough it, same as you, but I’m not… as good. Teach me, please! I’ll listen to everything you say, I’ll be helpful, I’ll-”

Ishran wasn’t really listening past that, memories once more overwhelming him. For a moment, he didn’t see a fuchsiablood, but a lime, standing before him and demanding to be taught how to use a bow. He’d been alone on the road for so long- his blood-pumper twinged with the thought of being on the move again with Amadri.

“- and, okay, I don’t know how to start a fire, or cook, or clean, but I’m willing to learn! I just don’t want to be alone anymore...” Fayroe’s words cut through the fog again, and the vision of Amadri was gone. “And I swear I won’t-”

“Fine.” Ishran said, making the younger troll stop.

“Huh?”

“You may join me. But you are to listen to my every order. You may be fuchsia, but I am your elder. You will not speak down to me, and I will not punish you for the sins of your father.”

Fayroe blinked at him, before they grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Okay! Yes! You’ve got it, Deadscar!”

Ishran nodded once, and turned away for the final time. “Come, then.”

“Wh- now?”

“Yes, now.”

He kept walking, hopping down from the platform and following the tracks. Behind him, he heard Fayroe scoop up their knife and run after him. “Thank you, thank you, oh you won’t regret this, I swear!”

Ishran only grunted.

“So where are we going?”

“The desert.”

“Yeah, I know. Why, though?”

“To find someone.”

“Oh. Who?”

“A woman.”

Fayroe sighed, giving up on making conversation. He trailed after Ishran, pouting in silence, as they followed the tracks. . . . Regret, regret, regret- Irritation buzzed under Ishran’s skin like stinging wasps. It’d been just over a week- nine nights, to be exact- since he’d set out with Fayroe in tow. It’d taken a bit of rearranging on Ishran’s part, and a stop in a town to pick up extra supplies, but they were managing well enough. The oliveblood had even been nice enough to get Fayroe his own sleeping cocoon. His tent was really only meant for one, but Fayroe was small enough that they could squeeze in it together to sleep.

They woke before the sun had fully set each night, ate, and set out, stopping for only fifteen minutes every four hours for water and a small snack. When dawn approached, Ishran found a place to set up camp. They had dinner, then went to bed.

All of that would have been fine, had he had Amadri with him. But-

Ishran was not a religious man, yet he was just about ready to pray for mercy. Fayroe did not. Stop. Talking. Perhaps it was because he’d been alone for so long, but what was usually blissful silence was filled with chatter about anything. By the end of the third night, Ishran knew Fayroe’s life story, albeit unwillingly and without any prompting.

The complaining, too, grated on his nerves like sandpaper on stone.

“My feet hurt.” Fayroe had whined, three hours into their journey on the first night.

“They will toughen.”

“Can we take a break?” Was asked the second night, after they’d just set out.

“No.”

“I’m thirsty!” was announced mere minutes later.

“Now is not a time for drinking.”

And “How much farther do we have to go?” was a constantly repeated question.

“Far.” was the constantly repeated response.

Over and over, on and on. Ishran was ready to stuff wax into his ears to make it stop; he longed to have his matesprit with him instead- at least her voice was soothing, and not the snotty, whining drivel. When they made camp, he gave Fayroe tasks that either sent him away or forced him to stop talking, just for a reprieve.

On the sixth night, still following the tracks, they made it to the desert. Ishran filled their canteens and refreshed their rations at an outpost before they’d proceeded.

The desert was made up of rust red sand dunes, towering higher than ocean waves in storms.

It took them half an hour to make it over the first dune, before Ishran had an idea and turned around.

Returning to the outpost, he rented a pair of scaly-hoofs; draconic hoof-beasts used for crossing the desert. On the creatures’ backs, they made it over the dunes with ease. The dunes eventually faded behind them, until they were crossing miles of sandy plains.

For the next few nights, they saw little around them, even as they continued to follow the tracks. There was sparse vegetation, and an occasional covered well where they could refill their drinks. An abandoned shack or two where they could camp. Wild lusii avoided them, and Ishran only ever saw them at a distance.

On the ninth night, though, Ishran urged his beast to a stop before a sign.

“Turn back! Forbidden land!” was scrawled on a sheet of metal in curly writing.

Fayroe came to a stop beside him, examining the sign, too.

“What now?” He asked, pulling down his scarf; he’d wrapped it around his face to keep the sand out of his gills and mouth.

“We keep going.”

“But it says-”

“I can read. But we keep going.”

Ishran snapped the reins, and his beast carried on.

The further they went, the more signs they saw, all in the same writing.

“Danger!”

“Turn back!”

“Cursed land ahead!”

“Monsters roam beyond!”

“Unholy beasts dwell yonder!”

Ishran ignored them all, until, at last, they crested a hill and came to stop at the sight before them.

Bleached white by the sun, the teeth gleaming in the moonlight, was a massive, monstrous skeleton. Beyond it, just visible on the horizon, was the twisted and warped remains of a crashed and abandoned trackscuttler, laid across the tracks.

“What the fuck is that?” Fayroe exclaimed as he rode up beside Ishran.

“A beast’s bones.” He replied, before he suddenly remembered the Decaying’s words:

“No water but the sapphire eye, guarding to the metal serpent. Beast of thirst, watching beast of slake, guarded by beast of bone. … Follow the screaming serpent’s trail, into the red, and find the corpse of lifeless gods.”

Ishran looked towards the trackscuttler again; from the distance, it was faint, but he could make out the gleam of water. A lake, if he were to guess. An oasis.

“A beast of bone.” He corrected himself, “We are close.”

“We are?” Fayroe repeated, surprised. “Oh, good.”

Ishran urged his beast into motion again, and they descended the hill, approaching the skeleton.

It truly was massive; one of the beast’s claws was four times the size of Ishran himself. He couldn’t be sure what it used to be, but it had a gnarled muzzle full of monstrous teeth, and he counted four eye sockets. Twisted and curled horns protruded from the skull, piercing the sky. To walk from the skull to tail would take a half an hour, at least.

As they were by the skull, though, Ishran stopped again. He looked around at their surroundings; nothing moved, not even the wind. He could see what looked like an outcrop of cliffs and rocks to the south. Looking up, he saw the moons were nearing their peak.

“We’ll stop here.” He decided.

“Already?” Fayroe asked.

“Yes.” Ishran turned and dismounted.

Fayroe had learned by then that he wouldn’t get a lot of explanations for much, so he dismounted, too. They put the tent up in silence, up against the jaw of the skull. After a moment’s deliberation, despite being out in the open, Ishran decided to start a fire.

“What if something sees it?” Fayroe asked uncertainly.

“That’s the idea.” Ishran grunted as he got a meal together and passed the seadweller a canteen. Fayroe had been rather selfish with the water, insisting he needed more due to his aquatic nature. Ishran wasn’t totally sure if that was true, but he was willing to give up a portion of his share if it stopped the whining.

Once camp was set up, they’d eaten, and the beasts were given their due of food and water, Ishran sat down, using the beast’s saddle as a chair on the ground. He pulled his dagger out of his boot, and dug in his bag, pulling out a half-carved figurine of a moth.

He set to work carving, flicking the scraps into the fire.

Fayroe sat on his own saddle, chin in hand, as his knee bounced impatiently.

“Whatcha making?” He asked, just to say something.

“A gift.”

“For who?”

“My partner.”

“You have a partner?”

“Yes.”

“What- what’re they like?”

Ishran paused and looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you care?”

“I dunno. Are they the woman we’re here for?”

“No. She is visiting her morail.”

“Oh.”

Ishran had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He resumed his work in silence.

“I’m bored.” Fayroe announced after two minutes.

“Then find something to do.”

“Like what? We’re in a desert! It’s not like there’s a filmhive out here.”

“Count the teeth in the skull. Go hunting. Brush the sand off the beasts. Take a nap.” Ishran listed without looking up.

Fayroe didn’t want to do any of that. After another minute of silence, they spoke again. “Why are we even stopped? We could keep going, you know.”

“We are where we need to be.”

“But there’s nothing out here!” Fayroe pouted.

“That’s enough!” Ishran finally snapped, setting his knife down and looking up. “I am aware there is nothing, but this is the spot I have been seeking.” He explained, ill-tempered, “Now is as good a time as any to rest, for I do not know what comes next. The beasts are tired, I am tired, and I am working out what to do. But there is no point running ourselves to exhaustion without direction, nor is there a point to whining! If you are bored, make yourself productive!” He snarled the last part, “You do not know what is out here, and our voices will attract unwanted attention. Do you wish to fight wild animals? You can’t even skin a dirt-spud!”

“But the fire would-” Fayroe began meekly.

“Would deter animals unused to the light, but be a beacon, perhaps, to the woman I am looking for! You have no thoughts other than those for yourself, boy, and I am sick of it! I did not force you to come, and if you are going to continue to stay, then you will hold your tongue and wait, same as I am!”

Fayroe had shrunk back so far he’d nearly fallen off his seat. Slowly, he scowled, and sat back up. He dropped his gaze, glowering at his shoes. “You sound like him.” He muttered lowly, ““Sit down and shut up, Fayroe. You don’t understand anything, Fayroe. I’m having you fucking tortured for your own good, Fayroe.””

“Perhaps that is because you never stop talking.” Ishran grouched without meaning to.

“Maybe that’s because I’ve never had someone to talk to!” Fayroe snapped back, just barely managing to keep their voice down.

Ishran opened his mouth, before Fayroe suddenly sat up and twisted to stare into the darkness towards the distant cliff outcrop.

Slowly, they got to their feet, eyes trained towards the south. Ishran paused, too, caught off guard by their sudden change in behavior. Neither of them moved for several seconds.

“Boy, what-”

“Sshh!” Fayroe flapped a hand at him, fin-fronds flaring wide as they leaned forward. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but- do you hear that?”

Ishran paused again and listened, but no sounds other than the fire and the huffing of the beasts came to him. “What do you hear?” He asked.

Fayroe frowned, squinting towards the outcrop. “It’s like… a growl? But constant. A roar? It- look!” He suddenly pointed towards the cliffs.

Ishran fished a pair of farsight-goggles out of his bag and stepped up beside Fayroe, raising them to his eyes. At first, he saw nothing, until he saw the dust plume.

Following it with his eyes, he saw… something, racing towards them. It was dark, and hard to make out, even with the goggles, due to the distance. Whatever it was, it was making a beeline for their camp.

Ishran lowered the goggles.

“Sit down, boy.”

“Wh- shouldn’t we run?”

“No. We will wait for it to come to us.” Ishran returned to his seat, slipping the goggles into his bag.

Fayroe hesitated, but slowly took a seat again.

“What if it’s an enemy?”

“Then it will be dealt with.”

Ishran calmly picked up his dagger and block of wood again, and resumed his work, while Fayroe watched the thing approach.

“Do you have a gun?” He asked after a moment.

“No.”

“Crossbow?”

“I do not use long range weapons.”

“Oh…”

Finally, after fifteen minutes, Ishran could hear the rumbling, too. He decided to break camp and pack up, before he picked up his hammer, bags resting at his feet. Five minutes more, and he got to his feet as the thing roared up to the camp, only to come to a sudden stop.

Now that it was close, Ishran could see the noise had come from an all-terrain buggy, its driver bent low over the handlebars.

The driver in question slowly sat up, pulling goggles up off its eyes.

“Who are ye?” It demanded, dismounting its vehicle, “Thou be on accursed lands and must make leave, posthaste!”

“We could ask you the same thing, weirdo.” Fayroe said haughtily, his hand going for the knife on his belt.

“Stand down, boy.” Ishran ordered. He lowered his hammer himself, squinting at the jadeblood. “What’s your name?” He asked, voice carefully neutral.

The jade looked at him, tiny fins twitching. “Mine compatriots called me Cyber, but mine name be Alaric Evrren.” With a flourish of its hand, it bowed low to the oliveblood.

Outwardly, Ishran’s expression did not change. “Do you know a woman named Lucina?”

Alaric stood back up, brushing its hair back with a flick of its wrist. “Aye, be ye seekers of my ancestor?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“We were sent by her husband.”

“We were?” Fayroe asked, surprised.

Both midbloods ignored him.

“Oh, thou speaketh of the great captain? Mine forefather, Faslet?” Alaric nodded slowly, eyes scanning over the two of them. It drew its tongue over its fangs thoughtfully, before it nodded and turned away. “Upon thine word, I trust thou. Follow, and I shall shepherd ye to Lucina.” It mounted its buggy again, slipping its goggles down over its eyes.

Ishran nodded and turned, heading for the scaly-hoofs.

“It’s a funny little weirdo, isn’t it? What does it mean?” Fayroe asked quietly as they sidled up to Ishran.

“They will take us to Lucina.”

“Yeah… who is that?”

“The woman I am seeking.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Once the beasts were saddled, the fire kicked out, and Ishran and Fayroe on their mounts, Alaric revved their buggy to life. It waved and shouted something, before it was off, tearing across the sand.

Ishran and Fayroe snapped the reins and gave chase.

The beasts managed to keep up with the buggy as they made for the cliff outcrop in the distance, the roar of the buggy’s engine drowning the night in noise.

Finally, Alaric swerved to a stop before the cliffs, and the other two slowed their mounts.

Cutting the engine, Alaric leaned on the handlebars and pointed. They’d come to a stop before a yawning cavern opening, one that looked troll-made. It was into the dark cave that the jadeblood pointed.

“Mine foremother lies within.”

Ishran nodded. “Boy,” He addressed Fayroe, “set up camp.”

“Aren’t we going in?” Fayroe asked, surprised.

“No.” Ishran dismounted and grabbed something from his bag, before he walked away.

“So… what’s with the muzzle?” Ishran heard Fayroe ask as he moved some distance away from the cave.

Putting his back to the other two, he turned his attention to palmhusk he’d procured. It was definitely nothing fancy- an older version he’d gotten for cheap at a pawn shop- but it still worked, and was durable for travel. Thumbing through the menus, he raised it to his ear as it rang.

“Aye?” The trembling voice of Ruthless picked up after a few rings.

“We found her.”

[Everyone please welcome Alaric Evrren! (Link to bio)]

#of monsters and matriarchs #story time #alaric evrren #the deadscar wanderer #fayroe fallen #long post #very long post

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willadisastercry · 4 years

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More than ‘just a little tired’: aftermath turned aftershocks part 3

tw: discussion of sever burns and re-burning, lots of pain, also lots of heavy emotions, ptsd symptoms towards the end

Keith is in a lot of pain from just having his wounds cleaned but complications arise that make the relief of the pod that much further away. Tensions are still high and everyone’s emotions are running rampant as they are forced to watch their friend be in so much distress, their friend who never let on when he was anything other than angry, who is now crying and begging for it all to stop. Keith is desperate, his stoic facade has shattered but his body refuses to pass out and they still have to separate him from the bits of the suit that remain...

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

(( haven’t edited yet so ignore for now if it’s riddled with errors or some parts make zero sense lol, enjoy!!! ))

The infirmary was both eerily silent and brimming with commotion, nearly devoid of any conversation or background noise at all aside from muted whispers and the gentle clink of tools as the sound of Keith’s pain filled every dreadful square inch and left little space for much else.

Shrio was still perched on a stool with both hands clasped securely around the one of Keith’s that was accessible, the other hanging over the edge of the table limp and unmoving.

The older boy spoke calm reassurances to him in a low voice, the sentiments themselves not so much soothing as the steady cadence of them were.

It was clear he was still suppressing every wince and grimace though his resolve to remain unbothered seemed to be weakening as he fatigued further. And so Shiro’s gentle tenor worked to ground him as his wherewithal plummeted, the neutral pressure on his hand giving him something else to focus on and keep him from panicking while he lay somewhat paralyzed.

He hadn’t moved much as they cleaned his back up after they gave him the muscle relaxant, not that he could if we wanted to, not when his whole body felt about as solid as jello. The only movements possible were occasional reflexive twitches or sudden bursts of shuddering breaths that had whoever was poking his back pause to give him a minute to steady himself.

That was until the team had separated him from as much of the under-suit as they could with just tweezers and saline... because about 30% of what they’d sectioned off around each wound was still attached and not coming free no matter how hard they pulled or however much saline they poured.

It was then with everything cleaned away that they saw how severe it was, how little of the blur of soot around each blast could actually be cleaned away because it wasn’t his skin that was charred, it was the suit itself.

They couldn’t fix that with tweezers but they had to remove the melted material so the pod didn’t heal around it somehow.

Keith’s attention was admittedly elsewhere when the disorienting haze of pain granted him a few moments of clarity once he realized the only hands still touching him were Shiro’s.

It took him a while, but he was able to cut through the fog enough to vaguely tune in to what was going on around him. He has missed the beginning of the conversation that Shiro was having but it wasn’t hard to piece together what was happening.

“The process should be relatively seemless if I use this—“ Coran noted grimly as he presented Shiro with a scalpel that had a cord attached to the end of it “—the scarring will already be minimal given the pod’s capabilities and the fact that these are mostly second degree, but in order to remove the bits that remain I must burn number four again to sever what joins his flesh to the undersuit...”

Shiro had figured as much and so had Keith.

Well no, his addled brain hadn’t figured much of anything coherent in a while, he just wasn’t surprised to hear that it was the only solution.

Keith wouldn’t consider himself as handy as Hunk or Pidge but he knew his way around tools from having a bike and living on his own for so long. And he couldn’t come up with anything else on hand other than a hot knife that would do that kind of job either.

He also didn’t really care how they did anything anymore. He didn’t have the energy to when all he wanted was for this to be over.

Exhaustion seeped into his bones like radiation, clogging the channels in his marrow where his blood should flow and making his entire body feel so very heavy. It was the kind of weight that lulled you into a deep sleep, yet Keith remained awake, his nerves fried and his mind wired.

Shiro sighed, bowing his head to catch Keith’s pleading eyes one last time before nodding, giving Coran the go ahead.

It’s not that Coran was hiding the tool from the other paladins or what it did, that much was sort of obvious. It’s just that the question didn’t concern them, the decision wasn’t theirs to make. Shiro was their unofficial health proxy now that they were in space and called these kind of shots for all of them, but that was especially true for Keith since he’d already sort of been doing so back at the garrison before Kerberos.

The paladins were of course privy to deciding what happened to their own bodies regarding altean remedies or lesser pod stays since some of the options are pretty out there and if they aren’t absolutely necessary, then they aren’t mandated. But all decisions were passed by Shiro who ensured that their younger counterparts were entirely clear on what they were or were not agreeing to before Coran or Allura did anything, given the situation allotted time to take such measures.

This is one of the rare instances where Shiro had little choice in how to handle the matter. There was only one option and Keith would continue to suffer if he wasted time worrying about what none of them could control.

And it wasn’t even that he was too out of it to know what this meant and be able to deliver the green light himself, the fear on his face when Coran said ‘burn’ was more than apparent. But the kid was so goddamned rational about things no one his age should be able to rationalize that it was clear he had already evaluated and come to terms with the predicament in those brief moments of hesitation before Shiro agreed.

His eyes fall closed again and Shiro thinks he can hear the screams already.

The gravity of the decision seemed to dawn on everyone else a beat later, an anticipatory silence replacing the anguished weight that hung on all of them seconds before.

Everything moved slowly for a moment, the rise of chests halted, the chitter of mice quieting while they searched the princess’s face for answers until reality crashed back down on the castleships’ inhabitants like the tidal surge of a hurricane. The green tinge on Hunk’s face deepened several shades and Allura absently slid a waste bin closer to him, her movements robotic, like she wasn’t all there anymore. Pidge’s sobs from her helpless position on the adjacent cot were almost as painful to hear as Keith’s.

The only one to contest the idea was Lance, the sheer horror of what was about to happen registering on the blue paladin’s face like it was a death sentence for his friend.

“No, that’s torture! You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea, it’s barbaric, it’s—“

“Lance, calm down.”

“I will not calm down! Don’t you see how insane this is?!”

“There’s nothing else we can do. Don’t you see where the hell we are? We’re in space. We are light years away from human healthcare, we kind of have to work with the resources that we have!”

“But there has to be another way! I don’t understand why you’re not trying to figure something else out first... haven’t you hurt him enough today, Shiro? For fuck’s sake, aren’t you supposed to be his br—“

“Do it—” Keith punches out in a harsh whisper, effectively silencing the argument “—j-just do it already.”

His voice was gravelly and weak from all the shouting, his waning energy evident in the exasperated punctuation of his words. He’s fairly sure he won’t remain conscious long enough to be truly traumatized by the a procedure and was growing more irritated the longer they delayed it.

Keith appreciated that Lance had a conscience but also knew full well that he was stuck on the agony he was emoting since he usually never emoted at all, and probably not imagining just how awful it must actually be if he was advocating that more pain be inflicted so the sweet relief of the pod came sooner.

Lucky for him, Coran seemed to grasp the concept well enough on his own.

“Alright my boy, as you wish... Allura you might want to grab something for him to bite down on.”

What remained of the upper half of his under suit lay on him in tatters, his back bare except for the front section beneath him with strips of black littered over the table and floor. There’s a square of material missing on his thigh but the rest of the bottom portion is pretty much in tact.

The wounds looked worse free of all the blood and shredded bits. Like so much worse. But Keith didn’t have to see or be told how horrible it looked, he already knew that however bad it appeared, it hurt a thousand times worse.

“I have a topical anesthetic here that should numb the surface tissue but I’m afraid I can’t make any promises about nerve pain that might go deeper... it will still hurt a great deal.”

Talking was hard. He didn’t have the energy to stay awake let alone speak, but since his body was denying him that mercy, he figured forcing himself to communicate might speed the process along.

“Kay... s’fine,” was all he managed in response, his head swimming slightly as he forced the words out.

Allura’s face came into view then, smiling with so much sadness behind it as she lowered a hand to Keith’s flushed and tear stained cheek, gently coaxing him into opening his mouth.

He was sort of confused as to why until she brought a small hand towel folded in a tight roll up to his chin. His eyes widened a bit but he hummed in understanding and parted his blood encrusted lips so she could place it between his teeth.

They hadn’t had a chance to fuss over the gash on his face with everything else they were focused on but he was also very much laying on top of it. The cut itself also didn’t appear to be giving him much of an issue, but the fact that he was resting his cheek in an ever dampening rag as it caught his blood was woefully uncomfortable, the swelling laceration under his eye endlessly agitated with every reflexive jerk.

The sight might’ve been more alarming if his back wasn’t so horrific.

Shiro searched Keith’s lidded eyes when Coran pressed a button that had the tool whirring to life with a warm orange glow before he set it aside to warm up. They were sluggish and bloodshot and slow enough in meeting his gaze that would’ve had him majorly concerned should he not already have dozens other reasons to be.

“The spray might sting a bit at first... just bear with me lad.”

Coran’s voice was pinched and level, his statements clinical and his hands deft.

He’d already gathered that Keith didn’t need things explained before they were done like Shiro who needed to feel like he was in control of his own body when being tended to, or Pidge and her unwavering need to know absolutely everything ever, or Hunk and his already debilitating anxiety regarding the unknown.

No, he was like Lance who didn’t want the details, didn’t need to know what was happening or when. In fact, he reacted worse when he knew.

Keith needed things done without preamble. It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, he just needed it to hurt before the anticipation that it was about to could consume him. And Coran would do whatever he could to ease the red paladin then, so if that meant working fast than he would work fast.

“Nngh...” Keith choked out against the towel, nearly gagging on it when his entire body jerked as soon as Coran started spraying despite the medicine running through his body to specifically lessen reactions like that. But the man didn’t slow once he started, not even for Keith’s muffled pleas.

The spray did in fact sting. It stung a lot.

His head flew back and his eyes screwed shut as he struggled to breathe through the application, jerking despite himself each time the liquid landed on his raw and burning wounds.

The cloth trapped between his clenched teeth had him sputtering on the spit in his mouth and he almost welcomed the fear that flooded his body when his throat closed to keep from inhaling it.

“I know, bud... looks like just a bit more and then hopefully some relief.”

Shiro looked so young when he was like this, the knitted worry lines on his forehead almost out of place for the age he looked then. Keith didn’t like seeing him like that, it’s what he looks like when he’s having a rough day with his ptsd, so he closed his eyes against the tears that were brimming in the corners of them and took in long, purposeful inhales while Coran finished up.

He felt it as soon as the anesthetic started working, a discernible cold partially quenching each tiny inferno that was at the center of his injuries. It didn’t do much more than place a lid on the fires, not putting anything out completely but it was something and had him sagging into the table at the small bit of respite.

“I’ll be right here the entire time, okay? Coran will try to be as quick as he can but you can do this Keith, you’re strong, I know you can do this...” Shiro rambled, his timbre still subdued and settling.

It was nonsense. It was absolute nonsense he was babbling but the older boy’s voice never wavered and the constant presence of it hung on Keith’s battered body like a warm blanket, soothing the biting chill of anticipation that spread over it before the endless waves of agony started all over again.

“It’s going to be okay, bud.”

Keith clung to his words like they were a broken board from a sinking ship, the only buoyant thing in sight that could keep him from sinking right down with it.

“It’ll be over soon...”

He felt himself physically calming the longer he spoke until suddenly his chest didn’t feel as tight.

“...and then you can rest.”

Because he believed him. He believed that Shiro wouldn’t tell him he would be okay if it wasn’t true.

“We’ll get you set up in the pod...”

And for just a second, he actually believed it would end, that it wouldn’t last forever.

“...and then you’ll start to heal...”

The breaths he took were urgent, almost greedy as he relished in the temporary peace from everything. From the pain, from his anxiety, from feeling so fucking helpless.

“...just a little longer. I promise.”

Shiro made a point not to make many promises to Keith, even if he never planned on being anything other than good on them. He knew that too many had been broken for him to trust a vow like that. The words were empty, just another tool for people he trusted to bait him with before they left.

In Keith’s experience, everyone always left.

“I am going to begin now, remember to breathe lad...”

Before Keith had been holding back most of his exclamations of pain, biting his lip or cheek and setting his jaw to swallow them back before they escaped.

He wasn’t exactly sure what it was that made that impossible now, maybe since he knew the pain would be insurmountably worse or maybe because his body was too tired to expend that kind of energy anymore, either way the only thing muffling the sounds then was the towel keeping him from biting clean through his tongue.

The way his back arched when Coran brought the scalpel down looked like it shouldn’t have been possible in his condition. Keith didn’t know it was possible either but wasn’t too focused on the logistics with how intensely his lungs were screaming as he realized he could no longer move air in or out with how shocking the pain was.

It was like he’d been electrocuted, his muscles spasming and his nerves glitching in override.

“Shit, someone help me hold him down... come on damnit, hold him still!” Shiro ordered when it was apparent that Keith was incapable of controlling his reactions as Coran kept at it with the tool.

The movements were violent and quick, more convulsions than Keith’s own will, but they happened with each slice which made it difficult for Coran to work, so Hunk and Lance repositioned themselves on either side of the table and pinned his chest down wherever was most absent of injury while Shiro kept his head still and attempted to talk him through it.

Allura wasn’t having much luck in soothing Pidge either who was hysterical with her hands clamped over her ears. The guilt she felt over being the reason Keith was now in such intense pain was overwhelming and the princess was deeply concerned that she was going to make herself sick or reopen her only somewhat mended wound.

“Huh, huhh, huh... AHGh!”

Coran ignored how his fingers were blistering from working around the red paladin’s struggles.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry...”

Apologies were pouring out of Shiro like his own blood would.

But Lance didn’t buy them. He couldn’t grasp how their infallible leader missed someone being injured this severely.

And for it to be Keith of all people.

He’d spent half of his young adult life on his own, looking out for himself, no other support. He wasn’t used to having a team to look out for him especially since the last time anyone had was when Shiro had taken him under his wing. Shiro who had pretty much promised not to give up on him only to leave for Kerberos and never come back.

And what’s worse, as if anything could get worse at this point, was that Keith genuinely hadn’t wanted their help. He would’ve insisted he was okay whether or not his injuries were known regardless, but Shiro overlooking him in the heat of the moment had only fueled his warped view on taking care of things himself. It made him think he didn’t deserve any help, like he was being selfish for even suggesting he might not be okay when Pidge was also hurt.

It wasn’t true. But Lance knew that Keith couldn’t always decipher those kinds of things, the subtle messages in tonality that other people would’ve instantly picked up as, ‘no, I don’t actually hate you’ but completely eluded him.

Because Keith was extremely literal. He was also a self sacrificial idiot. Kinda like Lance. Not the literal thing, Lance almost never spoke literally.

But Shiro knew that, he knew that Shiro knew all of that about Keith and yet here they were.

His eyes were glossy and he was livid. It didn’t make any sense. They were supposed to look out for each other. It was Shiro’s whole philosophy and here he was, a complete hypocrite.

Pidge let out a strangled hitch then that broke Lance’s focus on analyzing whatever the hell had gone down on that mission.

The guilt was raging an almost identical fire in her chest, licking at her lungs like there was lighter fluid on them and threatening the sinews that had just barely latched across the chasm in her abdomen.

Hunk wished he could cry, wished he didn’t have to be so close to the terrible mess that was his friends’ back or the sounds he was making.

He didn’t know how many more he could stand to hear. How many more times he could handle the pang of terror in his chest when one escaped the lips of either of his friends.

Anytime anyone was hurting he felt like he was too. Like he had an access pass to their pain or some wicked ability to envision exactly how it must feel. And between Keith bucking beneath his hands and the guttural groans smothered by the towel, Hunk’s stomach was flipping dangerously.

Keith’s strained huffs had turned into hysterical shouts.

“Coran,” Allura deadpanned, her voice low and deadly.

They’d started off with a sort of restraint but it hadn’t taken long for them to raise in volume. He hated it, he was too tired to be so vocal and his throat was aching, but he couldn’t help it.

If it was up to him he would’ve just relaxed and taken it. He was used to simply enduring in the moment and compartmentalizing as he went. He had no experience in allowing such real reactions, in being so vulnerable against his every will.

Taking it silently would’ve been just as painful, there was no changing that, but maybe then he wouldn’t have had to see everyone so upset.

But he couldn’t relax. And he couldn’t use his twisted reason to logic himself out of it.

“This is cruel-I can-I can ease his suffering with my powers, move aside and let me—“

“Princess.”

Coran sounded distressed, almost pained. It was the first hint of emotion he’d shown since they’d dragged Keith into medbay.

“You couldn’t heal him without going into a pod first or it would start depleting the quintessence of your life force... we don’t have time for that, you know what my answer is—“

“But it’s worth it! Just a second, even just a touch would make the world of a difference, please—“

“Allura... come on, let him work.”

Lance looked angry still, and Shiro wasn’t sure he blamed him anymore, but the princess’s voice was shaking and his hand on her arm was pulling her away from Coran gently.

And she let him, the sob that erupted from her throat startling everyone. But Lance was there, the usual smirk he wore when speaking to the princess noticeably absent as he braced his her shoulders because they were shaking too.

Shiro is pressing Keith’s chest down flat where Lance had been after he Coran hissed at the heat of the tool while he continued to thrash.

The energy in the room was so dark and heavy it was almost sinister.

But the worst part was seeing it on his face. The desperation in his expressions was gutting. It felt like a sort of betrayal, which in a way it was, but so was the alternative.

Shiro tried to keep up his rambles of assurance but found the sentiments catching in his throat.

It had become wildly apparent that they were more comforting to him than they were to Keith, but he repeated them still, the same nonsense over and over again like a prayer. The swipe of his metal thumb clearing the endless stream of tears out of his eyes was the only constant other than the sound of his own screaming sobs.

And the pain.

His sobs and the pain.

It was blinding and it was everywhere. He couldn’t get away from it. Couldn’t get away from himself or the terrible sounds he was making.

All of it was suffocating. The fire poker dragging against his already charred skin, the hands holding him still, Shiro’s words, his own cries, all of it.

The air was filled with a bitter and nauseating heat, the smell of his own flesh burning permeated it and made him cry harder.

He wanted to throw up, wanted to pass out, hell if he died right there he wouldn’t have even minded.

He just wanted everything to stop.

He didn’t think he could stand much more of it but his body wouldn’t give in. His screams had morphed into one piercing and continuous wail as every limit he had was tested and shattered.

Keith thought he could handle pain fairly well, but this was absurd. This pain was otherworldly.

It’s only when he spits the rag out for the millionth time and begins chanting his own prayer that Shiro really wavered, his hand halting abruptly as he went to put it back between his teeth before they tore through his tongue the next time Coran moved his tool.

But Coran had taken the glowing metal away for a moment and was fiddling with something, so when Shiro leaned in to replace the cloth he could finally make out what he was saying.

“...D-d-d-da-dad... pl-please, dad... dad m-make it st-stop... dad...”

The words were slurred and barely audible with how wrecked his throat was, but there was no denying it.

“Oh, Keith...” Shiro breathed before his jaw was working to muffle his own pitiful sounds.

He was in such a delirium that he was calling out for his father, the man who Keith hadn’t called out to in years because he was dead. He’d left him in the most final way someone could leave.

Shiro didn’t know how many promises his death might’ve broken, just that the words Keith was uttering were what finally broke him.

Allura’s cheeks were still wet with tears but stepped forward anyway and moved the towel back into place, her hands running through and smoothing down Keith’s wild locks all tossed out of place from writhing.

She bent down to speak softly into his ear, Shiro didn’t catch much over the ringing in his own while his eyes locked into place on the towel in his mouth and the blood staining his chin and neck, though he thought he heard something about him being strong, him doing so well...

“Shiro.”

The hand on his arm didn’t make him jump because he couldn’t feel it. The room was expanding and he was shrinking because Keith’s whimpering was beginning to sound like the despairing cries before someone or something died in the arena.

The arena...

His eyes open wide and flit around wildly, the room abruptly fitting back to size.

“Huh?”

Shiro was good at snapping himself back to reality when he needed to, good at functioning at half capacity just to see through whatever he was in the middle of until it was safe to let the lights of the arena bleed into his present.

Not that acknowledging his memories was ever safe. And not that reliving them in his cabin was any safer.

Just easier.

“What is it?”

“I’m starting again...”

He hadn’t noticed that he’d backed up into Pidge’s bed or that her tiny hand had wound its way into his.

“...and he’s asking for you.”

“Right.”

His voice was sturdy again, hands no longer trembling. He could do this.

The whirring of the tool sounds too much like his metal arm, it glows orange instead of purple but that doesn’t seem to matter because it’s cutting into Keith’s skin all the same and the screams that escape his mouth cut into Shiro just as bad.

But he pushes it all away. He can unpack the emotions that rise up with it later but Keith needed him now.

The initial twitches that wracked his brutalized frame when Coran brought the tool back down had Allura turning away and the smoke that rose up with the first slice had Hunk clamping a hand over his mouth and nose. But the princess’s hand never stopped brushing through his hair and Hunk kept the grip on his shoulder firm.

They could feel his muscles loosening, could feel the power of each jerk dwindling.

And then they watched with heavy consciences as even his steady cries quieted, his body finally waving the white flag.

“I’m sorry...”

Shiro chanted it so many times that the syllables blended together and turned into something else altogether.

Keith’s breathing was more erratic than it ever had been and it didn’t seem like he could see straight anymore so Shiro lowered his forehead to Keith’s and draped his metal arm over his neck.

Both were damp with sweat that created condensation on his hand, his hair wet with it and plastered all over, but Shiro couldn’t find it in him to care. He needed him to know that he was there, that he hadn’t left.

“I’m here, Keith. And I’m sorry...”

But his cheeks were flushing with something other than straight up exertion. And Shiro felt it, felt his hand go cold while all the blood raced to his head. He knew what was happening but he wasn’t worried.

He was relieved.

“I’m so sorry...”

The rag falls out again because his jaw had gone slack and his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. Shiro didn’t move to fix it.

His breathing still irregular but falling into a more even rhythm.

Lance looks stricken and Hunk is rather green when they let go and step back.

Pidge had finally found the ability to relax abs was slumping into the bed, eyes glued to Coran’s hand who was still not done.

Still not okay. Still not in a pod, but no longer in pain.

Hunk took exactly one deep breath before devolving into tears. He was done being strong, but Lance never seems to get the luxury and was pulling him into a hug that didn’t have him standing any straighter or have his chest working any less, but it was something.

Coran’s hands move slow and he doesn’t seem to feel the red welts on his fingertips from wrestling with his tools. But he looked more at ease with Keith blissfully unconscious, like he was breathing again.

Shiro was still holding Keith’s hand. It was ice cold and looking sort of blue with the white blotches dotting it. He leaves his other hand on his neck where his skin is hotter, figuring if the cool metal could be useful for anything other than killing, it might just be that.

Lance eyes the distance in Shiro’s gaze, the rigidity in his movements, and he thinks he understands. He thinks he can overlook his anger to remember that the guy is still human.

He’s almost scared that he was speaking out loud when Shiro rakes his grey pinpoints around the room, not appearing to actually see any of it before passing over Lance’s briefly. Hunk has his head burrowed in his chest as he fights to regain his composure but he musters up a small smile for him despite being otherwise occupied.

It’s a peace offering. A sad one at that, the corners of his mouth barely perking up, but it’s something.

Shiro wasn’t sure if he returned it but his heart felt lighter once Lance did that.

The energy in the room was still buzzing but it was less stifling, not as heavy as it had been moments ago.

The artificial sunlight starts to turn purple again and he can hear desperation mix into the buzz and for a second Shiro is worried that Keith has woken up. In a bit of a panic he drags his gaze back down to find his eyes still closed and his face still scrunched up like he hadn’t escaped the pain entirely with sleep.

But that was infinitely better than him sounding like them, the dying things he was hearing.

He vaguely wondered if the medbay was a safe enough place to let the purple flood in and ultimately decided that it didn’t matter.

He’d staved it off long enough, was strong for Keith when he needed him to be.

And so he lets himself drift.

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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masterpost ☀️ main masterlist ☀️ taglist

previously on...

Two chapters over the weekend because I was ✨ inspired ✨ and my neighbors can't stop fucking (noisily!) and I'm,,, envious.

Strange adventures in Hell. There are descriptions of desperation and doom, lots of magic and - hear me out - forced/reluctant hand holding 😌 Oh my God, they held hands!!!

"What. Were. You. Thinking?!" Strange was seething, his enormous figure and broader height towered over me, the blood-red of his cape vibrating, the only spleck of colour in the grey and dusty dark world.

"I had no choice in the matter," I replied as calmly as I managed, gritting my teeth, memories of our past stand-off fresh in my mind. We could have bickered until the end, until one of the beasts flying overhead spotted us and decorated the bleary grounds of this forsaken planet with the crimsons of our life blood. "I think it's best if we get to safety first, argue later. I have no desire to become somebody's lunch."

That much was true: I had taken a good look at our surroundings as soon as I recovered from the vacuum-like sensation of being pulled into a magical gateway; the visibility was terrible, the planet's natural light very scarce. Several suns were hardly visible in the sky, their rays barely penetrating the mists and the ashes freely floating in the air.

There was oxygen even if breathing in a full lungful seemed impossible; I tried not to think about the contents of the air, or the possibility of radiation poisoning, as the multiple amulets and charms seared into my skin where they rested under my clothes. I had four bottles of water, some bandages and salves and a sacrifice for a single ritual to my name and absolutely no conviction that Mother Earth would be able to hear the call of an earthling gone so astray.

But it was hope, so I held on.

"Fine," Stephen sighed, suddenly looking tired and weary, glancing around with furrowed brows. "Let's see if I can open a portal," his hands did that complicated set of gestures that I'd grown to associate with a golden circle and sparks on the ground. The thing flickered, once, twice, before disappearing, as if the Sorcerer's magic had run out of batteries. "Yeah, I thought so," he whispered to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"The bad news first, please," I interpreted his hesitation with a realistic outlook on our predicament.

"I can't open a portal just anywhere on this planet. We need to find a... Rift, of sorts," the man was anxiously looking around. "And those things, they'll smell us... Right about now," his eyes shot up at a winged, rapidly approaching shadow. "No good news, I'm afraid."

I allowed myself a small sigh of disappointment, keeping a tight leash on the panic slowly creeping up my body. The feeling of determination, the power of Gaia within me was still present, laying in a cozy dormant ball slightly south of my solar plexus. "Give me your hand, please," I reached out to Stephen only for him to promptly recoil.

"You should've thought about the consequences of your actions, I'm not going to hold your hand because you're scared shitless," his words were sharp but they lacked the venom. He wouldn't, or couldn't, meet my eyes.

"I know you have scarred hands. I'm a healer and you don't have to feel embarrassed or ashamed I, I've seen worse," I stated in my best 'mutant nurse' voice as Stephen's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened. "Those things can't sense me. And I know they won't be able to sense you too if we have skin-to-skin contact. So unless you want me to get under your... Robes," I gestured to the layers upon layers of clothing he had wrapped himself in. I considered the possibility of his whole body being covered in scars, too, and couldn't help the pang of sympathy. "Take one glove off and give me your damn hand before this trip to Jurassic Park goes full pterodactyl massacre!"

I saw the thing in the sky open it's mouth - but no sound came out, the clouds reducing it's outline to a vaguely triangular shadow. There was something very unusual about this planet's atmosphere.

With a couple of jerky movements, Stephen slid off the glove from his left hand, looking away as his large, dry, warm palm encompassed mine in a gentle, trembling grip. It made no sense to interlace our fingers, so I help onto him like a child holds onto their parent; the size difference of our hands and his imposing aura surely made me feel like one.

We stood a foot apart, watching the shadow in the sky begin to circle the place we stood in, it's gaping maw opening again and again, before it zigzagged across the sky with a strong dash of confusion, it's graceful glide becoming a series of rapid turns and twists. With a final inaudible shriek, it flew off into the dusty greys of the horizon, becoming a dark spot far away in mere seconds.

The silence was so loud in this world. Like the eerie stillness of my, undoubtedly haunted, apartment, I was eager to dissipate it with something beyond our combined heavy breathing. "Please don't tell Tony," I timidly gave our touching hands a sway. "He'll never leave it alone."

A chuffing noise coming from above had me whip my head up to see Stephen holding in a puff of nervous laughter; his shoulders dropped slightly as he eyed me in turn. "What makes you think I won't tease you about it?"

"You wouldn't dare," I took mock offense, rising my leaking nose to the skies.

The grumble and the eyeroll I expected, the smirk that faded into a ghost of a smile I did not. "We should go. Usually there is a rift within a few miles of every location everywhere," he tried to keep the content expression as he spoke but the storm in his eyes betrayed his concern. They were so blue, I felt like I was drowning.

I let myself to be tugged in a direction - everything seemed exactly the same, a never-ending ashen wasteland with the occasional dark grey rock that crumbled to dust as soon as the heel of my shoe touched it. My light blue sweater quickly became the colour of rotten wood, a sickly, dull monotone between brown and gray.

The complete lack of any kind of natural noise brought out the desolation of this wretched place; if we gripped each other's hands tighter, neither of us chose to acknowledge it. It was too easy to get lost in your own mind when the surroundings were dead set on rebuking anything that was in any shape or form alive.

I caught myself thinking that this must be what people think Hell should look like.

Strange walked briskly for the most part, periodically clearing his throat and eyeing me when I struggled to keep up with his long strides. It could have been an hour, or maybe two, of aimless wandering and rapidly imploding portals accompanied by Stephen's increasingly overcast face before I made the man stop and offered him a water bottle, which he insisted we split between us two.

It didn't take me a tarot reading to figure out our chances were grim. Needless, I gave him the same look I give to injured, scared mutant children when they come to the bodega for the first time; a look of quiet temperance.

And then we walked, and walked again, as Stephen grew moodier and moodier, marching on with the force of a seasoned soldier, only taking breaks when I forced him to stand still and breathe with me. As cautious and closed-off as he was, I pressed onto the fact of me being a healer of sorts, and he relented if briefly, always reluctant, always seasoned by a great dose of bewilderment.

"Do you feel that?" Stephen's stride halted, both feet firmly planted on the ground.

The ground had tremors had coming from deep within, small shocks that could have been easily missed if not for the complete lack of sound on this world. My nod was mute, I didn't trust my voice not to break when I clearly knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, endless fields of nothing all around us.

"Hold onto me," promptly, I was grabbed and pushed into his chest, his long arms easily picking me up, encouraging me to wrap my legs around his waist. "Hold tight, I might need my hands," my face grew hot as I wound my arms around Stephen's neck, clinging to him like a monkey, a palm resting on the soft fine hairs if his nape. It felt too intimate somehow, in the wake of imminent danger.

The Cape that previously swayed behind him in rhythm with his steps billowed, the red fabric of it tough as it levitated us a few feet above the ground. I felt Stephen tense with each tremor; within moments, the surface shook and stuttered more and more, cracks appearing in between the dust, turning the plains into a marble-patterned patch of darkness.

We rose above it, high enough that I could see the veins resulting from the quake stretch far out into the wasteland, jagged, abrupt lines of even more concentrated darkness. And as quickly as the quake started, it was over, leaving little evidence as the ground settled.

Stephen floated us to a larger patch of the ground, criss-crossed with thinner, less prominent lines, poking the ground with his foot before allowing it to fully bear our weight. He was shaken, there was no doubt. "That was... Something," he stated lowly.

"Mhm," I hummed, fighting the urge to frantically look around, forcing my hand from clutching at his palm like a lifeline. I had decided on a plan while I was busy playing baby koala - not that there were many other options except to wander these god forsaken bare badlands until our painful demise. "Listen, Strange, I'm aware you don't hold my people in particularly high regard but you're going to have to trust me on this," my words came out derisive as I placed his palm on the back of my neck and kneeled, forcing him to do the same behind me.

The contents of my bag greeted me grimly with out last bottle of water and the couple knick-knacks that gathered the black dust on them. I hastily poured the water into a bowl, dipping my fingers in it, and added the crushed bones to the mixture.

The time that was required to make a paste-like mixture, I used to address a bewildered Stephen. "This is a last resort. I don't know if it will work, we're not on Earth," I briefly breathed my distress. "I don't even know how far we are from home. But I refuse to die here, in this grotesque Hell, without putting up a fight and Gaia has always looked out for her flock. I might get very, very sick if this is successful."

The warning had him attempt to object before he cast a long look around us, shoulders sagging, as motioned for me to continue, those piercing blue eyes boring into my face. "Tell me what do I need to do," his voice quietly attempted to soothe my very obvious fear.

I was terrified, both of dying, nameless, faceles in this world full of Nothing; the prospect of withering away after depleting all my resources was, perhaps, equally unappealing, but dying on my home planet sounded better than dying here. "Have faith," I replied curtly, beginning to chant softly under my breath as soon as Stephen's expression hardened.

My eyelids grew heavy, limbs filling with lead and molten lava as I summoned the forces of Mother itself; my body was aching, exhausted by answering her call as it was. The warm ball in my chest that previously comforted me grew, spreading its smelten power through every vein, every vessel. No part of my body was left cold. A sense of purpose filled me, pushing me forward, driving me to move, to run, to leap.

"This way," even to my own ears, my voice sounded pained. It felt as if I was walking through swamp waters, full of clay and debris, each step taking my barely coherent form through an individual bog full of pins and needles. The force of Mother Nature burned inside of me, enraged at the state of her surroundings.

Stephen spoke to me but all I could hear was mumbling, thousands of voices, low and shrill, unintelligible to the human mind. I could feel the sorcerer's pain; the itch and burn in his throat, the constant, dull throb in his scarred, broken hands. His hand in mine only intensified the situation and I fought with his injuries like I fought with the black dots in my eyes, I forced down the unpleasant sensations, setting fire to them, letting the reigns of control on the raging inferno within me slip just the smallest, tiniest bit.

The steps of his long feet stuttered as I felt the discomfort lessen yet I simply towed him along. Time leaked through the cracks in my eyes, which were mostly unseeing anyways. The useless things grew blind at some point, not that I noticed it on the greys and blacks of the surrounding scenery. It was harder to walk, my breathing grew laboured with the extertion as we finally reached the place that felt right.

"Here," I rasped, voice so quiet it could have been mistaken for a breeze. I craved to feel it; the soft puffs of wind, the sound of running water. I had called for Earth and she demanded its child back.

The portal appeared without a stutter even though Stephen's hands shook; I saw the uneven channels, the energies traveling through them at an uneven pace. As soon as I pushed through the wormhole, coming to my senses in an unfamiliar, light room, I fell to my knees.

Stephen's pained moaning told me he was probably experiencing the same stinging, burning sensation on his skin; my eyes, they were the worst - my eyeballs felt like they were melting, leaking out of my sockets into thick, gelatinous tears streaming down my face. I blindly groped for the sorcerer's hand, directing the forces within me to soothe his hurts much like I had done in the wastelands.

"Strange?!" A masculine, shocked voice exclaimed before footsteps crashed into my sensitive ears with the force of an elephant herd. "Oh my God, they're here! Tony, come!"

"Stop fucking screaming," Stephen gasped out as I felt him curl into himself.

"Friday, scan them," I recognised Tony's voice, the tiredness and desperation standing out in it more than it did in the rest of the whispers in the room.

"They appear to be experiencing a sensory overload. I would recommend to engage Peter's Cooldown mode," the mechanical voice replied, barely audible. The noise still grated on my ears after spending... How long were we gone?

"Do it, Fri," Tony's soft footsteps reached us; I smelled the spices of his cologne next to my and Stephen's prone forms. "You gave us a scare there," the tone was admonishing but gentle.

"We were scared shitless ourselves," I attempted to speak, only now noticing how grating my voice sounded. "We were in Hell," I mumbled to myself, slowly removing my hand from Stephen.

"That," he coughed up the word, breathing through his nose before speaking again, his voice sounding much better than mine. "That place was as close as possible to biblical pits I have ever seen," there was shuffling and gentle murmurs as the two men ensured each other of their presence and well-being.

The burning sensations receded back to my core, the embers of the fires dying out, leaving me feeling like deflated beach ball, all shell and no filling. With a groan, I rolled over onto my back right in the middle of the pristine carpet on the floor, forcing my eyes open and breathing through the pain until I could somewhat see the champagne coloured ceiling without black dots obstructing my vision.

Shuffling noises reached my ears as a familiar round face with light red hair came into my line of sight, Wanda's gentle features concerned. "Star, do you need to go to medical?" She eyed me almost suspiciously but the question was earnest.

The idea of a doctor fixing a magical burnout was bizarre to me, as if it ever was that easy; I chortled sardonically. "No, Wanda, there's nothing wrong with me that a doctor would be able to fix," I replied honestly. "I should call Odette."

"I've called, she said to notify her when you return," Sam's voice was gentle as he approached. I could feel him glaring daggers at a rapidly reddening Wanda. "She was the one who said you'll definitely come back," he offered me his hand.

I had to choke down a moan of relief as I grabbed it. The warmth, the life of another human being, the precious gift of a beating pulse under my fingertips was divine. "You should listen to her. She knows her stuff." It was easy, talking to Sam as if he was an old friend. He had one of the most pleasant auras I've seen on a human being.

"I'm a doctor," Stephen suddenly perched up, sounding almost bashful. "And I can aid the healing process," he stated over Tony's disgruntled mumbling. "If you can explain to me how the hell you managed to hold a... an entire sun's worth of energy!" The more he spoke the more bewildered he became, tone growing in pitch, ending the sentence with an exclamation.

"I don't know," I replied with a sigh. The whole indignation in this man, I was not prepared to face. "When I took this up," I gestured vaguely to the burned, bent metal adornments I began to remove off my body. "I thought I was going to get an increase in tips and a better outlook on life. Help my friend with her asthma as much so she wouldn't have to use her inhaler every time she gets suprised or scared," my jewelry hit the floor with a dull clank, piling up into bent silver I wouldn't even be able to cleanse and repurpose.

Sam whistled lowly, poking at a necklace that had twisted on itself, a grotesque spiral of dull ashen grey.

"I certainly didn't think that a bleeding mutant accepting his fate as cannon fodder will call for the Earth itself," my tone grew vicious. Exhaustion was nesting in my bones. "And that Mother Nature would take over my body, pour lava into my veins and bleed recklessness into my thoughts. But here I am, freshly out of Hell and alive and kicking."

A stunned silence was interrupted by Tony's frantic whispering. "You are not leaving my penthouse for the foreseeable future," as the weight of the incident set on him. The knuckles of his hand clutching Stephen's dirty tunic turned white.

"I am," Stephen eyed me with a strange look in his eye, as if he was seeing me for the first time. His eyes then turned to Tony, who'd began rambling, arguing with Stephen. The sorcerer stopped the word vomit with a grim confession. "I'd be dead if not for Starlight. I'd be meat and bone, splattered across a barren, radioactive land in the deepest, darkest pits of the universe."

I felt my face droop in slow-motion. My throat flexed, swallowing a thick lump of filthy mucus, I coughed up, "Ra-radioctive?" As soon as I could work my voice without it squeaking.

Taglist: @couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins2 @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox

#practical alchemy #bun writes #stephen strange x reader #tony stark x reader #stephen strange x reader x tony stark #tony stark x reader x stephen strange #im zoomin with a bag full of creepy

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sadsilktrader · 4 years

Text

Secret Admirer

I apologize for my extreme tardiness for posting to the Geraskier Holiday Exchange. This was written for @gotfanfiction

A modern Geraskier AU in which Jaskier is receiving gifts from an admirer.

...

"I'm telling you Yen, the man doesn't even know I exist. It can't be him," Jaskier paced the living room of his small apartment, small watering can in hand, completely forgotten. His plants looked on forlornly.

"Hm," she replied, he could hear the scritch-scratch of the emery board while she only half-listened to his prattling. "All I'm saying is that he was there at the pub the night you played and he lives in your building and he can hear you when you practice and those have all been the nights you've got gifts from your secret admirer."

"Half the building goes to that pub, it could be anyone! Plus, he doesn't even know I exist. " He flopped dramatically onto the couch, spilling water on himself. "Anyway, I'll let you go do whatever important business you have to do. You'll be here before my show on Saturday with Triss, right?"

"We'll be there. We just have to drop Ciri off at her dad's first. Now promise me you'll at least talk to him next time you see him."

"Maybe." He grumbled.

"What was that?"

"Fine, fine! I promise!"

"You better. I'm tired of listening to you wistfully sigh every time we speak."

"You're the worst."

"I love you too Jaskier, bye."

The phone clicked.

He'd met Yen online, a friend of a friend of a friend. They played DnD together, starting off as catty enemies and somehow developing into the deep friendship they had now. She was a good person, just a little rough around the edges. Well, very rough around the edges.

She'd settled down a lot over the last few years when motherhood had fallen into her lap though. He wasn’t certain about all the details, they were close but she was a private person. She shared custody of her adopted daughter, Ciri, with her ex. He'd never had the pleasure of meeting the man but he'd heard enough about him to form his own opinions. Heart in the right place but not exactly open about his feelings.

Sounded a lot like his own mysterious love. He sighed again, there was no way it was his gorgeous and stoic upstairs neighbor. The man was gorgeous and kind and lovely. He was tall and pale with silky white hair. Not to mention outrageously muscular. Jaskier had seen him in their apartment's gym working out on more than one occasion. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep himself from openly ogling him. He'd seen him feeding the feral cat that lived in the parking lot. Helping their elderly neighbors with their groceries. Playing with his daughter on the weekends. The man was too good to be true. Which was why he was absolutely positive he couldn't be the one leaving the gifts at his door.

The mystery man was perfect but he, Julian Alfred Pancratz, college drop out, jobless, barely squeezing by with the money he made by doing odd jobs in the apartment complex and occasionally performing at the neighborhood pub, was an absolute mess. There was no way someone like the man would give him more than a passing glance.

He sat up quickly leaving the forgotten, spilled watering can to the side to search for his notebook and pen. At least all the angst and longing seemed to also be a fantastic inspiration.

...

He chewed his lip, the leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee. He strummed a few chords on his guitar before setting it back carefully down to scribble something down.

The sun was fully set now and his balcony light had flicked on giving the small area an ethereal glow. He loved the process of writing and creating outside where he could feel the world around him. There was something about feeling the gentle breeze against him, the sun and moon shining down on him, and the fluttering hummingbirds that visited his feeder that just felt right.

He stretched and yawned and was contemplating packing up for the night when he heard it. A barely-there, soft knock at his door. Eyes gone wide he all but threw his things down and ran to the door to open it. No one. As always. There was however a small box tied in a ribbon and a note attached.

A voice so sweet deserves something sweet in return. -love, your admirer

He undid the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was an assortment of homemade chocolates. He popped one in his mouth and let it slowly melt over his tongue. Dark chocolate, caramel, sea salt. He couldn't help the sappy smile that plastered itself on his face and would stay there the rest of the night.

It had been a little over a month since the gifts started arriving. Most of the time they were baked goods or sweets of some kind but occasionally it was something different. A clutch of flowers, a silver bracelet with music notes engraved, once there was even a picture of a particularly beautiful sunrise left for him. He treasured them all.

He was a hopeless romantic down to the core of his being. He had never met his admirer but he was sure it would be love at first sight.

…

He was bone tired. He'd spent the day hauling furniture away to the thrift store and painting the walls of one of his elderly neighbors who was soon moving to a rest home. For all the work he was paid thirty dollars and a batch of very good snickerdoodle cookies. He knew it was all the woman could afford to give him and he was grateful for that. Not exactly enough to pay the rent but enough to buy a few groceries at least.

He stood in the deli section, weighing out the pros and cons of value pack meats when he saw him. The man, his white hair hanging loose around his shoulders, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. His breath hitched and his mouth went dry.

Gods how can anyone look that attractive just going to the grocery store.

The man looked up, catching him staring. His eyes the color of amber and honey. He felt like a deer in the headlights caught in his gaze. A few faint scars visible on his face and neck. He couldn't help but wonder if there were more on the rest of the man's body and felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

"It's leaking." The man said.

"What?"

"The honey ham your holding, it's leaking."

He stared at the gorgeous being before him for a moment longer before it clicked.

"Oh fuck," he dropped the squishy package on the ground, ham juices splashing on the both of them.

"Oh, gods I'm so sorry," he wasn't sure his face could get any redder.

"It's okay, really. I've had much worse things spilled on me before. You looked pretty lost in thought."

An employee glared at him with a mop and trash can. He smiled awkwardly, wishing he could just disappear.

"You're the musician, right? I live in the apartment above yours. I can hear you playing from my living room." The way the man said it had him wondering if that was a good thing or not.

"I'm Julian, well Jaskier to my friends and fans." He mustered up the courage he usually reserved for the stage and gave the man his best smile.

"Geralt. I'd shake your hand but," He nodded to his arms full of groceries. "You know when you go into the store thinking you only need one thing?"

"Well, you're in luck," he gestured to his cart, "I just so happen to have the best cart in the store. Not a squeaky wheel in sight."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! The life of a musician leads to a very sparse diet. More than enough room for both of us. Plus we're headed to the same place."

Geralt had an amused smirk on his face that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat. Conversation between them came easy. Geralt was the quieter of the two but his dry wit and cheesy jokes had him laughing harder than he had in ages. Handsome and funny.

They made their way back to the apartment complex walking slower than was necessary, he noticed.

"So you have a daughter? I'm not stalking you or anything, I just noticed her around the complex sometimes."

"Ciri," he replied. "My ex and I share custody, its-" he sighed, running his hand through his hair, "it's a bit of a complicated situation actually. But they’re moving closer soon and that should help.”

The elevator stopped at his floor and he stepped off.

“So, I’ll be seeing you.” he mentally berated himself for not being able to come up with something more clever. The door was closing between them and he suddenly shot his hound out, stopping the door.

“Actually, and please forgive me if this is too forward, maybe I could give you my number and we could grab a coffee sometime? Or do our grocery shopping together again?”

Geralt chuckled before reaching into his pocket, tapping at the screen a few times, and passed it over. He added his number with the name Jaskier followed by a heart and music note emoji. The moment the elevator door closed he was dancing, groceries in hand, for his forwardness paying off for once.

…

It was colder tonight but he still played outside until his fingers were near numbing. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold. After his run-in with the man, he felt like he was walking on clouds. The world was at peace and he was the luckiest man in the world. He’d almost forgotten about his secret admirer completely until the same soft knock came from outside the door. Today was different though. Today he was brave and he had left a note for his admirer to find.

I beg of you to reveal yourself to me. I will be performing at the Royal Oak this Saturday. Please, wear this token so I may recognize you amongst the other patrons. Love, Jaskier

He strained his ears and purposely walked slowly to the door, giving his admirer time to leave the gift and find his note. He swore he heard mumbling of words. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening the door.

His note was gone and in place of it a container he opened to reveal a miniature-sized three-layered cake elaborately decorated with chocolate-covered strawberries. It was, as always, delicious to the point of sin.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t want to string along his admirer, especially if things with Geralt turned out well. But he was getting ahead of himself. They had spoken once and here he was already planning their life together.

…

The next few days passed quickly. His wish of getting more work around the complex had come true but he was, unfortunately, unable to do any more practice for his upcoming performance. Every day he came back to his apartment with every intention of playing only to wake up from an unintentional five-hour nap on his couch.

To make matters worse, he hadn’t received a single text from Geralt, and since his sleep schedule was completely messed up he hadn’t caught a single glimpse of him since their last accidental meeting. He thought of swinging by his place to invite him to his show but decided against it. Maybe he needed some space? Maybe he had come off as too clingy? The doubts and second-guesses were mounting.

He arrived at the pub early to set up and get some practicing in before going on stage. Geralt wouldn’t be there but at least, he hoped, his soon-not-to-be secret admirer would be. Inside the note, he’d left a silver brooch of a songbird in flight. It was small but something he would instantly recognize. The glimmer of it from the stage lights would catch his attention. At least that’s what he was hoping. He felt more nervous about this performance than he had in a long while.

“You okay there Jaskier?” The voice came from behind him and he turned to see Triss, her curls down, beautifully framing her face.

“Oh thank the Gods,” he hugged her tight.

“Where’s your better half?” he asked looking around the growing pub’s crowd.

“Outside on the phone. It’s her ex, they don’t argue often but when they do,” she made a face. “Something about him needing her to watch their daughter.”

“Doesn’t he only see her on weekends? What an asshole.”

“Right?”

He felt more at ease with a friendly face by his side and felt even better when Yennifer joined them. He was smarter than to ask her about the phone call and instead chatted about everything and anything to get his mind off his nerves. Time went by more quickly now and soon it was time for him to play.

The second he stepped on stage his demeanor changed. Gone was any trace of nerves and doubt. The stage was his solace, the place he could bare his soul to the masses, or in this case to the forty-odd people crammed into the pub.

It was halfway through his third song when he remembered to keep an eye out for his admirer. He scanned the crowd hoping for the familiar glint to catch his eye but there was nothing. He chewed his lip.

The third song blended into his fourth and fifth. Still nothing. He took a break to grab a drink. He made small talk with Yennifer who raised a delicate brow at him.

"Alright, spill it. What's got you so distracted?"

He finished his drink and let his smile fall into a grimace.

"I left a note. For my admirer. I asked them to come tonight. I left them something to wear so I would recognize them and-"

"And they did show?" She finished for him.

"Nope. Wait how did you know?"

"First off you're terrible at hiding your emotions, and second I was fucking right and you owe me.”

“What?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess I’m partially to blame, I should have realized it earlier.”

“I- what?” he asked again.

“Jaskier. Darling. Sweetheart. I was right.” she said the words slowly as one would do to a small dog.

“Right about what?”

“Your admirer. It’s your neighbor. You never told me but let me guess. Pale, white hair, roguishly handsome, looks like he could snap you in half like a twig?”

“How do you?” He was feeling a little faint now like he was at the edge of realizing something terrible.

“Your neighbor, your admirer, and my ex are all the same person.”

His eyes went wide. It all made sense. All the clues were there but he had just been too dense to put them all together. He’d seen pictures of Yenifer’s daughter but he’d never spent more than a passing glance at Geralt's visiting daughter.

“Oh fuck.” he sat down, suddenly unsure of his legs beneath him.

“He called me right before I came in going on about needing to go out for a few hours and if it was alright with me if he left Ciri alone.” she chuckled. “I told him to not be an asshole and spend time with his daughter.”

Jaskier’s head perked up. Geralt had wanted to come. He hadn’t blown him off.

“I have to go. Fuck, I can’t leave in the middle of a set though.”

Yennifer waved him off, “I’ll sort things off here, you go to him.”

He kissed the top of her head and gave her a quick, tight hug. “You would tell me if this bothered you right? I mean, he’s your ex and all.”

“I think you two would do a very good job at evening each other out, now go!” She smacked him on the shoulder and off he went.

…

He ran home, or at least halfway home before running out of breath and proceeded to briskly walk the rest of the way. He was still trying to decide what to say when he found himself outside the door, sweating profusely and looking an absolute mess. He knocked on the door before he talked himself out of it.

“One minute!” A voice from beyond the door answered followed by the sound of an oven door closing and the chain sliding from the door’s lock.

The door opened. He looked beautiful, even like this, wearing an apron covered in flour cocoa powder. Especially like this maybe.

“I’m friends with Yennifer and she said it was you but I didn’t believe her and I didn’t realize that your daughter Ciri was also her daughter Cirilla which in retrospect should have clued me in but-” he took a deep breath in. Geralt looked nervous and his rambling wasn’t happening. He started over.

“You’re my secret admirer?”

The man blushed. “I am. Is that okay?”

“Very, very okay.” He smiled.

“Would you like to come in? I was just baking. For you.” his blush deepened and Jaskier heart felt like it would burst with affection.

“I’d like that very much.”

#geraskier holiday exchange #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #this is so laaaate #modern au geraskier #secret admirer fic #sometimes I write

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xxkellsvixen19xx · 3 years

Text

Sweet Blasphemy Andy Biersack X Reader

Word Count: 1,467

Warning: Discussion on self harm & depression, religion (God mentioned), swearing, suicidal thoughts

Lyrics Used: Sweet Blasphemy by Black Veil Brides

Scars.

She had an abundance.

Her wrists, her thighs, her hips, her sides.

A scar here, a newer cut there, look around you'll see them everywhere.

Some from a blade, some from shards of glass, some just purely accidents.

Should she cover them? Let them show? This is an answer she truly doesn't know.

She isn't ashamed, but certainly not proud.

Her cuts have now all healed and scars started to fade.

She's ok.

*********************************************

The grass spreading across the plain

In one year withers, flourishes again

Burned by prairie fire doesn’t go to waste

By a spring wind blowing with new life is graced.

"My love for you is deeper than your cuts, deeper than everything else." He whispered softly pulling her close.

"Y/N?" She heard Andy's voice and looked up. She was about to wipe her tears away when he interrupted her pulling her into a hug.

Andy grabbed her hand holding it under the table his thumb rubbing softly over the back of her hand.

She looked straight up into his face and saw something she had never seen before…. acceptance.

Just as she was about to cry she felt a pair of arms around her pulling her close. Looking up to see Andy's face she couldn't stop her tears from falling. She started sobbing softly and couldn't stop. She usually didn't show her weakness around others but something about him was different. He seemed trustworthy and she had this strange feeling in her stomach.

"Y/N no matter what anyone says, I am here for you." Andy whispered lightly pulling out of the hug to stroke a strand of her hair behind her ear.

𝖂𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌

𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖙𝖍 𝖎𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖜𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊

𝕾𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖇𝖊

𝕴 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌

𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖜𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖛𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖑𝖎𝖊

𝕴 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊

𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖊𝖊

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖞

She slowly shook her head, her beautiful eyes were full of pain and sadness. But not the physical kind, but more the kind of pain that gets caused by words and will never fully heal. This was the exact reason why Andy told himself to protect her at all costs, he was her guardian angel.

Her Good Samaritan is black-haired, blue-eyed, and drop dead gorgeous, the complete embodiment of her perfect man, but he’s more than what he seems. The strange familiarity in his eyes, his touch.

Her knight in shining armor had arrived after all. She'd never dreamed her prince charming would turn out to be a guardian angel, but life was full of surprises.

The moment Andy saved her human life for the first time, a moment also drowned by tears and agony. He found it ironic even then that he had been alive for thirty years as a human, he had never felt this peculiar and distinct connection.

I remember when Andy first saw the cuts along my wrist it wasn't easy trying to explain it honestly. When he asked me why this was the only way I felt I could explain it….

The sting of a cut would push me into reality. It evaporated the numbness I felt inside and helped me feel real and alive.

It helped me smile and pretend that I was okay. Over time though The more I cut, the more tolerance I had for it, so I had to cut deeper and more often.

At that point, I had a collection of what I referred to as tools, each tool for a different cut. I had three, five, and single blades. The three and five were mostly for use at home, but the single was my travel blade. It was more discrete because it was smaller, and I could do a quick cut in the bathroom stall. If I were really desperate, I would cut right in class. When you have an addiction like cutting, it becomes more than a coping method; it becomes a lifestyle, a skill. Cutting was my skill and I had it down to a science.

Andy's POV…..

It can be hard to understand why someone you love might injure himself or herself on purpose.

Some people turn to this behavior when they have problems or painful feelings and haven't found another way to cope or get relief.

Most of the time, people who cut themselves don't talk about it or let others know they’re doing it. But sometimes they confide in a someone. Sometimes someone might find out in another way.

Y/N looked so sad she didn't realize that the pain seemed obvious but it was way more to my eyes than she even realized.

Though she did her best to not show emotion in front of people once saying it was a sign of weakness. But when she started sobbing there was no way she could control it. It killed me to see her so upset, I pulled her tightly to me hugging her close.

It took a little bit but she started to calm down, "Your heartbeat is soothing, I don't understand why but for some reason it is." She admitted to me after a long silence.

Y/N POV…..

I didn't know or understand how but being with Andy brought me peace. I never would have thought a single person could make the pain go away but somehow this f*cked up universe managed to prove me wrong.

This small act was enough to let you know that someone actually truly cared and to be honest it was all you really wanted was to be at peace instead of your soul constantly at war.

Before now….. before Andy it hurt. There's not much left to smile at, not much left inside you that knows how to smile. The once warm space behind your ribs was cold and dry – a wrinkled chamber where all traces of a heart have been scraped out – and you wondered why you still bothered to stay alive more often than you cared to admit.

You can't die , a voice echoes in your head, you've been cursed beyond your time; you life.

There aren't many lucky days in your life, but today is one of them.

A rarity – lonely, candid flower on a mountaintop; glowing gemstone encased in rough, dead dirt – and you cradle it so close and so tight with all the fear of losing one blissful little moment.

Andy is beautiful. He always is, whether you see him in sweaty, jogging clothes or in a pristine, carefully picked out outfit. He's beautiful like this – washed out jeans and black leather jacket draped over slender shoulders clad in a black t shirt. The light shines in his eyes, it illuminates everything that surrounds him, putting the Sun to shame. It shines over all the shadows, warms all the bones in your body.

"If I could give you one thing in life, I would give you the ability to see yourself through my eyes, then you would realize how special you are to me."

'Do you believe in God?" Your cousin asked one day what seemed ages ago. Given that she was a die hard religious holy roller her response was of no surprise to you. "I do I absolutely believe in God."

"I don't know exactly what I believe in but I believe there is something bigger than me out there."

The depression seemed to just get worse one day Andy asked you "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shrugged "I don't see why talking about it would make it any better."

"It won't make it better." He'd responded "but not everything is about making things better." He paused placing his hand over the top of yours. "Sometimes you need to get things off your chest, speak your truth into the universe. You won't get anything from it but sometimes some emotions are too much to keep inside. You carry a sort of a burden and it hurts you more in the long run."

You feel two strong arms wrap themselves around you. The intoxicating smell of of deodorant or aftershave makes him smell so damn good. "I got you baby girl." His deep voice rumbles in your ear and a calmness washes over you.

"I know your going through a lot and don't want to intrude I just want to tell you that I'm here for you." Andy twirled one of his fingers around a single strand of your hair that had fallen in front of your face. There were times where words weren't necessary to exchange and that was just fine the simple act of just simply being around one another was enough really and all that you really needed.

#andy biersack x reader #andy biersack imagine #andy biersack #fan fiction

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dcviated · 3 years

Text

Tag ten followers you want to get to know better

name: Bear/Will

star sign: aquarius I have never bothered to look into what the others are nor what they mean

height: 6′-3″

middle name ?: Brady. After my uncle.

put your itunes / spotify on shuffle. what are the first 6 songs that popped up?

Gates of the Moon - Soken

Opacus - Arkasia

River of Time - Ayreon

The Noetic - BT

First to Love - Blaqk Audio

Mulholland - Battle Tapes

Grab one book nearest to you and turn to page 23. what’s line 17?: there are in fact no books near me because im down in our office/gaming den and all the books are upstairs. could I go grab one? yes. will I? nah.

ever had a poem or a song written about you? : I’ve had someone sing a song that was targeted to me! bitterly! and while I kinda deserved it I kinda didn’t. that was a weird year at summer camp and wow that girl was crazy into me out of nowhere...

when was the last time you played air guitar?: Today. Though I usually do air drums. Especially on the steering wheel.

who is your celebrity crush?: Jake Gyllenhaal can get me to watch pretty much any kind of wild movie because he’s just that interesting of an actor in my eyes. Does this count? Because it’s about all I can think of.

what’s a sound you hate; sound you love?: Sound I hate is metal utensils scraping against teeth. It’s worse than nails on a chalkboard. ALSO BEES BUZZING. I have a massive phobia of wasps and the like and I have literally gone into a near panic attack because a light was broken and buzzing in a store once. ---- a sound I love would be just music in general? don’t make me pick one sound... cats purring is also great (stealing that Rae)

do you believe in ghosts?: In contrast to my WIFE, no. She swears she has seen spirits and the like including around our home (lovely) but I’ve seen nothing of the sort. My brain is totally logical and left side (the last vestiges of the right side are why I can write at all). If I see something I’ll believe it but so far it’s a big 0.

how about aliens?: In the universe? 100%. Here on Earth? 30%.

do you drive?: I feel like the only person I know who ENJOYS driving. I love going out and hitting the road. I get into a groove and it’s very relaxing. Been driving since I was 15.5 with the learners and pretty much had my license within a couple months of my 16th. My new job is all office work but I drove all over the DC tri-state area for my old job.

if so, have you ever crashed?: There have been some very close calls in my time driving but aside from a couple fender benders and a speeding ticket I’m clean on the record.

what was the last book you read?: I was reading Dune the other month. Should get back to it because it’s good.

do you like the smell of gasoline?: I do, like I remember going out to the yard shed now and then and lingering just a bit longer than necessary for the fumes from the gas cans and mower. That said, never hung around and huffed it. Or anything.

what was the last movie you saw?: Last thing in theaters was that anime movie Belle, which was gorgeous to look at but overall pretty mediocre and I didn’t much enjoy it. There are so many better anime movies out there and it felt like a disjointed excuse to play with fun themes. Last movie I watched streaming was with the GC and that was Silence of the Lambs. Always good.

what’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?: I’ve got tons of scars on my right hand (ironically I’m left handed with everything) from a variety of stupidities or mishaps. Dog bite, knife stab, wire slice, burn... but none of those really hurt that much. Maybe it was the shock lel. I’ve never broken a bone and haven’t had any big things happen to me... I guess the worst one would have to be the dog bite? since it left so many scars on my hand and one of em needed stitches?

do you have any obsessions right now?: I still inhale lore and art around Library of Ruina lately. And I’m getting into playing Genshin a lot these past few days (it’s really started to click how to play) but as far as obsessions... no. I haven’t had any big passion for awhile. I’m happy and content but not driven since I haven’t found anything to really light a spark.

Tagged by: @more-than-a-princess (thank!) Tagging: steal it!

#dash :: games ooc #how is it already 11:30pm? buh #I think I'll do some writing tomorrow if I can get up at a decent hour #which means I need to stop myself from staying up...

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ace-oreos · 4 years

Note

Alpha-17 back on Kamino, taking Anakins suggestion and helping the clones come up with names and describing what working with jedi will be like. Also i like the idea of the clones asking why he SO scarred and hes like now thats a good story and watch out for general kenobi he gets into stuff and only after they meet him and anakin are they like "Oh now i get it."

Anon! I got SO. EXCITED. when I got this! Alpha is such a great character and I really enjoy working with him. Thanks for the prompt! I hope it hits everything you asked for. :)

Kamino is… even worse than he remembers, quite honestly. If not for the verd’ike, Alpha would be more than tempted to burn the place to the ground and be done with it.

(It’s not the first time the thought has ever crossed his mind, and it’s certainly not the last.)

But at least he doesn’t have to deal with Kenobi or Skywalker anymore.

Which is a plus, all things considered. Rattatak had been rough, to put it lightly - much more so than he’d let on, partly to ward off potential concern from Kenobi and partly because he refuses to admit it to himself.

Of course, he’s traded the Jedi for a batch of cadets who are entirely too boisterous for their own good. Kenobi is still stuck with Skywalker as far as he knows, and sometimes he can’t help wondering who got the better deal.

(Then again, knowing Kenobi, he’d be all too happy to spread some osik about serenity and inner balance or something equally revolting.)

Alpha suspects it’s a product of Jango’s teaching that he’d initially headed into this assignment with high expectations for the command batch. In retrospect, he can’t for the life of him fathom where he’d acquired that notion - every single cadet under his command is the embodiment of chaos with a healthy disrespect for authority.

He’s not one to talk, but as an officer - and a recently promoted officer at that - he feels that it’s his duty to try to uphold the command structure of the GAR.

Still, he can’t help feeling a sense of grim satisfaction whenever one of the di’kute fires back a retort at the Kaminiise or one of the nat-born instructors. Normally any deviant behavior would be smothered for fear of reconditioning, but the Kaminiise know better than to cross him. He’s one of Jango’s, after all.

Fett may have been a rotten father, but Alpha has a grudging respect for the man’s ability to keep them all in line for twelve years. Wrangling these cadets is exhausting; he can only be grateful that they’ll be rotated out in a few months.

(Truthfully, he hasn’t been able to shake a sense of bone-deep fatigue since Rattatak, but that’s no one’s business but his own.)

No one could ever accuse him of going easy on his cadets, but even he knows that every soldier needs a break sometimes. Taking a second to breathe does wonders for morale.

Unfortunately, it also invites the possibility of conversation with the verd’ike. He’s never been as inclined to idle conversation like many of his brothers, but he’s pleasantly surprised when the rambunctious boys he’s slowly becoming accustomed to prove to be much more insightful than he’d previously imagined.

He indulges their curiosity some days. More often than not their interest lies with the Jedi they’ll be serving with soon enough, so he does his best to share an adequate depiction. They’re not omnipotent tactical masterminds like the clones had been raised to believe, Alpha warns, but they’re decent officers for the most part.

“You served with General Kenobi, didn’t you, sir?” one of the cadets asks.

Alpha barely suppresses the first sarcastic remark that comes to mind and instead settles for a nod and a noncommittal shrug.

“And?” one of the other boys pipes up.

“And what?”

“What did you think of him?”

Well, for one thing, he’s a kriffing Jedi playing at being a politician while having at least one affair that’s strictly forbidden by his creed…

“He’s a good officer,” Alpha says at last. “Gets a bit high-minded, and we rarely ever saw eye to eye, but he listens to his men.”

He’s been sure to drill that into them over and over, because if there’s one thing he wants them to retain it’s that soldiers will follow a commander into hell if he makes an effort to connect with them.

“What really happened on Rattatak?”

The question catches him off guard. For a second he has half a mind to deflect it - it’s a long story, for one thing, and an unpleasant one at that - but these cadets will be shipping out soon. He’ll have little say in things once they deploy, but he can certainly do his best to prepare them now.

Besides, Alpha can’t fault them for wanting to explore the galaxy beyond Kamino through any outlet available. Being slated for a command slot can be isolating, and they’ve heard enough about the galaxy from older troopers to be ravingly curious about what awaits them once they step foot outside Tipoca.

“It’s really not that interesting,” he sighs in a last-ditch effort to deter them.

Sadly, they seem content to wait him out.

Shabla cadets and their shabla games.

Grumbling - they look far too smug for having secured such a minor victory - Alpha opts to give them a vague overview rather than a meticulous account of everything that had taken place after Ventress had seen fit to interfere on Jabiim.

“The campaign on Jabiim was tipping in Separatist favor…”

_____________________

Skywalker may be a pain in the shebs, but Alpha is coming to realize that the kid had a point about naming the cadets. It hadn’t been much of a priority among the Alpha batch, but it seems to be something extraordinary for the later generations.

Most times, the kids don’t tell Alpha directly that they’ve chosen a name for themselves; rather, he learns to listen to the quiet discussions between squad mates, and makes a point of using those names rather than the designations they’d been assigned at birth.

Sometimes a cadet’s delight gets the better of him and he blurts it out during an exercise. Alpha rarely reacts in the moment, but he makes sure to give an acknowledgement when they’re off-duty.

After a while, their names spring to mind before their numbers. Cody, Bacara, Gree… he still can’t determine what exactly the change signals, but he can see it in their eyes. It’s a source of pride, and who is he to deny them?

Besides, he thinks wryly, it’s better than an unruly Padawan deciding to bestow a nickname upon them in the middle of a war zone.

______________________

The cadets seem to be under the impression that stories from the battlefield will become a regular fixture in their routine. Alpha doesn’t let that notion stand very long, but he occasionally allows their questions after a successful exercise or a particularly impressive sparring match.

They’ve gotten even bolder since he first took command; apparently, no question is off limits.

“You’ve got an awful lot of scars, sir,” one of the boys observes. From the tone, Alpha guesses it’s Bly.

“Very astute, cadet,” Alpha huffs. “I’m glad my training isn’t wasted on you.”

“Are they all from Rattatak?”

“For one thing, I honestly don’t remember how I got every single scar, and for another, I’m not here to tell you stories,” Alpha says firmly like he hasn’t spent the past twenty minutes addressing their various questions about his experience with Jedi command.

“It’s General Kenobi, isn’t it,” Cody pipes up sagely, and in that moment Alpha realizes he’s taught them a little too well.

“He had something to do with most of them, yes,” Alpha admits.

“Some officer,” Neyo mutters with his usual cynicism.

Alpha cuffs him. “Put a lid on it, cadet. I didn’t say they were his fault - it’s just that he was usually involved in one way or another. Kenobi likes to poke his nose in where it isn’t necessarily wanted.”

Most of them look disbelieving. Alpha just shrugs. They’ll figure it out one way or another.

_____________________

Alpha jerks awake sometime around 0300 to the incessant beeping of his comlink. Grumbling to himself, he activates it and rumbles a greeting.

“Hope I didn’t wake you up, sir.”

“You’re lucky I’m not in theater, or I would smoke your shebs for this one, Cody,” Alpha growls, because even though it’s been a while since the first batch rotated out he vividly remembers every cadet’s distinct inflection and tone.

“We’ve heard that one before,” Cody says teasingly.

Alpha ignores the jibe. “Spit it out, di’kut.”

Cody hesitates, then bursts out, “How did you do it?”

“Do what?” Alpha asks, awake enough to be puzzled.

“Deal with Kenobi,” Cody whispers. Alpha can’t help being amused by the desperation in his voice. “He’s a disaster on legs, sir.”

“That’s nothing I didn’t know already, al’verde,” Alpha informs him.

“But sir…”

“You’re the commander. He’s your problem now,” Alpha adds, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Alpha…”

“Give the general my regards, Commander.”

“Wait - ”

“Sorry, al’verde. Duty calls.”

If Alpha is smirking when he sets aside his comlink and shuts his eyes in the hopes of getting a few more hours of sleep, no one is the wiser.

#alpha 17 #alpha-17 #the clone wars #obi-wan kenobi #commander cody #commander bly #commander neyo #fic prompt #asks #thanks anon!#keep them coming

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duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 21)

Notes:

Hi lovely readers, I hope you have all had a good week. Loved the comments from last week's chapter. It's so funny, because it wasn't one of my favourites, but it had so many of you feeling all the feels!

I know lots of you have been excited about the re-appearance of Az and I can promise that you get him first thing in this chapter.

For those of you invested enough to care, I'll be posting a few teaser sentences from the next E&L chapter every Wednesday here on Tumblr.

Enjoy! And as usual, let me know your thoughts :)

Chapter Twenty-One Nesta

The next two weeks went by in an extended blur — slow yet fast — as Nesta was thrown into training with an intensity that left her mentally and physically exhausted. Cassian hadn’t been joking when he’d told her he’d have her ready to slay with the longsword soon enough. Never before had he been so critical and sharp, not a sliver of a smile on his face each morning as he warmed her up through the guard positions in the sparring ring. Cassian would make her practice those moves until there was not a step out of place, before moving onto footwork and then actual swordplay, which always ended with Nesta hissing in annoyance when she made an error and left herself open for attack.

Despite that, Nesta knew she was learning faster than others. Nesta saw it in the way Cassian would push her harder still, even when she knew her moves were perfect. On occasion, Nesta would catch his eyes gleaming, utterly thrilled, as if her vicious thrust with the steel were almost the equivalent of her peeling off her clothes until she was wearing nothing but skin.

Staying true to her word, Nesta had asked Azriel to harness her ability to sense others emotions. Not a flicker of surprise had flitted across the shadowsinger’s face when she had told him about the element of her power, he’d only bowed his head in such an earnest way that Nesta had wondered whether he was pleased she’d asked.

The shadowsinger’s training approach hugely differed to his brother’s. Azriel used quiet, calm words rather than barked, fiery orders, but they were no less effective. For their first lesson, Azriel had taken Nesta to a rocky ledge wedged into the right of the mountain pass. It was a viewing platform poised above the sparring rings, which Azriel informed her was used mainly by the war lords and high-status families for the Rite ceremony and major festivals.

The clang of steel on steel rose up to meet them as the males trained. In the centre of it all was Cassian — a larger than life presence — his towering frame and huge membraneous wings making even the largest Illyrian’s appear inconsequential. Even from their height, Nesta could hear his abrupt orders as he worked the males with an intensity that dared them to defy him.

They didn’t. There was a begrudging respect amongst the warriors where Cassian was concerned that was easy enough for Nesta to identify. They had not forgotten how Cassian had fought in the war; how his sword had easily sliced through males as if they were made of nothing but air. His movements were like an intricate dance, his body always anticipating the next move, cutting down opponent after opponent as he led his army to victory. The Illyrian’s might not like that Cassian was a bastard, but they could not deny that he was exceptional in combat. So whilst they might sneer at him, they would watch him fight with eyes as sharp as a hawk, and when he corrected a males stance, they listened and adjusted their own technique accordingly.

“You know Devlon?” Azriel asked from behind Nesta, snapping her out of her reverie. He was standing a little back from her, giving her the space to adjust to their surroundings.

Nesta wondered if he knew about her fear of being caged or the panic that consumed her when things became too loud.

Narrowing her eyes, Nesta searched for the war lord, eventually finding him at the edge of one of the far sparring rings. Two hulking tattooed males loitered by his side. Ragar was one of them, and even from a distance, Nesta spied the pink, raw scar that jagged its way up his jugular and suppressed a shudder.

“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. “I know Devlon.”

“He’s your target,” Azriel told her. “I want you to try and sense his emotions.”

If anyone other than Azriel had asked her to do something so enormous and unachievable, Nesta would have snapped, but there was something about his calm nature combined with his deathly stillness that had her doing his bidding.

To her credit, Nesta had tried, but the noises were too loud for her to retreat into herself, even with the headband snuggled tightly on her ears.

“I can’t feel anything,” Nesta had told him shortly after five minutes of silence. Then she found herself confessing, “I don’t know how.”

Azriel shrugged as if her failure was inconsequential. He was leaning against the craggy rock wall, the green and blue of the snowdrops a stark contrast to his body, which was perpetually thrust in and out of shade. “Try Cassian. You’re around him the most, you’ve probably adapted to sensing his emotions unconsciously.”

Nesta had thrown Azriel a sharp look, but she did not correct him. He wasn’t wrong, after all. So she clipped instead, “Some would say that’s an invasion of privacy.”

Azriel’s lips tugged up at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps. Given that the Solstice luncheon is in three weeks time, I don’t think Cassian will mind.”

Nesta had studied the shadowsinger for a moment. His body was wreathed in shadow but his face was unobscured. It meant that Nesta could see the hard lines of his face. Azriel looked like he had been carved out of marble by the finest sculptor: his jaw perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones well-defined, his eyebrows elegantly arched to frame hazel eyes that were close to Cassian’s in colour, but not quite right.

“You already know what he’s feeling?”

The corner of Azriel’s lips had twitched again. “I can’t read subtle emotion, only a spike when someone reacts strongly to something and I need proximity to do it. But,” Azriel continued, a rare secretive light blooming behind his eyes as he looked out to his brother in the sparring ring where he was demonstrating spear technique with another Illyrian, “I don’t need to tap into Cassian’s emotions right now. I can already tell.”

He settled his gaze back on Nesta, but they were encouraging rather than hard. “Try,” he urged her, with a smoothness that reminded Nesta of the chill of the midnight blue sky.

Closing her eyes, Nesta forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She knew the scent of Cassian like it was woven into her DNA — pine, musk and fresh air — and she flung herself out like a fisherman casting a net, searching for him amongst the crowd. Emotion crashed into her with the force akin to a final blow as she let that icy wall around her own emotions thaw. She wanted to curl up into a ball and howl from the intensity of it all, but she forced herself to remain standing, even though it hurt. Nesta flitted through it all — the anger, awe, fury, irritation, calm, jealousy, and begrudged admiration of others — until she located him. It came with such sudden ease that Nesta wondered if it had found her rather than the other way around — the concern and sharp anger — that settled like a weight in the lining of her stomach. The sensation was undeniably Cassian. She knew it in her bones.

“Stop.”

One quiet, chilled command had Nesta opening her eyes with a shuddering gasp. She clambered to stack up those ice blocks until she felt numb and completely devoid of any feeling. The contrast to moments before was worse somehow, as if she had been seeing in colour but now she only viewed everything in shades of black and white.

The first thing she noticed as mud, pine and grey sharpened her vision was Cassian looking at her with a wild sort of concern in his eyes. Despite the distance, Nesta felt as if he were there with her, reaching to rest his palm against her cheek and bring her back. He had spun to stare up at them, as if he had known where they were the entire time. In his hand, his spear was poised and ready, as if he were planning to launch it through the skies to put an end to an approaching attack.

Adjusting her gaze, Nesta stared over Cassian’s shoulder to stare at the warrior he had been sparring. The male was panting, his wings heaving as he took the moment’s reprieve to catch his breath before Cassian no doubt threw himself at the warrior again.

“Good,” Azriel praised after a beat. “Did you feel anything?”

“He’s angry,” Nesta replied shortly. She didn’t add how she’d felt his concern, she didn’t think it necessary and if Azriel was half as good as others had insinuated, then he knew that already.

Even though Nesta knew Azriel must have felt Cassian’s surprise, he did not voice it. He only asked, “And how did you do it?”

Nesta fought the pink that wanted to blush across her cheeks. Instead, she raised her chin as her eyes narrowed and her entire body tensed, prepared battle. “I dropped my protective shield.”

It was a huge concession but Azriel did not judge her for the permanent cage she kept on her emotions. There was no softened expression or gentle words, only understanding as the shadowsinger nodded. “To sense what others feel you have to let down your own guard. You can’t expect to feel others if you can’t feel your own. Magic is always a balance — give and take. For Cassian and I, our magic and siphons allow us to fight with more precision, but by doing so, we drain our energy reserves. With your ability to sense what others are feeling, you must give a part of yourself, too. It is the same for me; my shadows can filter through the darkness for the feelings others hide, but only if I allow myself to become vulnerable.”

That explained the expressionless face of marble and the shadows that hid Azriel from view. Like Nesta, Azriel preferred to fade into the background; to observe rather than to be observed. There were similarities between them that Nesta could not deny. Perhaps that was why he did not irritate her like others did.

“I have detected others emotions without dropping my shields before,” Nesta told Azriel, remembering Mas’s pain as she slipped on the mountain and Cassian’s guilt after the kerits had attacked.

Azriel nodded. “I suspect when emotions are particularly high they manage to pierce through whatever shields you have in place, especially those you interact with on a day-to-day basis. Basic, more subtle emotion will come at a price.”

Nesta’s expression hardened. To let down her icy shield that protected her from feeling too much had been an unwitting battle she had endured all of her life. One of the cruellest things from being Made was that Nesta’s ability to feel had increased two-fold. She suspected that was why her battle trauma was worse than others: why the deaths of loved ones pierced her heart and rendered it with holes whilst others appeared in tact; why Cassian made her want to rend the sky apart. Nobody had ever made Nesta feel as much as he had.

“You’re clever to have put a protective shield in place,” Azriel told her, breaking her out of her train of thought. “When I was younger, I struggled with my ability to feel more than others. It took me many years to understand how to master my shadows and accept them as an extension of myself. Now, I would not let them go, not for anything.”

His expression had hardened. Nesta knew a little of Azriel’s upbringing — the bare bones from Cassian, who had mentioned it in passing during their training sessions — but not enough.

Azriel had endured cruelty beyond Nesta’s wildest imaginings. His scarred hands were testament to that. And to think that for years the shadows had been his only friend; until he had decided that he would allow them to wind through his magic, like two strands of a rope. Was that not what Nesta had done when she carved a piece out of the Cauldron to take for herself? When she had heard that awesome, archaic voice call to her in the dark, her body churning up inky water onto the rocky ground, her lungs heaving. When that flicker of light had grown in the midnight black, shining like a newborn star.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Nesta had asked, wanting to push that memory far, far away, “for me to learn how to read others emotions well enough before the luncheon?”

The way in which Azriel was wreathing shadows between his open fingers indicated to Nesta that she had not been wholly there for a while. He did not comment, only gave a curt nod of the head. “With some determination, I believe we can have you reading others emotions in three weeks time.” Azriel came to stand beside Nesta. He smelt of night-kissed mist and cedar. “I do not envy you going to that luncheon.”

Nesta raised an imploring eyebrow and resisted crossing her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”

Hazel eyes scanned the sparring rings below them. “Cassian tells me you experienced first-hand how unpleasant Devlon can be.” His lips quirked up at the sides. “I wish I had been there to see it.”

Nesta’s snort was soft as she remembered how Devlon had recoiled at her flames. “The other war lords are really that bad?”

“It’s not how I would choose to spend Solstice,” Azriel admitted. “The tensions between the war lords are always high, but putting them all into one room together, especially at Ironcrest…” He grimaced as he trailed off. “Lord Marsh has not hosted the Solstice luncheon for at least a century. It has us all wondering whether it was him that decided to hold the event at his premises or whether it was his son’s influence.”

“Brutes,” Nesta said darkly. Azriel’s eyes lit with what Nesta dissected as amusement. “Cassian says they have pulled forward a meeting? About the Rite?”

Azriel nodded. “Yes. The Rite is in the Spring. Every year the war lords come together to talk through arrangements and for each camp to put forward their contenders. It is not normally held until the new year, but Marsh has suggested hosting the meeting after the luncheon, especially given that Ironcrest are hosting the ceremony this year.”

“You think there’s something untoward going on?”

Azriel shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s an unusual move. Illyrian’s are steadfast in their habits and are not usually open to change. The good news is that it gives you more time to hunt for the sword and identify whether it’s authentic.”

Nesta noticed that Azriel had not associated himself with the Illyrian’s. She did not blame him given how he had been treated. Nesta did not like to spoken of in relation to the Cauldron either.

“I want you to repeat what we have practiced every day,” Azriel told Nesta just before he had melted into shadow, his gaze on the horizon; at the sun which was a line of orange before it disappeared entirely to give way to dusk. “Find a target and work on only engaging with their emotions. I will be back in three days. Make them count.”

Nesta had refused Azriel’s offer to take her back to the bungalow. Instead, she had walked down the rocky steps to the training rings, only to find a sweat-soaked Cassian waiting for her.

They had walked back together in companionable silence, Nesta pondering Azriel’s advice; that it would be difficult to allow herself to feel everything all at once. Little and often was the key, he had told her with an apologetic smile, with lots of rest inbetween. Lowering her guard after a lifetime of shielding them was akin to a deaf person suddenly gaining their hearing back — overwhelming.

Azriel was not wrong. Drained from the intensity of the practice, Nesta had been so exhausted that she had all but crawled onto the couch once they had arrived back to the warmth of the bungalow before she had fallen straight to sleep.

She had dreamt of Cassian. Not of the their final moments in the war, but flashes of moments from the day of the kerits — thoughts that she would have usually pushed to the far reaches of her mind: of the way Cassian had looked down at her on his knees after they had defeated the beasts; the comforting scrape of his callouses as he rested his palm on her cheek; the feel of his fingers winding around a tendril of hair; how he had stared down at her with an intensity she should not have allowed, let alone felt…

But Nesta had been unable to look away as those bright hazel eyes had darted to her lips for a second too long. Between them, Nesta had heard his heart beating too fast against his ribcage; the insistent thump against strips of bone resonating in her ears, wrapping around her own wild rhythm. A phantom hand had wound through her hair, and she’d had to catch herself as her chin started to tilt upwards of its own accord…

The pull had been so intense that Nesta had been relieved when he had broken the spell. It was the draw that she had once accused of being Faerie magic. Now she knew it was not that at all, but a magnetism strung between them that she still could not shake. It called her name, begging her to close the distance, and Nesta had woken from the relived moment panting, her fingers slick with desire and a flood of relief when she realised that she was in her bed with the door firmly shut rather than in the living room.

Nesta had been having that dream regularly ever since, amongst others. Males with no faces, large calloused hands dragging over bare skin, lips and tongues pressing kisses into her skin… The visions kindled a gentle fire in her that licked pleasantly through her core, and Nesta often woke humming with a different sort of energy that had previously had her pinning down the nearest male to chase that waving crest of an orgasm.

“I thought we should head to Spearhead for training today,” Cassian told Nesta that morning, as they stood by the front door ready to leave the house.

Nesta caught the headband he tossed at her with ease and settled it over her ears. She never left the house without it.

Cassian looked unusually well-rested, the dark smudges having all-but faded beneath his eyes. He must not have had any nightmares recently if he was sleeping well, but Nesta knew it would be short-lived. Since they had been co-existing together, she had witnessed Cassian flit between wellness and sleep deprivation within the blink of an eye.

Nesta pulled on some long, knee-high boots that would protect her in the snow drifts. “We don’t have to go there,” she told him.

Cassian shot Nesta a sideways glance. “If your power is influenced by emotion, we need to practice in a place that effects how you wield it.”

He cocked his head at her, trying to dissect the inner workings of her mind. Something swept over his expression that looked like disappointment. “Do you not want to fly?”

Refraining from rolling her eyes, Nesta said shortly, “I thought you might prefer to train somewhere else.”

The way Cassian’s eyes softened was so slight Nesta nearly missed it, but she felt it in her core. “I make a point of going back from time to time,” Cassian assured her. Then he added, “It serves as a reminder.”

They stepped out into the frigid cold. Windhaven was covered in a fresh blanket of snow, a storm having hit days before and rendering the mountain pass sparkling white. They had literally had to dig some of the tents out of the snow and Nesta had been so terrified for the orphans and widows that she had made Cassian fly her up as soon as weather had eased up. They had spent the day helping the widows camp to function again. It had pained her that she could not control her fire enough to melt the snow for them, but Cassian had warned her that it could only be used on certain parts of the camp anyway. So Nesta had picked up a shovel instead and helped to shift as much of it as possible whilst Cassian disappeared to melt the path that ran up the mountain.

Later, she had braved the camp fire to curl up with Roksana and a few of the other orphans, using her body warmth to thaw their frozen limbs as she recounted story after story until Cassian had come to take her back to the bungalow.

She had kept her promise to him about venturing out into the camp after dark.

The wind stung as Cassian got them airborne, but then he slid a shield over them in a sheath of red light and the air became still and quiet. It didn’t stop it from being any less cold and Nesta held back a shiver, not wanting him to notice how weak she was being.

But after ten minutes of being in the skies, that resolve had all but faded. Her fingers and toes were so numb she considered that they might fall off.

She scowled. “Are you going deliberately slow?”

Her accusation rang up between them but Cassian only cast a slow look down at her. The movement was deliberate and it had her temper spiking. “Why?”

Nesta’s scowl deepened. “Because it feels as if we are barely moving.”

Cassian cocked a taunting eyebrow. “Be careful Nesta, I’ll throw you into a dive if you keep goading me.”

A snarl unleashed itself from her throat but Cassian only barked a short laugh. “Is this your convoluted way of telling me to go faster?”

Nesta made an unimpressed sound. “All I’m saying is that despite your fancy magic I am still freezing and it would be nice if we made it to Spearhead before noon.”

Another laugh — delighted this time — and Cassian picked up the pace with a few strong flaps of his wings. His eyes were begging for some verbal sparring as he looked down at her. “I’m starting to think you’re getting used to being in the sky, sweetheart.”

Nesta shrugged, refusing to rise to his taunt. Instead, she cast her gaze down to the snow-kissed landscape. Up this high, it looked stunning rather than brutal; a glittering, blank canvas. “It reminds me of riding,” she admitted. That peaked Cassian’s interest. He flung his wings out wide so they soared for a moment longer. Even still, the movement was faster than it had been before her accusation, and the wind roared around the shield he’d put in place. “You used to ride?”

Staring down at the feathered snow-capped pine trees of The Steppes, Nesta dipped her chin. “Before we lost everything,” she said vaguely, but as the memory of it hit her, she found herself snorting abruptly.

Cassian’s lips twitched. “What?” he asked.

He was concentrating on the path ahead of them, and from her view point, Nesta could see every one of his dark eye lashes. They were crusted with ice. This high up, the cold was even more punishing than in the mountain pass. Nesta had no idea why Cassian didn’t extend his shield to cover his entire body. It probably had something to do with the Illyrian’s tendency for self-punishment.

In order to distract herself, Nesta snorted again. “My mother only wanted me to learn side saddle — to ride like a lady,” she explained shortly, “but I used to sneak down in the mornings and gallop across the fields before she was awake. It made me feel alive. Flying is the closest I’ve come to that feeling — the rush and freedom of it.”

It was true. Not at first — not when Feyre’s arrogant mate had sped fast enough to make her vomit — but much later, with Cassian, Nesta had come to hunger for the skies. Flying was exhilarating, Nesta had found, and she wanted more. She wasn’t sure she’d ever like it when Cassian dove, but when he speared through the air, his wings tucked in tight… it made Nesta feel awake.

“And nobody knew?”

Cassian’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She gave a disinterested shrug, making sure the movement was small so Cassian didn’t lose his hold on her. “My father, I think, but he never told anyone and he was often travelling. I bribed the stable boy to teach me to ride properly.”

Wicked amusement loosed a hand over Cassian’s face. “What did you bribe him with?”

“He used to frolic in the hay with a girl — I caught him when he was supposed to be working.”

A sound of amusement rang in the back of Cassian’s throat, as if he were imagining a young Nesta bargaining and threatening a stable boy years older than her to do her bidding. But he only asked carefully, “You were close to your mother?”

That was not a subject Nesta wanted to discuss, so she shut him down. “I wanted to be.”

Cassian nodded in a way that told her he understood. “And would you ride now, if you could?”

Nesta cut him a quizzical look. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Although I would need to relearn. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the saddle.”

The attention had been on Nesta for too long and her skin was itching with interrogation. Even though it was her who had brought it up, she felt exposed in a way she no longer felt comfortable with. Mentally, she stitched up the wound until she felt calm again. Cassian remained silent, as if he knew that she could not continue.

Eventually, she turned the tables — a deflection and… curiosity. “Do you remember your mother?”

A surprised pause but no sensation lined Nesta’s stomach. He was getting better at catching them; reigning them in so she would not sense them. Sometimes he managed it, other times he didn’t.

“Barely,” Cassian said finally. He did not look down at her and Nesta wondered if speaking about her was precious to him; something he did not usually voice out loud but preferred to keep inside. Nesta understood, so she stared resolutely at the landscape rather than him. “I remember her voice and her hands as we sat around a camp fire. She used to sing to me. This… Illyrian lullaby. I can barely remember it, only a few lines.”

“What were they?” Nesta’s voice was too soft, too quiet, but she knew somehow that Cassian had never told anybody this before. That this information was just as precious to him as Heroicis.

She sensed rather than saw Cassian’s frown. “It sounds better in Illyrian than in translation.”

“Say it in Illyrian then,” she said. Her voice was not demanding but encouraging. A rarity for her.

Cassian seemed to sense it too, because after a slight pause, he dropped into Illyrian with an ease that made her shudder. She listened to the quiet intensity in which he spoke; the gentle lilt in his voice that was almost trance like. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt tears rise to her eyes before she could stop them.

Cassian didn’t notice. She could tell he was still frowning as he finished. “It doesn’t sound right,” he said, slipping back into the common tongue. “It’s supposed to be sung not spoken, but I don’t remember the tune.”

But Nesta would not allow him to taint the words — the words that clearly meant so much to him. She reached her hand up to curl around his shoulder. He looked down at her in surprise.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him with a reverence she reserved for no-one. “Will you translate it for me?”

Nesta wasn’t sure if Cassian saw the silver lining her eyes as his dark eyes scoured her face. Eventually, he nodded simply in answer, and when he spoke, all of the hairs stood up on her arms as a shiver ran down her body.

“Goodnight my warrior heart, Soon Mother won’t hold you fast. One day she will watch you go, But she’ll search high and low, For the twin stars in the night.”

The moment afterwards stretched between them as Cassian banked slightly to the right, his eyes flitting up to view the course ahead. Forest green in dusted white made way to craggy snow-capped mountains, and then beyond that, a pointed stretch of flat mountain pass — Spearhead.

“Have you tried to find out the rest of the lullaby?” Nesta asked when she was certain her voice would not waver.

“Not really,” Cassian admitted. “I asked Rhys’ mother but she didn’t know it. Some lullabies are native to camps and the females… well, they’re scared of me, because of what I did. And… it’s something that I’ve kept for myself for a long time. To speak of it too often made me feel as though I had to part with a piece of it.”

“But would you like to know? If the information was there?”

“Yes,” Cassian said quietly. “I’d like to know.”

Then, as if he too has exposed too much of himself, he said in a voice that was far more conversational and indicated an end to their discussion, “Other than that, I don’t remember much of my time before Windhaven.” Cassian started their descent. He was still moving with greater speed. The rhythm seemed natural for him, and Nesta wondered just how often he had been holding back from tasting the skies as he liked for fear she would give him hell. “All I have in my memory is cold, mud, hunger and too-small fires.”

Nesta nodded even as a lump formed in her throat. She knew what it was to starve and feel unimaginable cold, but to think of Cassian as a little boy cradled against his mother’s chest made the ice want to crack inside of her. She knew what it was to huddle against bodies for warmth so you didn’t freeze to death; she had done that with her sisters night after night, even though the gesture had only ever brought the knowledge that she would never warm up.

Cassian glanced back down at her, and in his eyes she saw a shared understanding that bound them together: You know what it’s like to be starving and cold with no promise of warmth.

“The snow will be deep,” Cassian warned Nesta as he set her down on the boulder in the clearing she had previously burned. “Let me clear some of it so we can spar. I will not be responsible for your frostbite, not when I know how much hell you’ll give me for it.”

Nesta snorted but did not disagree with him. She watched Cassian carve out a training ground for them and tried not to shiver. It was obscenely cold this high up and the wind was so sharp it stung her skin with a ferocity that made her thankful her headband was tight around her head. She was wearing sheepskin leathers, with thermals underneath and knee high boots that Cassian had eyed a little too long when she’d first worn them.

Despite all of her clothing, Nesta’s body still wanted to shake.

She had been slowly and surely been putting on weight, and whilst her cheeks had started to fill out, Nesta wished she’d taken Cassian’s many offerings of second helpings — the extra body fat would be a blessing right now…

A flare of Cassian’s siphons caught her attention as the air hung quiet around them yet again.

“We won’t hear one another otherwise,” Cassian said in explanation. “And,” he added with a feral grin that did nothing to hide the concern layered beneath it, “your lips have turned blue.”

His grin widened at Nesta’s hiss, but he held out a hand to help her down. She batted him away before reluctantly realising it was too far and allowed him to bear her weight as she jumped into the sludgy snow. From the first impact, Nesta felt the cold seep through the thick soles of her boots and creep into the fur lining.

“I want to try something new today.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. “If you are about to make a sexual advance as a disguise for warming me up, I advise against it.”

Cassian’s canines flashed at the same time his hazel eyes sparked. “Don’t give me ideas, Nesta. I could think of some fun ways to warm you up.”

Nesta snort was unimpressed as she flicked her eyes to the sky. “So predictable,” she sniped. When she held her fingers up, they sparked silver fire. “I can think of some ways to warm you up, too.”

Throwing back his head, Cassian laughed. It was a rough sound, but Nesta heard it for what it was — a distraction. The last time they had visited this mountain pass, Cassian had been in a foul mood and Nesta had been no better. It hadn’t been helped by the memory of pain and suffering that had wound its way from the ground and into Nesta’s blood, until her stomach had been churning with it. Already Nesta could feel the same thing happening; a vibration in her limbs as the energy of years-worth of torment rushed to meet her power. And Cassian… well, being here must be awful for him. Just the knowledge that his mother dwelled here in an unmarked grave made Nesta want to rend apart the sky from the agony of it.

Unclipping a siphon from his armour, Cassian cradled the jewel in the heart of his palm. “I want you to wear this.”

Nesta stared at him in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Excuse me.”

Cassian’s lips briefly tightened into a thin line. His mood was darkening by the second and from the slight sensation lining her stomach, she could sense trepidation. This was not a decision he had made lightly.

Yet he stretched his arm out towards her anyway. “Take it,” he ordered, in a way that told him he would not change his mind.

Nesta took the siphon from Cassian. She expected the stone to feel heavy and lifeless in her hand but it pulsed as she touched it; warm, as if it were a steady, beating heart. That heat travelled into her palm… into her veins… until it met her singing power. The siphon glowed as deep as blood as her silver mist curled around it in greeting.

Nesta’s head snapped up to look at Cassian in shock. His eyes had turned hard and unyielding but there was also a light in them that had not been there before. The siphons on his armour were also glowing, as if they too could feel the thrum in its counterpart.

“Siphons store magic,” Cassian told Nesta. His voice had dropped impossibly low — intense. “I’ve wondered for a long while if your magic would be compatible with them.”

Nesta’s eyes widened at the confession — at the gravity of what he was admitting. Once, when she had been very bored and had run out of books, Nesta had dipped into the first few pages of Cassian’s book on siphons, so she roughly knew how they worked. She also knew that Cassian had needed seven to hold the enormity of his power — that if he were to have too few, his Killing Power would blast them to nothing but red dust.

“I could have shattered it,” Nesta snapped. “Are you insane?”

“But you didn’t,” was all Cassian replied. His hands came to her shoulders, steering her so she was facing the clearing of ashen tree stumps and black landscape that should have been pine and stone before she had unleashed hell on it. “Your magic works differently to mine. It is not designed to simply kill. How does it feel?”

“Fine.”

More than fine. Nesta felt as if her skin were singing, her power flowing into the stone as if it were running through a filter. It did not clamber or claw like it usually did; it only filled up the stone like it were an extension of herself. The rest of her immense magic remained in her veins. And Nesta felt stronger… much stronger.

“Illyrian’s use siphons to make our raw magic more precise,” Cassian told her. His voice vibrated against the shell of her ear. He was still holding on to her shoulders, his hands warm despite the immense cold. “We know that you do not need siphons to master your magic, but I thought you could practice using one of mine so you can feel what it is to be in control. If you get a sense of how it feels, I am hoping that you will be able to slip into it more easily when the time comes to practice without one.”

Sensing Nesta’s confusion, Cassian elaborated, “Think of it like the training wheels of a bike. You use them to get a sense of balance, but eventually you have to take the wheels off and master it alone.”

Cassian reached over Nesta to take the siphon from her outstretched hand. Without it Nesta felt light — untethered. The loss was too keen for something she’d only just touched, and from the way Cassian tensed behind her, she wondered if he had sensed it too. Blinking, Nesta turned to see Cassian reaching into his tunic pocket. He brought out a thin corded rope and thread it between the two hooks at the top of the jewel before tying the rope tightly at the ends. He looped it over Nesta’s neck before she realised what was happening.

Nesta stared down at where the ruby rested against her sternum and then back up at Cassian.

“Tuck it beneath your leathers to keep it safe,” Cassian told her.

Nesta didn’t argue. Somehow she knew the gravitas of the moment. Without Cassian’s siphons — his refined Killing Power — he believed himself wholly unworthy. Yet despite the importance of those stones, he was lending one to her. He had risked her shattering it. So Nesta coaxed the makeshift necklace beneath her leathers until the stone touched bare skin.

“This is the closest you will ever get to touching my chest,” she clipped coldly, trying to ignore how the heat from the ruby was seeping into her skin, the sensation deliciously warm.

Cassian’s laugh was deep and rich. “We’ll see.”

“You will not,” she snapped, even as her skin burned with the intent behind his words.

Cassian dared to wink at her as he stepped back. With a flare of ruby, a target appeared in the ashen clearing ahead of them.

“We’ll use the siphon as a way for you to practice settling into a sense of calm,” Cassian told her, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. The change in his voice told her that he was done playing. “Us Illyrian’s call it the Killing Calm; when everything goes deadly still in your head before you enter battle. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Yes,” Nesta admitted begrudgingly. It was what had happened with both Devlon and Ragar and his cronies. Cassian nodded in understanding. “I thought so. When you’re angry or overwhelmed, you expel your power in one go. By settling into a sense of calm, we can teach you to master your magic. The siphon will allow you to do that. Let’s practice.”

Nesta hit the target every time. She started by striking the outer edge, but by the end of their practice Nesta’s power was burning holes through the bullseye with a precision that even had Cassian nodding in admiration.

“And all the trees are in tact,” Cassian mused after he’d told her to rest. “We need to work on finessing your flames, but that was a good start. I suspect the memory of emotions from the camp is effecting your control.”

It was true, whilst Nesta had hit the target every time, she had also blasted it to smithereens with each impact. Cassian had replaced them with a casual flare of his siphons, and although Nesta had become a little better over the course of the session, the pain and agony that hummed through her veins had overloaded her magic so that it roared.

Slamming up layers and layers of shield had done nothing to mute the sensation. Despite the siphon, Nesta’s power was constantly replenished and raring to be expelled. In the end, Nesta had given up, allowing her power to blaze through the air with a precise sort of havoc that had Cassian’s eyes gleaming and a muscle feathering in his jaw; as if he was waiting in thrilled anticipation to see what she was capable of at the same time he was hoping she would master it.

As if sensing that Nesta still felt restless, Cassian magicked some longswords and put her to work.

Fighting with the longsword made Nesta feel powerful and strong, but today she was unstoppable, an endless energy pounding through her veins. A month ago, when they had first started training with the sword, Cassian had made her begin with a wooden replica. He had quickly realised that her enhanced strength meant that she could wield the real thing with little difficulty. For all of her starvation, Nesta found that eating regularly had allowed her to slip into her inner strength with an ease that had astounded her. It had not surprised Cassian. He had only observed her bring the sword up into ochs before switching through the guard drill he had taught her with a fierce sort of respect that had made her take stock.

After Cassian could no longer critique her guard drills, they began to spar. Each clang of her steel against Cassian’s only made her feel stronger. Today, on this agonised land, Nesta was faster in every sense of the word — her body as sharp as her mind — and she and Cassian fell into a rhythmic sort of dance, their puffs of breath clouding the air around them.

That’s when it happened. Somehow Nesta forced Cassian into the defensive, and when he had thrown her off of him and feinted to the left, Nesta had read him like the page of a well-worn book. She seized the opening, thrusting forward to strike him clean in the side. Cassian’s eyes widened just as her steel struck his armour.

They stopped abruptly. Nesta’s lungs were burning with the effort but her veins hummed, and the siphon beneath her leathers pulsed as Cassian’s flared. The sensation was like another heartbeat.

Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile of its own accord, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Cassian’s jaw went slack. She had struck him. She had struck him. And in her stomach wasn’t Cassian’s sense of disbelief, but admiration and pride.

“I believe that was a clean hit, Lord of Bloodshed. Remind me, how long have you been training as a warrior?”

The snicker that left Cassian did not mask the awe that had fallen across his dark features. “A humble warrior doesn't gloat, sweetheart.”

Nesta snorted. “Then it would seem I am not a humble warrior.”

Cassian laughed. His pupils were still blown wide; light brown interspersed with green, like forked lightning through chocolate. This was not like the laughter she usually heard. This was completely unchained and joyous. It melted into the atmosphere, into the stone; a fraction of light within the dark.

“I should have known you wouldn’t be modest,” he told her. “Will I ever hear the end of this?”

“No,” Nesta replied.

Her lips had fallen slightly, but a rare amount of amusement remained across her features. The sensation made her feel lighter… less heavy and manicured. It was not something she’d let anyone privy to. But she supposed Cassian had seen all of her now. And he had not run. He had made mistakes, just as she had. Both of them were stumbling on new legs after the war but they were trying to find alternative paths for themselves. When Nesta searched deep inside herself she found that there was no resentment, not today. Maybe tomorrow… but for now. She looked around them at the unencumbered view; the sky streaked with pastel hues, the sun glowing impossibly large so that everything sparkled, making the snow appear as if it were alive.

Cassian was watching her with an expression that she could not dissect. So she wrinkled her nose and asked, “What now?”

With a wave of his hand, the longswords vanished.

She quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, but Cassian only winked at her with a devilish grin that made her blood boil beneath her skin.

Instinctively, she glared at him. Anything to get rid of the unwanted heat that felt like a brand.

“Training with the longsword is essential, but every Illyrian chooses a speciality in combat depending on their strengths,” Cassian told her. His smile had turned smug, which told her that he knew she was flustered. He waved a hand and a weapon’s rack appeared out of thin air. “Choose a weapon,” he ordered.

Nesta crossed her arms firmly over her chest. It was a small act of defiance. “I’m not Illyrian.”

Cassian shrugged. The gesture was relaxed, but his next words were serious, “Then who are you, Nesta?”

“You should be asking, what am I?” she parried, hoping to deflect the question — to watch his eyes gleam.

But Cassian only snorted and waved a jewelled hand. “What are you? Who are you? Who do you want to be? How will you stake your legacy? These are all important questions in Illyrian culture. Illyrian’s believe that you carve your own individual fate — that you can decide how you want to be remembered. Every mistake in the sparring ring is a valuable life lesson. They look forward not back.”

Cassian loosed a breath at the stubborn expression on her face. “You don’t have to choose a weapon if you don't want to, but I have a feeling that the longsword isn’t your calling.”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. “Are you saying I’m bad? I just struck you, if you don’t recall.”

“No, if you continue your training you could be excellent if you wanted to be,” Cassian replied. The remark was off-hand but Nesta knew that was a compliment beyond reckoning. Cassian might be kind, but in the sparring ring praise was hard to come by. Ok, Again and That wasn’t half bad, were the best Nesta usually received during their training sessions. When he was particularly pleased, he might throw in a Good, but for the most part Cassian was hard-faced and serious.

Nesta tried and failed to hide how the praise affected her, even as her skin started to heat.

But for once, Cassian was not paying attention. He shook his head, as if he were emptying his head of thoughts. “I just have a feeling that there is a better weapon for you,” was all he said eventually. “Would you like to choose?”

Nesta studied him for a moment. There was no mockery in his gaze, only sincerity. She did not respond, she only stood up to the rack and took in the weapon’s before her

Her eyes slid over the knives, her gut only twisting slightly in response — a sign of how far she had come — the spear, the mace, the crossbow, the war hammer, and sword after sword after sword, until finally her power leapt and rubies pulsed. Reaching out, Nesta traced the curve of the bow with her fingertips, feeling the intricate carvings similar to the black tattoos that marked Cassian’s skin. It was beautiful and deadly and hers.

She turned to Cassian with an expression that told him he was not to argue. “This one.”

To her surprise, Cassian just nodded. There was no mocking, he only nodded to the bow, urging her to take it.

Her skin hummed as she picked it up. The bow was larger than any weapon she had handled before, but somehow it did not dwarf her frame. The wood was polished and smooth, the curvature of it similar to her upper lip. It felt like an extension of herself, just as Cassian’s siphon slotted into a carved out piece of her that had remained empty, waiting unknowingly.

“How does it feel?”

“Right,” Nesta said simply.

Cassian nodded. The movement was short and decided, as if her words set it in stone. “Good. We’ll incorporate it into your training.” He waved a hand and the bow vanished along with the weapon’s rack. “Let’s go back to Windhaven.”

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